Chapter 15 Getting there Anyway
Daisy plunged into the fields north of the city, putting mud, weeds, and half a mile of ditch between herself and the hounds on her trail. She ran until her lungs burned and her boots filled with mud, then ran more. Behind her, the wall's torches shrank to embers, and the hills rose, swallowing the city in a last oily smear of dawn. The fields were sodden with the previous week's rain, the soil so black and rich it tried to keep her, sucking at her heels with every step.
Somewhere behind, Blackwood's men fanned out; she could feel it, not just in the scrape of distant boots or the sharp, unnatural whistles echoing up the stream, but in the prickling behind her ears. They weren't from her world, these trackers. They were city-raised, city-clean, but they hunted like wolves: tireless, single-minded, and hungry for a pay that was more than coin.
Daisy skidded behind a low wall of fieldstone, chest heaving, and pressed herself flat in the shadow. She risked a glance back. Four figures moved along the crest of the rise, spreading wide, torches out. They didn't need the light; they followed a different scent. At the bottom of the next field, a hay wagon sat in the rutted lane, its driver cursing as he heaved bundles onto the back. Two farmhands squabbled, dragging sacks from a barn whose thatch roof sagged under the weight of its own decay.
Daisy waited. The nearest pursuer slipped behind a copse of winter-bare trees, not thirty paces away. He moved quickly, each step deliberate, left hand trailing the grass as if reading a secret written in dew. His jacket was wrong for the field: too fine, city cut, spattered only with the first stains of travel. He paused, kneeling to sniff a muddy depression where Daisy's boot had churned the ground. He murmured something, and a splinter of cold worked its way up her spine.
No time. She bolted, hunched low, making for the wagon.
She heard the shout before she reached the lane. The first tracker spotted her, and then the others called, two voices, then three. Daisy dropped and rolled into a narrow ditch, landing hard enough to rattle her teeth. The world swam. She crawled, hands digging into cold muck, ignoring the scrape of rocks as she wormed forward. A boot heel caught on a buried root and nearly wrenched her ankle, but she gritted her teeth and pulled harder.
The wagon was only twenty yards ahead. The older driver, stooped, blind in one eye, hadn't seen her, or if he had, he had the sense not to care. He muttered to himself as he worked, a string of curses so rich Daisy almost laughed. She pressed herself against the rear wheel, listening to her own breath and the rising noise of pursuit. A hundred feet to her left, a dog barked; not the city breed, but a real farm dog, rangy and low. The trackers would have it, or one like it, and if it caught her scent.
She reached up and grabbed the lowest bundle of hay. The twine was rough but held. She hauled herself onto the bed, wriggling between the stacks, then burrowed in, shoving her body into the space between two bales and dragging a loose mat of hay over her back. She pressed her face into the scratchy stuff, breathing in dust and old grass, counting the seconds between shouts.
The wagon jolted. The farmhands returned, voices grumbling about the load, the lateness, and the "curse of city people." The bundles shifted, compressed her chest, forced her to breathe in shallow, careful sips. The weight was suffocating, but Daisy made herself small and waited.
Outside, the shouting reached the lane. Boots pounded up the dirt, muffled by distance and straw. She heard the clatter of a baton against the side of the wagon, the driver's angry protest, the quick snap of a threat. The trackers searched the load, or at least pretended to. One voice muttered, "She's not here. Doubled back, most likely." Another said, "She'll die out here. Doesn't matter." The sound faded, replaced by the slap of boots as the men moved on.
Daisy's heart hammered. She listened as the driver spat and whipped the oxen into motion. The wagon rolled, slow at first, then steady. She dared not move, even as the hay poked needles through her shirt, even as her legs cramped and went numb.
She thought of the trackers, of Blackwood with his glass lens and his cold, mercenary smile. She thought of her siblings in the city, their faces pressed to the window, waiting for her. She pressed her fingers against the charm at her neck, then against the spiral on her wrist. Her pulse raced, and the birthmark burned with its own private fire.
The wagon rolled for hours, jouncing over every rut and stone in the road. Daisy lost track of time, drifted between sleep and waking, haunted by dreams of rats and hollow-eyed men in silver livery. Once, she awoke to the sound of hooves and voices. The wagon had stopped. She heard a checkpoint, guards laughing, the soft jingle of coins changing hands.
A torch poked into the hay, inches from her face. She tasted ash and the stink of lamp oil. She held her breath, forced every muscle still. The torch retreated. The wagon moved again.
At some point, the road changed. The ruts grew deeper, and the air filled with the smell of pine and wet leaves. The temperature dropped; Daisy shivered, but she kept her eyes closed, forcing herself to be patient. The hay's itch was a living thing, working into her collar, her sleeves, even the cracks of her mouth. She tried not to think about water or food or the needle of her bladder, focusing instead on the wheels' rhythm.
A heat built in her left palm. At first, she thought it was the circulation coming back, but the sensation spread, subtle and steady, until it felt as if a coal smoldered beneath her skin. Daisy tried to rub it away, but the ache only deepened. She pulled her hand out from the hay, inspecting it in the dim light filtering between the bundles.
The scale was back, and it was growing. Not larger in size, but in weight pressing on her flesh as if burrowing deeper. The spiral birthmark glowed faintly, a red ring of irritation. Daisy covered it, willing herself to ignore the change. But the message was clear: she was getting close.
They rolled for another hour, maybe more. At last, the wagon rattled to a stop on a slope. The driver's curses were gone; perhaps he'd switched to silent resignation. Daisy heard one of the farmhands leap down, listened to a scrap of laughter, then footsteps walking away. The silence pressed in, thick as snow.
She waited. Ten minutes, maybe more. Then she poked her head above the hay, careful to keep low. The sky was the sickly orange of late sunset, streaked with purple and the last scraps of cloud. From her vantage, Daisy saw they had stopped atop a low hill, overlooking a swath of dark forest that ran for miles, broken only by a pale ribbon of road. Beyond that, perched on its own rise, was the estate.
Even from here, the mansion looked wrong. The main house sprawled like a spider, arms of brick and stone radiating from a central tower. Glass windows reflected the sun in shattered mosaics. The outer wall was topped with spikes of obsidian, and every few yards, a warded lantern flickered with blue fire. Between the house and the woods, a moat glimmered with brackish water, its banks crawling with something that might have been dogs, or might have been worse.
Daisy counted three buildings besides the main house: a low, barn-like structure; a small chapel, its bell frozen mid-toll; and a shed at the far end of the field, lit with a single, flickering lantern. Men moved between the structures, some in livery, some in armor, all carrying weapons that glinted in the dying light.
But it was the forest that held her gaze. The trees clustered tight, branches knitted so thick the sun couldn't reach the ground. In places, the darkness moved, pooling and receding like a slow tide. Daisy felt the hairs on her arms rise. She'd heard stories of the Ravensworth woods, but she'd thought them just stories.
Something out there roared. Not a bear or a wildcat, but a sound that started low, then built to a howl that rattled the wagon boards beneath her. The scale in Daisy's palm seared like a brand. She clapped her hand over it, gritted her teeth, and blinked away tears.
The farmhands didn't hear, or if they did, they'd learned to ignore it.
Daisy slipped from the wagon, keeping low, and rolled under the axle. The slope was muddy, and she skidded a few yards before finding her balance. She glanced back at the city: nothing but a faint glow on the horizon, too far for hope or regret.
Ahead, the estate waited, its silhouette sharp against the sky. The wards flickered, a dance of blue and white, as if daring anyone to try their luck.
Daisy hesitated. The birthmark on her wrist throbbed. Her breath caught.
You could turn back, she thought. You could go to ground, hide in the woods, live as the rats do. Nobody would blame you.
Then the thing in the forest roared again, and the heat in her palm pulsed like a heartbeat. She thought of her mother, of the way the cough had hollowed her out, left her with nothing but bones and hope. Daisy pressed the spiral hard, using the pain to anchor her.
She crept down the hill, moving from shadow to shadow, using every trick she'd learned in the city. The grass was slick and cold, but she barely felt it. Every step drew her closer to the mansion, closer to the secret that pulsed beneath her skin.
At the edge of the woods, she paused, crouching in a nest of thorns. She looked back, just once, at the empty road behind. Then she faced the darkness ahead and slipped into it, silent as a ghost.
If the legends were true and the Lord's menagerie could fix what the city would not, she would find it. Or she would die trying.
The spiral on her wrist blazed, and Daisy grinned, teeth bared to the night.
She was not coming back.