Red Wolf

by Rachel Vincent

  Dedication

  For Jennifer Lynn Barnes, who reminded me how much fun it can be to return to your roots

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Rachel Vincent

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  One

  The dark wood moaned—a deep, eerie sound that was more than just the groan of shifting tree limbs. I turned, and my empty basket swung in the crook of my right elbow as I stared into the wooded expanse that enclosed most of Oakvale. My breath hovered in front of my face in a little white cloud. It was always chilly near the woods, even in the height of summer, but on a clear winter day like today, just staring into the unnatural darkness was enough to send a fresh chill skittering up my spine.

  To my right, a torch crackled, its flame flickering at the top of a post driven deep into the frozen ground. Beyond that, another torch glowed a few feet away, and beyond that, yet another. There were hundreds of them forming a ring around the village, a protective halo of light that the village watch kept burning at all hours. In all weather.

  Because the woods were full of monsters, and monsters were afraid of light.

  My delivery to the Bertrand cottage hadn’t required me to go near the forest. Still, on my way home I’d found myself drawn toward the trees, walking the outer perimeter of the village, beyond the pasture and the fallow fields instead of taking the shorter path straight through. Ever since I was a small child, the dark wood had called to me, its eerie voice half seduction, half warning. I had no intention of answering. Yet I couldn’t seem to stop myself from listening.

  A slithering came from deep within the forest, accompanied by the dry rattle of skeletal branches. Then I heard my name, a soft plea carried on a cold breeze from the depths of the woods.

  Adele. Help me.

  An old ache gripped me. That was my father’s voice.

  My father had died eight years before. I knew that wasn’t him calling from the forest, but knowing that didn’t make the voice any easier to ignore.

  Unsettled, I turned away from the trees to head home, suddenly aware of how long my circuitous detour had taken, and as I crossed the empty pasture, I heard footsteps at my back.

  “Adele.”

  Startled, I spun to find Grainger Colbert behind me. I couldn’t resist a smile. His grin developed more slowly as he closed the distance between us, his blue-eyed gaze studying me. I could feel my face flushing from his attention. He looked handsome in his leather vest and boots, his sword hanging from a scabbard at his waist, and the knowledge that he had eyes only for me made a delicious warmth blossom in the pit of my stomach to chase away the chill of the day. Of the forest.

  He reached out to tug playfully at the hem of my worn brown cloak. “Making deliveries?”

  “I’ve just finished.”

  “Then you might have a moment to talk?”

  In my dreams, I had all day to talk to him. All night. But today . . . “Maybe one moment. Tonight’s the full moon, so—”

  “You’re going into the dark wood again?” His smile faded into a look of concern.

  “I’ll be with my mother. Gran depends upon our deliveries.”

  He stepped closer, staring down into my eyes, making my pulse race. “Your grandmother should come stay in the village. It makes no sense for anyone to live alone out there, much less a woman of her age.”

  “I’ve been telling her that for years. Maybe today she’ll listen.” But I had no real hope of that. My grandmother had lived alone in the dark wood since before I was born, surviving by rarely venturing far from the clearing where her cabin sat—an island of daylight in a sea of shadows.

  It was the journey that held most of the danger.

  “It isn’t safe in the woods for two women alone.” Grainger leaned closer and gave my cloak another little tug, his nose brushing my hair as he whispered, “When we’re married, I shall accompany you, if you insist upon visiting your grandmother out there.”

  My pulse raced so fiercely I was certain he could hear it. “You would come with me?”

  His hand went to the pommel of his sword. “The village watch protects all of Oakvale.” And when his father retired, someday, Grainger would be the head of the watch. “Do you think I would do any less for my own wife?”

  Wife. The thought drew my lips into another smile as I gazed up at him. I’d been in love with him since I was twelve years old, when he’d run off the Thayer brothers, who had cornered me behind the mill and were taunting me about my red hair. Grainger had said my hair was beautiful. Then he’d stolen a kiss and sworn that someday he would marry me.

  Since then, he’d been a constant fixture at my side, sweetly eager to make his claim known, even though no one had challenged him for my affection. And yet, that little thrill had not begun to fade with familiarity. It sparked anew between us every time his hand brushed mine or his gaze settled on me. Every time he stole a kiss . . .

  “It’s been a month since I asked for your hand. I must admit, I’d hoped to have an answer by now.”

  “And I’d hoped to give you one.” I pulled my cloak tighter against the cold. “Yet every time I try to talk to my mother, she’s too busy to speak on the matter.”

  “I will ask my father to press the issue.”

  “No, don’t.” Though she’d always been gracious to him, and he to her, my mother was privately wary of the head of the watch. She’d never said why, exactly, but I’d always suspected it had to do with my father’s death. “I’ll talk to her on our way to Gran’s cabin. She won’t be able to avoid the subject, when there’s only the two of us.”

  Grainger nodded. “You’ll both be careful out there?”

  “And we won’t veer from the path. Or stop. It isn’t our first trip into the dark wood.” I rose onto my toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “And if you come by later tonight, I’ll recount our entire adventure for you. It will be as if you were right there with me.”

  “I look forward to that.” He caught me around the waist before I could drop back onto my heels, and he claimed a kiss boldly from my lips. “I’ve just finished maintaining the torches, and I’ll be on patrol until dusk, hoping to lay eyes on the fox that stole one of Madame Girard’s eggs. Expect me once the sun has gone down.”

  “You checked the torches alone?”

  When I was born, the unnatural forest had only bordered two-thirds of our tiny village, but in the sixteen years since, it had swelled to surround Oakvale entirely, except where the river formed the northern border. Which meant there were many more torches to maintain now than there were when Grainger’s father took over the village watch, when we were little.

  That task seemed impossibly large for one man.

  “No, I was only responsible for the east half of the halo. Yet that still took all morning.”

  “Did you hear anything from the woods?” He wouldn’t have been able to see more than a few feet into the forest, but the dark wood was rarely quiet.

  “Just howls and snorts today. The deep, angry kind, as if a bull were about to charge from the darkness.” Grainger
knew that wouldn’t happen, thanks to the torches, yet the thought obviously made him uncomfortable. “But a couple of days ago, I heard my uncle call out.”

  Rufus Colbert had been a member of the watch, like his brother and nephew. But he died two years ago.

  “I know it isn’t real,” he continued, his frown deepening. “Yet it gives me chills every time.”

  “Yes, it does. Today I heard my father’s voice.” Again.

  I shook off that memory, choosing to focus on the man in front of me instead. On the promise of the future, rather than the sorrow of the past. “Well, on behalf of the entire village, I thank you for maintaining the torches.” That was a tedious but vital part of protecting Oakvale, and pride swelled within me for his part in the effort. For his dedication to protecting the village. Grainger was a good man. Strong, and gallant, and honorable. And handsome enough to keep my thoughts as occupied as my hands during hours spent kneading dough at the bakery. Speaking of which . . . “My mother’s expecting me, but I promise we’ll be back before nightfall.”

  “I’ll see you then.” His focus lingered on my mouth, and I felt the ghost of his lips there.

  “I look forward to that.”

  Grainger gave me a smile that lit my insides on fire. “Have a pleasant afternoon, Mademoiselle Duval,” he teased.

  “And you, Monsieur Colbert,” I called playfully over my shoulder as I turned to head into the village. I could feel his gaze on me until I rounded the community barn.

  On the way home, I strolled past two dozen small cottages with thatched roofs, several of which I’d made deliveries to that morning from my mother’s bakery. Most families on the edges of the village could only afford a standard order of rye, but those deliveries were my favorite—simple bread for people who were happy to have it.

  Closer to the center of the village, the larger, sturdier structures were home to customers who placed more expensive orders, then complained about the size, or the cost, or the quality. Their real objection, though, was that the only bakery in Oakvale was run by the Duval women.

  Redheaded witches, they whispered when they thought we weren’t listening. Or, sometimes, when they were sure we were listening.

  I passed those houses with my head held high, then I crossed the broad, muddy lane leading to the manor held by Baron Carre, the local lord, and his household. The grand house was vacant at the moment, of course, because the baron had other homes, and because anyone with the means to leave Oakvale during the harshest winter months would do exactly that.

  With our village surrounded by the dark wood, except where the river cut through it, regular trade and travel had to be conducted by boat, which was the only safe way in or out of Oakvale. But during the heart of winter, the river froze over, almost entirely isolating our little village until the spring thaw.

  Baron Carre and his household had abandoned the village more than a month ago, just days before the hard freeze, and we wouldn’t see them—nor would we benefit from their patronage—again until spring.

  We wouldn’t see many visitors or traders either.

  Past the baron’s estate, I continued down the muddy path until I stood in the broad square—really more of a rectangle—at the center of the village. The square was presided over at one end by the church, built of hand-hewn wood planks the year I was eight. The year my little sister was born. At the other end stood the Laurent house, the second largest in the village and the only one built entirely of stone.

  I crossed the square quickly, holding my breath as I passed the thick post mounted in the center, surrounded by stones set into the ground. Ash had long ago been washed from the stones, but the old, scorched post would forever bear the scars of every fire it had endured. Of every man and woman burned at the stake in order to protect the village.

  Looking at the post chilled me almost as deeply as standing on the edge of the dark wood. So, as usual, I averted my gaze, and swift movement caught my attention. There was a boy—no, a man—walking quickly across the square.

  “Simon!” I called, and the oldest of the Laurent boys turned. When he saw me, a smile beamed from his face, bright enough to light up this entire muddy hamlet. “What’s the hurry?”

  “Good news today, Adele!” he called, walking backward now to keep me in sight.

  “Well then, don’t keep it to yourself!”

  He laughed. “You’ll hear soon enough. I’ll see you tonight!”

  “Tonight?” I asked, but he’d already turned and was jogging toward his house.

  Smoke billowed from the chimney of my home, the smallest structure bordering the village square, carrying with it the scent of fresh bread. I couldn’t resist a smile as I approached, because through the small front window, its wooden shutter propped open, I saw my mother at the table in the center of the room, kneading dough with both hands, sending up little puffs of rye flour as she sprinkled it over the work surface.

  Our cottage might not have been large like the Laurents’ home, but unlike the smaller structures on the edges of the village, it had a separate room in the back for sleeping, made necessary by the large oven and table taking up most of the main room. I loved our little cottage because in addition to that back room, there was enough space in the front for us to host the occasional customer who wanted to rent space in our oven, rather than buy our bread. The chance to gossip with a neighbor while I worked was easily the highlight of any week, especially during the long, cold winter, when we spent much of our time cooped up inside.

  The heavy wooden door creaked as I pushed it open and stepped into my home. The scent of minced beef wafted over me, making my mouth water.

  “Adele!” Sofia squealed as I pushed the door closed, cutting off the winter chill. My eight-year-old sister stood from her stool at the smaller kitchen table and dropped a handful of dough on the floured surface. “I’m making a meat pie for our lunch!”

  “For your lunch,” my mother corrected her with an indulgent smile. “Adele has one more delivery to make.”

  “A meat pie?” I arched one brow at my mother, then my gaze slid toward the pot bubbling over the fire. As usual, today’s orders were all for simple flatbread, made either of rye or barley. When I’d left to make my morning deliveries, there’d been no sign of fresh beef or of the rich pastry crust my mother was now making. In fact, we hadn’t eaten meat, other than smoked fish from our small store of preserved trout, in more than a week. “What’s the occasion?”

  “The Laurents and the Rousseaus finally came to an agreement.”

  No wonder Simon was all smiles!

  My mother’s gaze lingered on my face as she studied my reaction.

  “How wonderful for Elena!” I set my basket on the other end of the table, hiding my frustration on my own behalf behind a bright smile.

  Why was my mother so interested in my response to my best friend’s engagement, when she’d refused to even discuss Grainger’s request for my hand?

  She went back to her kneading. “There’s to be an engagement ceremony tonight.” Which would mean a village-wide celebration. “Monsieur Laurent has placed a large order. When the meat pies go into the oven, I have to start some more raisin bread and an apple tart. In addition to the flatbread.”

  I could only stare at my mother. “An order like that will deplete most of our stock of honey, and there will be no new shipment until the spring thaw.”

  “I am aware, Adele. But the fee for such an extravagant commission will be a blessing in the middle of winter.”

  I removed the cloth covering my basket. “Madame Bertrand sent half a pound of salt pork, and she thanks you for the rye disks.” Others had made payment in the form of smoked meats and winter vegetables like turnips, cabbage, and potatoes. “Do you think you can spare me for a moment, if I promise to start the tart as soon as I get back? I want to congratulate Elena.”

  Elena Rousseau had been my closest friend since we were old enough to run through the pasture on the western edge of town, clutching
our rag dolls. She was the sweetest girl in the village, but also the shyest and most timid, and as badly as I really did want to congratulate her, I also wanted to seize a quiet moment in which to assure her—again—that Simon would make her a wonderful husband. He was a good man. One of the few, like Grainger, who was not suspicious of my red hair or prone to spreading baseless rumors about my family.

  He would care for her and about her. Other than Grainger, a better man could not be found in the village of Oakvale.

  “That’ll have to wait until tonight.” My mother sprinkled more flour onto her dough, to keep it from sticking to her hands, and Sofia mimicked her technique at the smaller table. “I’ve wrapped some raisin bread and a rye loaf for your grandmother.” She pointed with one flour-coated hand at two cloth-wrapped bundles on the mantle. “Go straight there, and don’t veer from the path.”

  The path. In the woods.

  My heart pounded. “You want me to go to Gran’s by myself?”

  “I think you’re ready, Adele.” The tension in her bearing belied the calm smile she gave me.

  “I want to go!” Sofia dropped her dough on the table with a soft thud. “I’m ready too!”

  My mother looked up sharply. “No.”

  “But I’m not afraid!”

  That was true. Nothing scared my little sister, probably because she’d been an infant when our father died. She had no memory of him. She hadn’t seen him carried out of the forest by the village watch, his left arm and leg shredded by the wolf that had attacked him. She was spared the brutal mercy my mother and I witnessed, a trauma that had impressed upon me at an early age that the threat of the dark wood extended well beyond its border.

  Making it out of the forest was not enough; one had to make it out unscathed, or the villagers of Oakvale—our neighbors—would finish the job, for the good of the entire community.

  In the eight years since our father’s death, Oakvale had lost only a handful of villagers to the dark wood—all careless souls who’d veered from the path—which had left Sofia with no clear understanding of how dangerous the forest was. What she knew was that Gran lived in the dark wood and that our mother survived a trek through the forest every month to take her a basketful of baked goods, help with any necessary repairs to her cabin, and catch her up on news from the village. She knew that I’d recently started going with our mother, and that Gran would feed us, then send us home with enough fresh game to get us through the month.