Chapter 5

ASTRID

A successful pickpocket isn’t only quick of touch; we’re also light of foot.

We have to be.

Hopping a fence or scaling a wall are invaluable evasion skills, especially against bulky werewolf guards.

They have strength, and they have stamina, but they lack stealth. They’re simply too big.

I’m praying that they’re also too big to try and climb the tree I’m perched in.

Attempting to outrun a werewolf in wolf form is suicide. But I just might be able to out-wait them.

My tunic, leggings, and boots are all a dusty black from too many washes—an advantage in the quickly darkening evening sky.

Just one thing left to do.

So long as this collar stays around my neck, the bell is a liability, able to give me away with the slightest movement.

Under the cover of the werewolf’s song—an eerie, ecstatic howl of an ode to Prince Cassius—I reach down into my boot, pull out my knife, and slice right through the leather collar.

It’s so tight, I nearly slice into my neck as well.

Clutched tight in my fist, the bell is rendered mute.

I lean against the tree’s trunk, my feet braced on the branch, ready to spring into action if need be. Hopefully, though, I’ll be able to wait out the Bell Run right here.

The song ends. Gyles blows the horn once more.

The hunt has officially begun.

I only ran a little way into the forest before finding a tall, spindly tree holding onto enough of its foliage to offer some amount of cover. I need to retain as much energy as possible.

I sit still as a gargoyle now, taking slow, deep breaths, keeping my muscles flooded with oxygen, my knife at the ready. My brother Noah didn’t only gift it to me; he taught me how to use it, too.

It takes seconds for the snarling wolves to reach the trees, their bodies racing blurs beneath me. I’m terrified one of them will immediately pick up on my scent, but they seem wholly absorbed in the chase, frantic to stretch their four legs out as far as they’ll go.

The one wolf that pauses, a sleek black beast, only does so for half a second, and then he, too, is gone into the night.

As darkness falls, the temperature does too. The light cotton of my clothing offers scant warmth, and I’m half-tempted to jump down to the ground just to get my circulation going. That temptation vanishes as I hear a gargling scream, quickly cut short.

Only six bells left, then.

Trying to banish the mental images of what could be happening to my fellow humans, I conjure up Luca’s face instead: his unruly curls, his hazel eyes, the freckles that pop up across his whole face when the sun comes out.

I may not have much of a future to speak of, but Luca still does. He still has his apprenticeship. He still has our home. He still has time to chase down a dream.

And if I can come home, crimes pardoned, golden bell tight in my hand, he’ll have real resources to make that dream come true. We can pay off Rodolfo, make sure he doesn’t come back to bother us again. We can live on the straight and narrow.

It’s such a lovely mental picture, I only tear myself out of it when I’m forced to. When a shriek tears through the air.

Right beneath me.

Adrenaline shoots through my whole body. It’s still light enough for me to make out the form of a boy on the ground below me—and then to make out the form of the hulking brown wolf bearing down on him.

Ollie.

His shriek chokes off into a whimper as he scrambles backward. The wolf contracts its haunches, ready to lunge. When it does, it moves as a blur.

Before I can remind myself that Ollie isn’t Luca, I’m moving as a blur, too, leaping from the tree branch, knife held deftly at the ready.

I hit the ground at a roll, letting my momentum absorb the impact, and am on my feet in a wink, only a foot behind the brown wolf. It has Ollie pinned, plate-sized paws crushing the boy’s shoulders.

I have maybe two seconds before the wolf’s jaws are crushing Ollie’s throat, so I swipe my blade at the nearest part of the beast that I can reach, barely nicking through the thick fur on its hindquarters. I doubt the attack did much damage, but at this point, all I need is to be a distraction.

It works. Yipping in surprise, the wolf snaps around to face me, releasing Ollie.

“Run!” I yell at him. “Now!”

It only takes a moment for him to shake the daze from his eyes. Then he turns and flees into the night.

Now it’s just me and the beast. I’ve never seen a werewolf in its wolf form so close up before. I’ve never realized just how big they are. Massive, like horses.

At first, I think the wolf’s snout is black. Then I realize: blood looks black in such darkness. The wolf curls his lips into a snarl. This time, the red is apparent against the white of his fangs.

He holds two collars between his bloody teeth.

He stalks toward me, zeroing in on a third.

There’s nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. No way I could make it back up the tree in time.

The wolf reaches out a giant paw, as if he’s going to bat me to the side. Instinctively, I drive my knife into the oncoming movement, but I hit the wolf's calloused pad, missing the tender flesh between the pads. That, at least, might have slowed him down.

He tears the blade out as easily as he might a splinter, his teeth denting the metal. When he swipes at me again, he catches me on the shoulder, his claws gouging into my skin, my muscle. The pain is blinding, and for a moment, I’m afraid I’m going to vomit. Or pass out. Or both.

The thought hits me like a boulder: I’m going to die.

It stuns me, the certainty of this realization, which is maybe why I don’t see the second wolf until he’s already lunging out from behind another tree.

But not lunging at me.

Lunging at the brown wolf.

I recognize the sleek black body: the wolf who paused under my tree. So he did catch my scent after all. And now, I can only assume, he wants my collar for himself.

I run.

My shoulder screams in protest, but I don’t have any other option; there’s no way I can climb back up a tree now. It sounds like the two wolves are ripping one another apart.

Imagining what they might do to me spurns me to run even faster.

Not into the trees—I don’t want to risk running into even more wolves—but toward the clearing.

As soon as I can see the dais, torchlight glaring in the dark, I lock my eyes on Gyles, focusing every ounce of effort I have left on making it to him.

It’s obvious, the moment he sees me, too. He looks surprised.

Awareness ripples through the nobles, and they, too, turn to look. They also look surprised—and disgusted. It seems none of us were meant to earn our freedom, after all.

My blood is thumping against my ears, muffling everything except my ragged breathing. A stitch sears up my side, but I can’t stop, can’t slow down.

Instead, I grip my bell tighter, feeling the metal cut into my skin. Finally, the hourglass comes into view—and yes! The sand has nearly run out!

I want to cry in relief, but I can’t afford to waste the energy. I’m sucking in air now, my throat tightening up against the effort.

The dull ache of a cramp begins in my calf. All at once, the muscle seizes completely.

I crash to the ground. On instinct, I throw my hands out to catch myself—and my bell goes sailing through the air.

For a moment, the raging pain in my shoulder paralyzes me. Then I push myself up, ready to chase after the bell.

But I’m paralyzed once more, this time by the sight of a man. A werewolf, clearly, but not a hunter in the game and not one of the nobles on the dais.

He stands, swaying slightly, and peers down at his boot. Confusion spreads across his face, but even that can’t mar how beautiful he is.

All werewolves are striking in their own right, but this one, with his white-blonde hair and molten-silver eyes, with his straight, strong nose and high, arched cheekbones, looks carved by a master artisan.

He glances my way, one brow raised, a question in his eyes. Then he reaches down, next to his boot, and picks up a gleaming golden bell.

My bell.

He holds it up to the torchlight, inspecting it and—whether he means to or not—showing it off to everyone on the dais.

“The final bell has been captured!” Gyles calls out, relief clear in his voice.

All I can do is lie there, stunned, watching the final grains of sand trickle through the hourglass, as I hear Gyles blow the horn, calling the end of the Bell Run.

Heat pulses behind my eyes. Only seconds away—that’s how close I was.

“Congratulations Prince Cayden,” Gyles continues. “You may claim your prize.”