Foxheart

by Claire Legrand

  Sly Boots grabbed her cloak and tugged her back to safety. Together they lay flat on their bellies and peeked over the edge into the pit. They had entered a throne room, with the pit at its center. Torches flickered between seven jeweled thrones carved into the pit’s sloping stone walls. The walls themselves were crowded with narrow shelves, also carved into the stone, on which were displayed countless bones—for decoration? Perhaps trophies, relics of all those the Wolf King had killed. Ominous splatters of dried blood marked the walls and many of the bones. A set of wide, shallow steps curved around the pit, leading down to the floor.

  There, a seven-pointed star surrounded by a circling pack of toothy wolves had been carved into the stone. In the star’s center lay the Wolf King. He was pale and thin, his breath fast, ragged, and shallow, his dark hair drenched with sweat. He looked not a day older than when Quicksilver had last seen him—and just as sick. If Sly Boots was right about Ari . . . he had now been fighting the First Ones for hundreds of years. His body jerked violently—an echo of the battle outside?

  For the sake of Lars and the coven, she hoped that, after so many years, the First Ones had grown as tired and ill as the Wolf King himself. It had to be exhausting, hunting and killing and living through another person’s body.

  “Ari!” Sly Boots whispered, scrambling to his feet. Pieces of stone crumbled off the ledge and fell to the pit floor below.

  Quicksilver tugged him back down—but it was too late. The white wolf slunk out of the pit’s shadows, sniffing, its eyes narrowed. Quicksilver froze, her hands tight around the shuddering ermine skull. The other skeletons must be near, but finding them with the white wolf on the prowl seemed impossible. She and Sly Boots lay still, hardly breathing.

  The wolf grabbed the Wolf King by his collar, lifted him up into the air, and shook him with a growl.

  The Wolf King’s eyes fluttered open, his body hanging from the wolf’s jaws like a rag doll. “Be quiet, you filth,” he said.

  “Who is he talking to?” Sly Boots whispered.

  Quicksilver squinted through the gloom and nearly gasped. There, past the far side of the pit on the other side of the room, staring blearily through the bars of iron cages, were girls. Dozens of them—shivering and filthy, clothed in rags.

  Her blood ran cold. “The Wolf King is especially hateful of girls,” Lars had said. The dried blood on the walls took on a new, hideous meaning.

  He feeds them to the wolves.

  Sly Boots, following her gaze, gripped her arm hard. “What do we do?” he breathed.

  Quicksilver’s mind raced, searching for a plan. If there were cages, then there must be locks and keys, and if she could unlock the cages, free the girls, create a distraction . . .

  She looked around wildly for inspiration. Then she saw the torchlight gleaming off the Lady’s heart jewel, still hanging from Sly Boots’s neck.

  “Can you pick locks?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Sly Boots paused. “Well, mostly.” He paused again. “My parents taught me. I get the general idea of it, but I’m not very fast.”

  It would have to be enough. “The clasp of that necklace might work.” Quicksilver gestured at the heart jewel. “I’ll distract the wolf while you pick the locks, free the girls, and run. Then you’ll be distracting him, and I’ll find the bones.”

  Sly Boots frowned, palming the jewel. “That seems risky. What if—”

  “Just do it! And don’t let him see you.”

  Quicksilver rose to her feet and made her way down into the pit, her hands—and the ermine skull—hidden beneath her cloak.

  “Hello there!” she shouted.

  The white wolf whirled, the Wolf King still dangling from its jaws.

  “How did you—?” The Wolf King stopped. His eyes grew wide. “You.”

  “Yes, it’s me!” Quicksilver reached the bottom of the steps and smiled sweetly. “Have you missed me, all these years?”

  .50.

  THE BEST THIEF IN ALL THE STAR LANDS

  The white wolf dropped the Wolf King and howled such a furious, booming howl that the whole castle quaked and shifted. The wolf pawed at the floor, its claws scraping the stone and sending up sparks. Every hair on its body stood tall and angry like a forest of blinding white needles.

  Quicksilver didn’t even flinch, though her heart screamed, Run, run, run!

  Stay quiet, please, she prayed to the ermine skull in her hands and the ermine bones in her pocket. Please, just for a few more minutes. Tell me where to go—quietly, carefully—and then you’ll be back with your brothers and sisters at last.

  The skull and the bones stayed quiet—humming, waiting. Had they heard her, somehow, even without her magic and her Fox? Or was she just lucky for the moment?

  She hoped she stayed lucky.

  “It’s a lovely place you’ve got here.” Quicksilver strolled around the bottom of the pit, circling past the seven thrones. The trembling ermine skull pulled in a particular direction, and Quicksilver wandered in the direction of that pull, letting the skull guide her toward the other skeletons.

  At least, she hoped they were here, somewhere, hidden among all the others.

  “Tell me,” she asked, casually inspecting the curving shelves full of bones, “how long did it take to decorate?”

  The wolf narrowed its glowing white eyes. Without further warning, it pounced, landing just shy of her. Its hot breath puffed against her cheeks. Its lips curled; a low growl rattled in its throat.

  “Give me the ermine, witch,” gasped the Wolf King, his sallow skin gleaming with sweat.

  Over the Wolf King’s shoulder and up above the pit, a shadowed figure darted to the cages. Sly Boots. But Quicksilver didn’t dare look at him. She stared at the white wolf, nose to nose, willed Sly Boots to hurry, willed the imprisoned girls to stay quiet.

  She stepped back, and back. The white wolf followed, heavy white paws silent against the stone. She leaned against one of the jeweled thrones. The wolf stayed close. Too close. Breath hot and teeth gleaming and shoulders hunched, ready to attack.

  The ermine skull jumped and whined in Quicksilver’s hands. She yawned to cover the sound. The white wolf’s ears pricked. Its nose twitched, sniffing. Its eyes darted to her cloak.

  Quicksilver’s skin shivered hot and cold.

  “What’ll you give me for it?” she asked, sounding bored.

  The Wolf King let out a weak puff of laughter. “Too late for that, witch. I’ve waited—”

  He gasped, clutched his head. The white wolf whipped around to stare and growl.

  “Leave me alone!” the Wolf King gasped.

  Quicksilver’s world narrowed down to him—this one pivotal point.

  He was fighting them. After all these years, Ari was still fighting the First Ones’ control.

  “Ari?” Quicksilver took a few cautious steps forward. She felt the wolf follow her, heard it sniffing. “Ari Tarkalia?”

  The Wolf King’s gaze flicked toward her. “Please . . .” he gasped. Him, Ari—and him alone. A lone boy’s voice, tired and frightened.

  The white wolf howled and lunged at Quicksilver. She ducked, spun, dodged him—like running from Mother Petra, like slipping away to climb the roofs—and hurried across the pit.

  The wolf followed, slow and easy now, shaking its head. It could kill her in a moment. It was toying with her. It—and all the wolves, and the First Ones—had been waiting hundreds of years to kill her.

  They planned to enjoy killing her.

  Her mind screamed now, and her heart, and every muscle in her body: Run, fool girl! Run and hide!

  But she wouldn’t. This fight ended here.

  Quicksilver wagged her finger at the wolf. “Ah-ah-ah! I wouldn’t kill me just yet.”

  The wolf stopped. The fur on its back stood up, and its tail lashed from side to side.

  “And . . . why . . . is that?” gasped the Wolf King, huddled in the center of the pit. His voice darkened once more as the First Ones spoke throu
gh him.

  “Because, Ari,” said Quicksilver, “I’m sorry to tell you that I forgot some of the skeleton back home. I used one of the thighbones to flavor a stew, and it’s sitting in a pot on my stove right now. And—oh, yes! Dear me.” She smacked her forehead. “I’ve just remembered. I left a whole pile of bones on the roof for the pigeons to peck at.” She clucked her tongue. “And don’t you need all of it, every last bone, in order to bring your little friends back to life? How thoughtless of me.”

  She slowly backed away, following the ermine skull as it tugged at her hands—to the left, to the right, and straight behind her. Left, right, straight behind. Left, right, straight behind. Over and over, it pulled in these three directions.

  Three directions. Three skeletons? To her left, to her right, and behind her?

  If only she could turn and grab them!

  “You lie, witch,” spat the Wolf King. “A bone cannot be separated from its skeleton. All the pieces want to be together.” He grinned, horribly. So did the wolf. “You know this. I’m sure the old woman told you.”

  Quicksilver’s heart pounded so hard she knew the wolf must be able to hear it.

  “So far as you know,” she said, flashing him a tiny coy smile. “You wouldn’t believe some of the tricks I’ve managed to learn over so many lifetimes of hunting you. Shall I tell you about some of them?”

  The Wolf King roared in rage. He lurched up from the floor, his body twisting. Darkness shifted underneath his skin.

  “I will bathe my wolves in your blood!” he bellowed.

  “If you say so.” She shrugged, continuing her slow circle around the pit, making sure the Wolf King kept looking at her—and not at the cages above and behind him.

  The wolf slunk after her, its bright eyes trained on her cloak.

  “I’d think twice before killing me,” she said. “Without me, you’d have no idea where to find the bones. But if you feel it’s worth the risk—”

  The white wolf pawed at the ground.

  Quicksilver glimpsed small, swift shadows moving up above. Sly Boots? The girls? Had he freed them?

  Don’t look, don’t look. Hurry, Sly Boots, hurry.

  “I could make you a deal,” Quicksilver offered. A jolt of heat in her hands: the ermine skull jerked and leaned—another skeleton, behind her to the right. Another, to her left on the highest shelf.

  She had found five, then. One more remained.

  “What kind of deal?” asked the Wolf King. The white wolf growled, pacing back and forth between him and Quicksilver.

  “I’ll give you the bones I have with me,” she said slowly, “and tell you where I’ve hidden the rest, if . . .”

  She paused, considering. Behind the Wolf King, above the pit, a gold glimmer of light flashed. The lady’s heart jewel?

  The air was heavy with silence. She hoped Sly Boots and the girls were ready.

  Quicksilver squeezed the ermine skull hidden under her cloak. The skull jolted, pushing her hand toward shelves that stretched high above one of the jeweled thrones.

  There. The sixth skeleton.

  “If?” the Wolf King cried. Ari’s voice was faint within the seven roars of the First Ones. “Speak, witch!”

  “If,” said Quicksilver, “you free your slaves.”

  The Wolf King and the white wolf whirled around to see the rows of empty cages above the pit—and Sly Boots and the girls, running for the throne-room doors.

  “What have you done?” wailed the Wolf King—although a ghost of a smile toyed at his mouth, and Quicksilver thought that, however deeply he was trapped inside himself, the boy Ari Tarkalia was glad.

  The white wolf bounded across the pit, sprang up over the wall, crash-landed in the middle of the running pack of girls. The girls scattered, screaming, but they did not flee.

  Sly Boots had a small one in his arms. “Now!” he cried.

  The girls flung stones at the white wolf, found bones along the walls and floor and sent them flying. The wolf whined and howled, bones and rocks raining down on him. He smacked the bones from the air.

  Quicksilver raced around the pit. She climbed the shelves, digging frantically through piles of bones while holding tight to the ermine skull. The useless bones didn’t bother her; the bones of monsters bit and snarled and clawed at her. Above the pit, Sly Boots and the girls fought the white wolf. Quicksilver heard their screams, heard Sly Boots shouting, “You have him! Watch out!”

  Tears stung Quicksilver’s eyes, tears of pain and panic. The ermine’s ghostly teeth bit her palm, drawing blood. She let the skull pull her arm ahead of her, dragging her on, through the shelves and around the bone-strewn pit.

  One by one, she collected each skeleton and tucked them into the pockets of her cloak—the starling, and the snowy hare. The cat and the mouse. The hawk and the owl, which she hadn’t seen before.

  But the four she had once carried . . . As she ran through the pit, touching each skeleton brought memories rushing back—Fox helping her search the treasure in the Rompus’s lair. Fighting the undead army in King Kallin’s catacombs. Running from the unicorns in the world beneath the Lady’s tree. Climbing up the mountain with Olli’s coven.

  Fox, Quicksilver thought to the world, to the stars, to the Shadow Fields, I wish you were here to see this. It doesn’t feel right without you.

  The last skeleton, the starling, was on the highest shelf, above one of the thrones. She climbed up, strained to reach, grabbed the bones and shoved them in her pocket, tried to pull herself up the rest of the way and out of the pit—but something grabbed her foot and yanked her down.

  She smacked her chin against the stone shelves, hit her head against the stone floor. The world wobbled, drifting to blackness and back.

  A piercing pain shot through her. She screamed, twisting on the floor, only to see the white wolf biting down on her bandaged leg. He had bit her there before, hundreds of years ago, in that icy mountain cave.

  The white wolf snarled, dragged her across the floor. Her leg was on fire; she could not breathe. She patted her cloak, felt the full pockets.

  Stay put, she told them, not knowing if they could hear or would obey, if they could.

  “Give . . . me . . . the bones.” The Wolf King crawled toward Quicksilver.

  Her vision spotting, she looked up, searching the throne room above the pit. The girls and Sly Boots were nowhere to be seen. She fell slack against the floor. She hoped they’d escaped, at least—even if she wouldn’t.

  The white wolf pinned her to the floor, his claws digging into her cloak. He opened his mouth—and then he was gone, ripped away from her.

  She sat up, cloudy with pain, and saw the Wolf King struggling with the white wolf, his arms wrapped around him. The wolf gnashed his teeth and howled.

  “Go!” the Wolf King yelled, his voice completely his own—completely Ari’s. “I’ve got him! Run!”

  Quicksilver tried not to think about how normal he had looked just then—a frightened but resolute boy. She fled up the steps, out of the throne room, and back through the castle hallways. When she burst out into the entrance hall, she saw the girls hovering on the landing, peering down. Sly Boots stood with them. A couple of the smaller girls clung to him, hiding their faces in his jacket.

  Down below, on the main floor, Lars, Otto, Tommi, Karin, Irma, and Veera fought the wolves and the First Ones. The huge windows had been shattered; shards of colored glass littered the floor. The room smelled of blood, and the smoky burn of monsters at war.

  Monsters flashed, wolves pounced, witches screamed in pain and yelled in triumph. The First Ones fogged the room with darkness. One swooped down, coiled around Tommi like a great snake. His cat monster shifted into a wildcat and enveloped Tommi in bright red light. The First One hissed and shrank away. Another dove between Irma and Veera, winding around their ankles and slamming them into the ground. Their monsters shifted into blinding fire and charged.

  Quicksilver ran down the steps into the fight. Otto’s m
onster blazed past her, an arrow of pink light, and pierced the blue wolf’s side.

  A slam, a scream—Quicksilver dodged Karin’s body as it skidded across the ground toward her. She wanted to stop and help her, but she ran on, ducking behind a stone pillar right before the gold wolf crashed into it. The pillar swayed; dust rained down from the ceiling.

  Quicksilver peered around the pillar. The gold wolf shook himself, then tore back into the fight. Quicksilver ran after him. A streak of monstrous light zinged past her, burning her skin. The black wolf spotted her, leaped for her; she ducked low, and he flew right over her.

  Darkness fell. She looked up—the six long shadows of the First Ones plunged toward her, their mouths open and roaring:

  “GIVE US THE BONES!”

  “Quix!” called Lars, sending Naika flying at the First Ones in a fiery streak of stars. “Over here!”

  Quicksilver ran to him—Naika arching brilliantly over her head—and flung off her cloak at Lars’s feet. Inside it, the skeletons shrieked and hissed and howled.

  The wolves froze, snapped their heads around to stare.

  The First Ones punched past Naika’s light and reached, reached with seeking black claws, reached with centuries of rage and hatred.

  Quicksilver faced them and smiled.

  For Anastazia. For Fox.

  For all the witches—including me.

  “Many will be mighty!” Quicksilver yelled. The witches turned at the cue—Karin, her arm bloody but her eyes fierce. Otto, standing tall. Tommi, his scarred face bright and ready. Irma and Veera, hand in hand.

  Being a witch without a monster, Quicksilver could not feel it when the other witches joined their magic—but she could see it. Their six monsters rushed at one another and collided, coalescing into a spinning ball of colored light that reminded Quicksilver of the stars. Each witch raised an arm to direct the light brighter, larger, faster.

  The First Ones flew at them, their screams deafening.

  But Quicksilver stood tall, dizzy with pain, and made herself listen. Shivering without Anastazia’s cloak to shield her, she watched as the spinning light expanded. Six strands of colorful light wove a thick, shimmering web around the coven. The wolves cowered before the brilliant light, huddling together. The First Ones raged, tried to slink through the web. But the coven’s magic was too powerful. Blinding white fire clung to their shadowy bodies. They shrank back, moaning and yowling, trying to shake free of the sticky flames.