Page 35 of White Raven

“No.” I grappled for the weapon. “I got it.”

“Clearly you don’t. You almost sliced the horse’s head off.”

As if the horse understood what he had said, he curved his head back to huff at me, baring its fangs.

Swallowing, I inched back, plastering myself firmer into my abductor.

“What is it? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“There is a lot you haven’t seen, kanin. Many things that exist outside of your plush castle walls.”

The jab stirred me in the saddle, knowing it was true but still feeling defensive. Using the last bits of my strength, I pushed away from the warmth and security of his frame.

He exhaled. “They are called draugrhest.” Ghosthorse. A draugr was not really a ghost, but a revenant. A reanimated corpse like a vampire or the undead.

By the looks of the beast, I could see why it was called that.

“Some reside here in the Shadow Rift,” he explained. “Along with many things that are rejected by the other kingdoms.”

“Like those men?” The memory of what happened strangled my throat and chest, my arm throbbing, screaming its sacrifice. “How could people eat other people?”

“As I said, desperation makes you do things you never thought possible, but that group . . .” He tapered off. “They enjoy it. Crave only Raven flesh. They hunt it like a sport.”

Repulsion sizzled down my throat, my mind wanting to block out the fact I had consumed that very same flesh.

“Who are they?” I croaked out.

“They’re called the Jackals.”

My mind instantly went to the J they had marked on their cloaks, the brand on the woman’s neck.

“And we ran into only a handful of their gang.”

“Why aren’t they stopped or arrested?”

“Arrested? By who?” He barked out a laugh. “There are no laws here. And no one who would dare challenge them.”

We went quiet again, the horse slowing to a trot. No longer able to fight my fatigue, I slumped back into him.

“We need to find a place to hide out tonight.” His chest vibrated against my spine as he spoke. “Get some food.”

I started to shake my head. The idea of putting anything into my mouth made me nauseous.

“Something without meat,” he replied.

I must have dozed off, because the next moment I was jolted awake when the horse’s hooves met with a dirt road, clipping over the gravel lane. Jerking my head up, my heart skittering, I peered around the foreign terrain. The wind whipped at the trees, rustling them, the horse tossing its head with irritation as small huts came into view on either side of the road.

“Fuck. I didn’t realize we were so close.” The Northerner sat up straighter, taking a tighter grip on the scythe. “Tie your hair back and pull your hood up. Now.”

“Why?” The tension in his frame had me reaching for my hair, sweeping it back in a low chignon and yanking the cloak over my head, the cut strands falling around my face.

“Your kind isn’t liked here,” his voice rumbled in my ear.

“Where is here?”

“Beggar’s Hole.” He pulled me in closer, like he wanted to use his body to cover me. “Now stop asking questions.”

The horse carried us down the eerily quiet lane, the moan of the wind sending a shiver down my spine. The derelict wooden gable roofs became closer and closer together, packed in, layering back a few lanes as we entered a dilapidated settlement. A deteriorated tower loomed above the tree line behind the village.