“Blasphemy,” she said as Kalla calmed his horse, shying at the vibration. “Yes, that’s what everyone says. Everyone but her. You, Kalla, most famed slaver, will be my messenger.”

“And you will not live to see another sunrise!” Kalla said as Newt rose.

“Yes, I know.” Eyes alight, she sprang at him. “Honna, tara, surrundus!”

They went down in a tangle, both of them enveloped in a glowing aura that flashed black. Gally leapt into the shadows, the thump of arrows burrowing into the earth almost unnoticed as elves dropped from the trees and the horse reared and bolted.

“Finire!” Kalla screamed, pain ripping his voice to a ribbon of sound, and a wall of force slammed into Gally, tumbling him and the hunters back into the woods.

“You little bitch!” Kalla shouted again, and Gally gasped, clenching into a tight ball when the strength of the line was ripped from him.

Eyes watering, he clutched at a rotting log. It was dark. The fire was out. Hands shaky for not having eaten in days, Gally pulled himself up. Kalla stood beside the shallow, black depression where the fire had been. Heartache closed over Gally as he saw Newt, crumpled and unresponsive. Her aura was gone. The curse had taken everything from her, even her life.

“You stupid, demon whore!” Kalla shouted again, and Gally drew back, his hatred filing to a sharp point as the elf kicked her hard enough to roll her over. It was done, and there were elves in the woods. Soon they would be hunting.

“Someone find my horse!” Kalla demanded. “That half-handed runt of hers is around here somewhere. Where the hell is my horse!”

Everything in him screamed to run forward, to wrap his work-hardened hands around that pale throat and squeeze the life from him. His cry of rage rose only to gurgle to a halt, never leaving him. Hate-filled eyes jerked to Newt as the force of Kalla’s pacing shifted her hand and it fell, her gold slaver ring, the one she kept as a reminder, rolling from her to fall upon the mossy earth.

“Where is my horse!”

With the grace of one born to the mist, Gally eased back into the depths of the fog-dripping wood, a new certainty pulling through him. He realized now that he’d let them take his Celfnnah. He’d whined, “Unfair! Unfair!” as he let them beat him, convinced by their words that they had the right. There was no Goddess, and nothing would save the elves. Not now. He wouldn’t stop until they were all broken and bleeding. Newt had stood and died alone. Never again would he let them do anything but die.

Turning, he began to run. The sound of a horn lifted through him, and he ran faster. But this time, he was running toward something, not away. It would take time to sunder the curse that cut him off from the lines. Dali knew the how of it, if he could get to him in time.

A thud of feet hitting the earth struck him like a slap, and he instinctively dropped. He had nothing but his fists and feet, and he promised he’d never be powerless again.The moonlight spotted his haggard robe, hiding him among the fronds and decaying leaves. He held his breath, eyes darting to the staggering shape grasping for balance against a pine tree only to fall amid the prickly branches. How had they found him so fast? Had there been a second ring of hunters?

“Oh, God. That hurt . . .” A woman swore, and then there was the sound of someone vomiting.

Newt? Shocked, Gally peeked over his arm, taking in the smallest slip of air though his lungs screamed for more. A horn lifted anew, and together they turned. It was her sudden hunch of fear that struck him. It was Newt.

“Newt!” he whispered as he scrambled up, and she started, almost falling again.

“No!” she shrilled, and he sprang forward, clamping a hand over her mouth and dragging her into the shadows.

“It’s me! Be still. It’s me!” he exclaimed, voice hardly more than a breath in her ear. His mind was spinning. He’d left her. He thought she was dead! But here she was, wearing a black shift, as unadorned and plain as if in mourning. No demon wore black. And when had she had time to put it on?

An elbow hit him in the gut, and he tightened his grip. “Quiet!” he hissed. “Can you run? They’re right behind us.”

She became still, and he cautiously eased his grip. Something was wrong with her eyes, and he watched her squint, her eyes almost screwed shut though the moonlight was thin. “This way,” he whispered, never letting go of her hand as he stood and began to run. Immediately he slowed as she stumbled into motion. “I thought you were dead,” he whispered, turning to help her over a fallen tree. “You told me to run. I saw him hit you.” He hesitated, slowing to orient himself. There was a hole nearby. If they could make it, the hunters would never follow them belowground. “Newt?”

He stopped, and she came to a breathless halt, lungs heaving as if having run the length of the ever-after. Eyes on the sky, she stared at the swollen moon as if lost. Behind them, the horns blew, closer.

“I wouldn’t have left you if I thought you were alive,” he said. “It did work, didn’t it?”

Her eyes met his, and his lips parted. They were black, as black as the robe she wore.

“Where . . . ,” she rasped, then shook her head as if it were buzzing. “Do I know you? I do, don’t I?”

The horns were getting closer. Panic edged out his earlier anger. He had something to protect now. He had to get her underground. Lips pressed together, he scooped her up and began to run. “Kalla hit you hard,” he said, struggling though she didn’t weigh more than a child. The scent of linen and silk lifted to him, carried by the moist night. She smelled clean. Had they dressed her for auction and she’d slipped them again? He hadn’t been running that long! “Newt, did it work?” The stars help them if it hadn’t.