Ravenous (3 page)

Rage, hot and bright, fueled by grief, sets my heart on fire. All their faces wear expressions of pity. My friends. These people who I should be able to rely on. Who I was beginning to regard as family.

None of them believe me.

They think I'm so desperate to prevent aid from reaching Belladoma that I'd invent a story for them to chase.

If I open my mouth to speak, I will explode right here in the throne room and blow the entire castle to smithereens. I do the only thing I can.

I curtsy to the king, then spin on my heels and march out of the palace, head held high.

I am many things, but I am not a liar.

The only one I can always depend on to know me is Hans.

Dear Ren and my king, Oliver,

You will not find me in Bryre anymore. Since you do not believe me about my missing brother, I have decided to go after him myself. I wish you well, and I shall miss you. Please do not search for me; I do not wish to be found.

Greta

I leave my hastily scribbled note on the kitchen table. Ren has never been to my home, but I know how good he can be at ferreting out information when necessary. When I don't appear at his fireside tomorrow or the next night or the next, he will go looking and he will eventually find my note here. I'll be long gone by then. Hopefully, I'll have Hans back too.

My meager belongings fit snugly into a pack under my traveling cloak, even with the book of fairy tales I got at the Altar of the Rose. I can't bring myself to leave it behind. I tuck my knife into my belt but don't bother with my bow. I haven't had the money for arrows in weeks. Other than that, there isn't much to leave behind. Just memories. But what are memories worth? All they've done is tie me to a place that no longer feels like home.

I close the door and lock it, tucking the key into the shrub nearby. I will find my brother and we'll start anew somewhere far from here. It's what we must do.

DAWN REACHES BETWEEN THE TREES TO ROUSE ME IN THE WOODS. I
traveled all day yesterday and made camp in the deep forest. Nothing can hold the nightmares back, but now that I'm out of Bryre, I can almost breathe again. Though it would help if I could find Hans.

The strange feathers have led me on a merry, circuitous path, as if whatever took him had no idea where it intended to go. If it is a giant bird, I will pluck it naked and cook it on a spit.

Plotting my revenge, I pack my bedroll and nibble on a carrot for breakfast, then move farther on into the woods. The trees here are thick trunked and old. Branches above me twine together in intricate patterns that allow only a
small amount of sunlight through. Shadows hang over my head like they're waiting to pounce.

The feathers are closer together now, and I wonder if it's due to the
thing
—whatever it is—scraping between the trees. I grip the hilt of my knife tighter. I must keep my eyes and ears open for signs of this beast. I hope it hasn't reached its destination yet. And that it's waiting to finish Hans off until it gets there.

Hans isn't a fighter. He's nearly my height now, but even though Papa trained him just like me, he can't wield a sword to save his life.

If he's dead, that thing will wish it had never been born.

I move with as much speed and stealth as I can manage in the deep woods. By midafternoon, I'm exhausted, and I still haven't found the beast. Frustrated, I throw my pack to the ground and curl up in the moss at the foot of a massive oak tree. What a sister I've turned out to be.

As I chew on a piece of bread from my pack, uneasiness coils in my gut. Something feels off. Something about the forest—

It's too quiet.

I sit bolt upright, the bread all but forgotten. The animal noises I became accustomed to throughout the morning have vanished.

Something nearby scared them off. My breath hitches in my chest. I remain as still as possible while I slowly turn my head.

Nothing. Just the unsettling silence and me.

I creep to my feet. Perhaps the big oak hides whatever has frightened the animals in the woods.

I clutch my pack to my chest. No sudden moves. I only hope there isn't a beast behind me with a gaping maw.

I peek around the trunk—still no sign of the bird-beast. But a horrible stench floats on the breeze that makes me gag. I swallow my nausea and step around the tree. That stink is the first new clue I've found. Only something huge and carnivorous smells that bad. I hold my cloak to my nose and press on through the woods. The path has become more and more overgrown, and now is marked only by erratic patches of crushed undergrowth and broken branches from the few recent travelers. It makes for slower going, but I do my best to keep up a steady pace.

The source of that smell may be what I seek.

It isn't long before the stench becomes overwhelming. The afternoon sun will wane soon, but I must find this thing before then. It would be impossible to sleep in this rancid air.

Finally I see more light peeking through the green forest. A clearing lies up ahead. I move faster through the trees, and the branches scrape and tear at my clothes, pushing me back like they don't want me to succeed.

Moments later I stand in the glade, frozen and gaping.

It isn't a beast I've been hunting—it's a house. With chicken legs and a feather-thatched roof.

I back up against the nearest tree, studying the thing as it scratches the ground with huge clawed feet. The sides are
closely packed branches from a strange sort of thin wood I can't identify. Every time the thing turns in a circle—like a dog trying to find a place to sleep—another feather floats free of the thatching. A tiny chimney stack puffs smoke from somewhere within the feathers. And strangely, dancing around the house's huge feet are creatures I recognize: a rogue pack of those horrid goat-footed chickens the wizard kept as his watch dogs. They dodge and weave around the legs and circle the beast almost like they're playing. My hand immediately runs over the small round scars that still dot my arm from when they attacked me as I tried to escape the wizard's yard so many months ago.

This is the strangest thing I've ever seen in my life. Considering I was once friends with a monster-girl, that's saying a lot.

But the question remains: Where is Hans? Realization dawns. He must be inside that ridiculous moving house.

How on earth will I get inside? Even as I think it, a plan begins to form in my mind.

The house moves in a pattern, a figure eight that brings it close to the edges of the woods, then back to the center, the goat-chickens trailing after. When it makes its next circuit, I run for the trees on that side of the glade and scramble up the one closest to the edge. The first time it comes around, it's still too far for me to make the jump. But the second time, I'm better prepared and I throw myself onto the odd roof.

I hit it hard and begin to slide. My fingers scrabble for a hold and I manage to halt my descent. I pull myself into a
sitting position and consider my options. The house steadily moves in its figure eight, almost as though it's waiting for something. I peer cautiously over each edge. On one side is a door into the house and a rim about a foot wide. If I miss, it's at least a twenty-foot drop to the ground.

I prepare to lower myself over the edge. This is for Hans, and that means any risk is worth it.

I let go and drop to the rim. And promptly slip right off.

My pack catches on a piece of the odd wood connecting the house to the legs, and it forces the air from my lungs painfully. But it's better than hitting the ground that looms under me. If I fall near those scraping feet, I'm lost. I grab hold of the ledge, enough that I can pull myself up. I rest there for a moment as I will my hands and legs to stop shaking long enough for me to stand.

I wobble to my feet and manage to pry the front door open. A loose piece of the wood snaps in half, and only then do I realize what it really is.

Bone.

I fling it away with a shudder, wipe my hands on my skirt, and step through the door.

A wall of cages lines the far side of the room, which is much bigger than it appears from the outside. A stove is on the right, and another door, perhaps to a bedroom, is on the left.

Hans—dirty, bedraggled, and wide-eyed—sits cross-legged in one of the cages. Hope blooms in my chest.

“Hans!” I rush toward him. He gets to his feet, but he has to hunch over when he stands. He is too tall for the cage.

“Greta,” he whispers, fear marring his face. “Get away from here. She'll return any second.”

“Who?” I ask, scrambling through the contents of the nearby table for anything that might pick the lock to his cage.

“The witch.”

Uneasiness tingles up my neck, but I ignore it. “There are no such things as witches. Not anymore.” The realm has long been drained of any magic by wizards. Witches were said to be creatures who sprang from deep in the mountains themselves, beings made from magic, like hybrids or dragons. The stories often said they were cruel, though they also said that about dragons, and the one that fought with Bryre against the wizard was kind.

Could Hans really be held captive by a witch? I shiver. It would explain the bizarre chicken hut. And after all I've seen of wizards, dragons, and sea monsters, I can't say anything is impossible.

“She has the keys. She always keeps them with her,” Hans says. I put my hands between the bars and grab his shoulders.

“I will find a way to get you free, I promise.” Finally I spy something thin and sharp near the hearth, and I scoop it up.

“It won't work,” he says. “They're too brittle. Don't you think I've tried?”

“Maybe you didn't have enough leverage from that side,” I say, then attempt to use it to pick the lock. It breaks in half, a piece of it jamming the lock.

He shakes his head, and I stare at the object in my hand. The second I realize what it is, I hurl it to the floor.

More bone.

“Were these other cages empty when you got here?” My voice quivers, but I try not to let it show.

“No.”

My heart flips in my chest. “What happened to them?”

Hans's mouth twists. “There was a little girl.” He fiddles with a button on his sleeve. “The witch cooked her in the oven when she was fat enough. She ate her.”

I squeeze his hand. “That won't happen to you. I'll find a way . . .”

“No.” His voice is filled with determination. “No, Greta, you have to leave. She'll eat you, too.”

Fear pricks every inch of my skin. Fear for Hans, myself, and worse, that this is something I can't fix. “She won't eat me. I'm skin and bones.”

“She'll boil your bones for soup,” Hans says gravely.

“What have we here?” calls a melodic voice from the doorway.

My blood freezes in my veins. Hans shudders in his cage. I slowly face the voice. To my shock, the speaker is not the wart-covered, shriveled mess I expect.

Instead, she's lovely.

She's as young as any maiden, or is that magic at work? Her raven hair shows no hint of gray, and nary a wrinkle mars her pristine face. She steps fully into the hut.

“I said, what have we here?” She puts her hands on her hips.

“I—”

“Run, Greta!” Hans yells.

The woman laughs and locks the door behind her. She smiles, and it chills me to the core. I back farther away.

“So you know my tasty little pet, do you?” She glances back and forth between us. “Your brother, perhaps?”

She steps closer, and a static charge runs through the air. My arms stick to my sides. Panic swims in my throat. “What're you doing to me?” I whisper hoarsely.

She grins again. “Oh, nothing much. Just what I do to all intruders, especially curious, succulent children.” She pinches my arm. My stomach heaves. “You are a bit skinny, though I daresay I can fatten you up.”

“Please, I just want to get my brother back. Let us go and we won't tell anyone about you.”

She cackles, the sound both merry and terrifying. This isn't someone I can fight with my sword. My only hope is to outwit her somehow.

I'm not off to a good start.

“You won't tell anyone about me from my cages, either. I'm not terribly concerned about that.”

“Wait! There must be something I can offer you. A trade? Anything you want. There has to be something you want.” Yes, I have been reduced to begging, but I'm not ashamed. I will do anything for Hans.

She laughs again but then pauses. “You're a brave one, aren't you? Perhaps there is something you could do.”

“Yes!” I cry. “I'll do it. Name it.”

She eyes me appraisingly but this time not for my body
weight. “You agree even though you have no idea what it is?”

“I'll find a way. I have many skills.” I may be boasting, but if it will buy us time, it will have to do. “Let me do this thing for you, and in return allow Hans and me to go free.”

“All right. I will make a deal with you. Bring me what I want and I will set you both free.”

I breathe out audibly.

“But,” she continues, “if you fail to do it before the height of the next full moon, I will hunt you down and have you both for dinner.” She claps her hands together. “Sound fair to you?”

I swallow hard. The full moon? That's just over three weeks away. I can't imagine what the task will be. “Yes. What must I do?”

The witch comes closer, until she's right next to me. I can smell the horrid, choking stench from the forest on her breath. Like rotting flesh. “You will fetch me something I greatly desire: the cornucopia. It's a rare thing. A never-ending source of food. It always serves the owner exactly what he or she desires. It will be an acceptable substitute for the loss of my supper.” She tilts her head toward Hans, and my stomach drops into my feet.

“A cornucopia? But isn't that just a legend?” I've heard it mentioned vaguely in fairy tales and stories of times long past, but never thought it was real.

The witch waggles her finger at me. “There is much more to legends than people nowadays can see. Do you know the story?”

“Only a very little.”

“It is in the form of a horn-shaped basket. One merely has to touch it and think about what food one desires, and the meal will appear in the cornucopia. They say it once fed the ancient gods when they were but mewling children.” She paces the small space as she talks, and I never take my eyes off her for a second. “But someone clever stole it from them, and it was passed around from one selfish human to another for centuries. For a time, one country worshipped it, believing it granted them a good harvest every year. But then the king and queen of that country lost it. They hid it, most likely, wanting the horn's abundance for themselves. Humans were never meant to hold that sort of power.”

Her eyes pierce me, making my skin want to crawl and hide away.