Page 60 of The Girl in the Forest

I was about to ask how close we were when something plopped in front of me. I stopped. Grayson had stopped too, and while he scanned the trees, I studied the green acorn wobbling on the ground, inches from my feet. A bird might have dropped the nut. But when a second fell from the sky to land next to the first, I decided it wasn’t a bird.

Grayson closed his hand around my arm. Pointed upward toward a girl peering at us through the wide leaves of a tree. Her face was dirt-smeared. Her clothes were green and brown, blending in like a wild creature. But she held one finger to her lips, then wiggled her fingers in rapid succession.

Grayson released me. His hands came up, his fingers moving in answer—gestures I recognized as American Sign Language. The girl grinned, signed back. Her fingers were nimble and speedy as she balanced in the crotch of two branches, then pointed to the right and disappeared, jumping from branch to branch.

We followed, leaving the rough path, and after five minutes, the girl dropped down in front of us. A bow was over her shoulder, along with a quiver of arrows. Her brown hair had a chopped look, as if she’d cut it herself. The dirt smeared on her face was a skillful camouflage, including her clothes, along with the leaves she’d pinned in her hair.

She pointed at me, then signed something with her hands.

Grayson nodded, whispering, “She asked if you were the faille they’d heard about, from the Gathering.”

I stiffened, but the girl’s fingers were moving again. Grayson signed in response, his gestures sharp-edged. Once again, she held her finger to her lips, then pulled an arrow from the quiver; the fletched feathers were striped with black. She aimed toward a distant tree. A moment later, two men emerged from the heavy underbrush. One held a bow with the arrow nocked and aimed. The other gestured to the girl. When she went to stand at his side, I saw a family resemblance, father or brother.

The man signed something to Grayson with three quick gestures. Grayson turned to me and said with his voice kept low, “He wants to see the rune on your wrist.”

“Why?” I whispered back.

“To be sure it’s you.”

I glanced at him. “What about you?”

His grin flashed. “They haven’t figured me out yet.”

I nodded, held out my wrist so the black wolf rune was visible. The leader flicked his hand. Eight men materialized to join the first two, coming from different directions. Encircling us quietly, methodically, and although the arrow was no longer aimed at Grayson, I remained on edge because they were all armed with weapons similar to what I’d lost in the witch cave.

My lips dried. “Who are these people?”

“Wolves who live outside the pack,” Grayson murmured. “They move around, undermine the Alpen when they can. Not every pack member remains loyal to Lec Rus.”

“Why use sign language?”

He grinned. “It’s silent. Low tech. Impossible to hack. And you see who you’re talking to.”

“Is it an Alpen thing, or a rebel thing?”

“Rebel thing.”

My nerves continued to jump despite Grayson’s hand against my back. Regardless of what these men thought about Lec Rus, they were still Alpen wolves—the wolves who’d terrorized me and the people I loved.

We trudged through the softly rustling forest, and when the men spread out, I wasn’t sure if they wanted distance because I was a faille, or if they assumed defensive positions. Mace’s men had used similar tactics during the times they’d escorted me. But each step took us farther away from the passage back to Sentinel Falls. I hated the delay. Disliked not knowing where we were going. With so many details swirling in my head, I wanted to talk to Grayson. Put the facts in some order before I forgot what was important.

So far, no one had asked why we were here, in their territory. But these men weren’t the wolves with the questions. The men with the questions would be waiting at our destination, and I doubted they’d believe the faille had come to see the Gemini Witches for a prophecy, when so many unsavory prophesies already surrounded me.

But thinking brought nothing but more worry. Beside me, Grayson matched his manner to the rebels. He wasn’t hostile. He’d dampened his natural dominance and put the warning in the way he walked, silent and alert.

The rain stopped when the storm moved toward the distant mountains, and a watery sun peeked out between the clouds. I still shivered and thought about syphoning a thread of heat into my fingers before Grayson reached down and squeezed my hand. My head was sticky with drying blood and my hair stuck out from the bedraggled braid. I was covered with mud and leaves from the bush; I wasn’t that different from the girl. Partly human, partly wild.

She walked beside her father—I’d decided he was too old to be a brother. Each time she glanced back, I smiled with chattering teeth and probably looked as grotesque as the witches with their twin smiles.

We kept hiking. My limp returned, my ankle twinging, and when I thought my legs would finally give out, I spotted the first ramshackle dwelling hidden in the trees—a wooden cabin with a raised foundation, an open crawlspace, and three sagging steps leading to a covered porch and a planked door. Thin smoke rose from the stone chimney, but the only sign of inhabitants was the white dog who growled from beneath the porch.

Soon, more houses came into view, and while they also blended with the trees and shrubbery, anyone passing this way would recognize what they were. A stream glittered with clear, fast-moving water. Peeled wooden poles formed a supporting cross-brace for a drying deer hide. A small child scurried out of sight. A door banged closed. But I could sense the curiosity from those peeking through shutters, the nearly closed curtains. Tiny peep holes.

In the center of the town—if this settlement even resembled a town—a communal, open-air kitchen surrounded a tamped-down fire. Dishes and bowls filled with nuts and edible roots covered the tables. Vegetables overflowed from woven garden baskets. A turning spit labored beneath the weight of an animal carcass, roasting with an aroma that had my mouth watering.

The poverty was appalling. A toddler stood with his toes inches away from a muddy puddle. He wore a gray tee shirt and diaper. His finger twisted in his nose, but his face was clean. So were his clothes. When I got close enough to see the details, I realized the shirt was gray from dye and not dirt. Handmade, perhaps cut from a shirt that no longer fit someone else.

“How can they live like this?” I whispered, while guilt nagged at me for my comfortable life in Azul. The beautiful home on a lake. The conveniences I’d taken for granted.

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