The Red Rider (The Red Rider Saga Book 1) Read online

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I can end all of your cravings, permanently.” I glanced around the table to meet each vicious gaze. Not one man averted his eyes. Each one was ready to fight, and they had me grossly outnumbered. If they attacked now, in close quarters, I couldn’t stop them. Thank God they wouldn’t expose their true nature in front of witnesses.

  “Don’t be so sure,” Grenault said, looking me up and down. “My cravings grow stronger every day.”

  “Yeah,” Devereaux chimed in again. “For Lisette.”

  My blood chilled. “Who?”

  Grenault paused, narrowing his eyes on me a moment. “A handsome woman I’ve seen about town. Nothing to concern you, Mademoiselle.”

  I felt my cheek twinge. My skin bristling. “You stay away from her.”

  He lifted his chin, looking amused. “Is she important to you, Mademoiselle? That would make her taste even sweeter.”

  I fought to keep my breathing steady. To keep my fists from trembling. “You stay away from everyone in La Rue Sauvage!”

  He continued to study me with a look of delight. “Unlike the rest of the Lycanthru, I don’t take orders from a little girl. This is a new order, Mademoiselle. You’re dealing with me now.”

  I clenched my teeth. “Unfortunately for you, you’re dealing with me.”

  I held his gaze a moment longer before turning to march out the double doors. They would follow me, with Grenault leading the way. Trusting they could tear me to shreds before I fired off a shot. Which they could.

  I didn’t have much time.

  2.

  I whistled for Crimson’s attention the second I exited the tavern. He reared up, drawing a gasp from the two loiterers, Squat and Moustache. Squat nearly stumbled backward as Crimson charged toward me. I planted one foot in the stirrup and hoisted myself up with the saddle horn as Grenault and the others poured out of La Maison.

  “Leaving so soon?” Grenault mocked, his enormous hand grabbing for me as we galloped away. I gasped at the sight of him over my shoulder, realizing my previous assessment was correct. He actually was almost seven feet tall. “Where are you going now, little girl?” he shouted, before giving chase.

  I leaned forward, urging Crimson into a run. The moon was full, but they still had to drink their filthy Lycanum to transform. Over my shoulder, I glimpsed them uncorking their sulfurous potion, a few of them still drawing the vials from their breastcoat pockets. They hurried into the shelter of the woods nearby, to discard their clothes before giving chase – as wolves.

  Grenault lingered, watching me leave with the same cocky smile. He might have no qualms about disrobing in the center of town.

  I turned away, focusing on escape. We pounded across the cobblestones and off the streets, racing into the woods, as Grenault’s leering face filled my mind. All of the Lycanthru were arrogant and cruel, but Grenault seemed to have no restraint, no shame.

  No fear.

  The one thing I counted on for survival. If the Lycanthru stopped fearing me, they could quickly overpower me. Exactly as Grenault planned to do.

  I urged Crimson faster to gain more distance.

  Then they came snarling behind me. I glanced back. All seven of the wolves had entered the woods, their agile forms darting between trees about fifty yards behind. Hints of moonlight poked between the trees, revealing each one to be over six feet long and nearly as tall as my saddle.

  One wolf, black as the night, charged ahead of them, even larger than the rest.

  Grenault.

  I pushed Crimson harder toward the rolling hills of the clearing just beyond the village border. I leaned against his flank, gripping the reins in one fist as I untied my red cloak. I secured it to the reins and raised my forearm to block it, letting it wave wildly over my shoulder. I glanced back to see the wolves padding faster, forty yards away.

  We emerged from the woods, breaking free into the clearing and down the first welcoming hill. As we hurried over the crest of the next high one, I took a final glance to confirm the shadowy wolves were drawing nearer, before we descended the hill and they vanished from my sight.

  I pulled my feet from the stirrups and shouted, “Hyah!” to spur Crimson onward. Then I leaped off, diving to the ground and tumbling away. I rolled aside and lay flat and still, as the wolves crested the hill and continued after Crimson and the flapping red cloak. The enormous Grenault charged after him first, the other six following in his wake.

  I rose, unnoticed in the darkness. Then I unfastened the repeating crossbow from my hip and aimed at the nearest wolf scrambling up the hill toward Crimson and the distant trees above us. I pulled back on the lever, releasing a silver-tipped shaft for a quick death.

  Missed.

  The wolves were all crawling shadows now, difficult to distinguish from the dark grass. The same blackness that hid me from them made it difficult to sight the wolves for a clean kill. I fired again. This time he noticed, as my bolt sunk into the grass beyond him. He glanced at Crimson again before turning back to see me standing in my white tunic and trousers.

  I fired straight at his head. He fell dead in an instant.

  The others paused to look back. “Thayer!” one of them cried in his guttural wolf voice.

  I fired two more careless shots at the approaching shadows, not compensating for the added distance or the rush of wind in the open air. I only had five bolts left before I would have to reload.

  Five bolts, and six of them.

  “She killed Thayer!” another one growled.

  They turned toward me but didn’t attack. At the lead, Grenault stared at me, then back at Crimson and the cloak. He whirled about, snarling and rushing down the hill. The others hesitated, shifting from one paw to another.

  “Kill her, you fools!” Grenault growled. “She’s a girl, nothing more.”

  Urged on by Grenault, the others took a few steps forward.

  So did I, firing another shot. Missing again.

  Four bolts left.

  They charged.

  I raised the crossbow higher, taking my time. Shoving my fear down deep. Just come a little closer where I can see you. A little closer …

  They snarled, picking up speed. I fired.

  Dropping the closest one.

  “Gregor!”

  The rest of them skidded to a halt. Even Grenault paused.

  Then one burst forth, loping toward me fast. I pulled back on the lever again, dropping him with barely a thought.

  They all stared at the carcass.

  “Robillet …” one growled.

  Two of them backed away.

  “Stop!” Grenault ordered. “She can’t kill all of us at once!”

  His companions kept retreating. I took advantage of it and advanced on them suddenly. They broke into a run.

  “Come back, you fools!” Grenault shouted.

  I raised the crossbow.

  “Another time, Grenault,” snarled the wolf nearest to him, as he turned to flee.

  I fired again, missing him, but convincing him to keep running.

  The other wolf snarled openly at me, but turned and ran as I aimed in his direction, as did Grenault.

  I fired again, a little too quickly.

  Didn’t even graze him.

  And I had used my last bolt.

  Grenault faced me, hesitating, his pointed ears standing tall against the dim moonlight. I kept the crossbow steady as I marched at him. Then I broke into a run and he turned to flee.

  I faltered a moment as I chased him down the hill. He paused to glance back, nearly stopping. I continued after him, crossbow raised. He padded away, hurrying to crest the far hill and join the other wolves in the deep shroud of the forest. I stopped running and whistled for Crimson, who came galloping at me from a section of nearby trees, the red cloak flying behind him.

  I kept my aim steady on Grenault with the useless crossbow. I might have enough time to reload before he realized my predicament and rushed down the hill to devour me. Or I mi
ght not. Better to bluff.

  He watched me from a distance, well out of range, his black form barely visible atop the hill. He could see I still had the crossbow raised in defense. But he could also see I wasn’t mounting Crimson to chase him. He kept studying me, longer than I felt comfortable allowing. I couldn’t let him see me reload.

  Finally, I ran for Crimson, hoisting myself onto the saddle in a single second. Sitting higher, I saw Grenault’s shadowy figure sprint away.

  Yet he stopped again, watching. Waiting.

  Knowing I wouldn’t pursue him.

  We faced each other a moment longer, before we both slowly turned to depart, preparing to battle another day. His slow retreat unsettled me, as he continued to scrutinize me.

  As if he knew I couldn’t kill him.

  3.

  I ordered my nerves to relax. To sit tall and strong in the saddle as we trotted from the black meadow, my back to Grenault. To make it appear that I was sparing his life tonight by allowing him to leave. I couldn’t let him know I had run out of bolts. Not when he showed so little fear of me already.

  I urged Crimson forward at an easy pace until we had disappeared into the woods. I waited a full minute before glancing back to confirm we were out of Grenault’s sight.

  Then I pushed Crimson to gallop off. We were done for the night.

  It took another few minutes to reach the rear of the quiet house that had become my hideaway, nestled in a clearing set deep in the woods. I dismounted and made a quick survey of our surroundings. Then I kicked aside the straw that covered the twin doors built into the ground. I hoisted them open with the ropes attached to each handle and led Crimson down the broad steps, into the underground longhouse.

  The room was dark and damp, but large enough for both Crimson and I to settle. I unsaddled him and he moved to the corner to bed down on the pile of straw laid there, while I moved to the cot on the other corner of the room. I draped my cloak across the back of a chair and sat on the thin mattress, taking a bite of the bread left on the table.

  This place had been left over from the war, when foreigners invaded our borders. It once hid soldiers and families, to give them a reprieve when the enemy forces overwhelmed us. I was blessed to find it. My safe retreat from the wolves, where I could think, and plan, and rest. My own private underground fortress.

  Where I could lie down and sleep in peace. If only for a few hours …

  I rose shortly before noon, saddled Crimson, and crept outside. Finding no one about, I led Crimson outside and spread straw back over the door before riding into town. I needed to see Pierre, and not just for more crossbow bolts. We had known each other since childhood. I knew we could never be more than friends, but I had begun to need him the way I once needed my neighbor, Francois. For a listening ear, if nothing else.

  I also needed to check on Pierre’s family.

  Riding through the cobblestone streets of La Rue Sauvage, I tried to ignore the hard stares of the townspeople as I passed. I was used to people gawking at my scars.

  The triple claw marks tore across the center of my face in diagonal lines. The first pink slash started above my left eye and carved below my right. The next one slanted below my left eye and cut across my distorted nose. The final mark cut across my left cheek and ended beneath the enlarged portion of my lower lip. From the day that wolf attacked me, my ugliness had been inescapable.

  But the villagers now seemed to stare for a different reason. For my imposing red cloak that wafted behind me as I sat high atop my fiery steed. Like an Apocalyptic horseman, bringing war and death.

  Bringing an end to the wolves.

  They all stopped their conversations and gaped, some of them standing taller as I rode past. The way people reacted to soldiers marching to battle, or to the Duke’s coach passing through town. As if they almost revered me. They must have heard rumors of what I had done to the wolves, and now they expected me to deliver them. The very thing I planned to do.

  I continued toward L’atelier de Forgeron de Leóne, the blacksmith shop where Pierre apprenticed under his father. A few blocks before it, I passed Celia Verdante. The most beautiful girl in La Rue Sauvage. Heir to a massive textile fortune. Sought after by every man with eyes. As usual, she was surrounded by other pretty girls, chatting and giggling.

  Celia Verdante was every single thing that I wasn’t.

  She whirled toward me, her raven hair swirling in fluid poetry, her full lips twisting with disdain. “Look, Marie, there she is,” she said, staring down her nose at me. “Helena Basque. The girl who dresses like a man.”

  Her redheaded friend tittered, as they all grinned like a gathering of witches.

  “And here I had thought she couldn’t possibly make herself more repulsive,” Celia said, beaming at the cackling laughter behind her.

  I stood before them like a stunned deer. I wanted to respond. To ward them off the way I shamed the wolves. But I had nothing to say. Not to village girls like them. I could hunt and fight and make violent threats.

  But I could never be pretty.

  I urged Crimson ahead slowly, ignoring their rising mockery. I clenched my jaw and forced myself to sit higher as I moved beyond the girls and their scorn. I had more important worries.

  At L’atelier de Forgeron de Leóne, I led Crimson to stand at the hitching post, then stepped into the shop. The thick scent of oil permeated the room, warmed by the large furnace behind Pierre and the smelting pot in which he was dipping an iron rod. His face lit up and he set the rod on a rack to cool, laying his tools beside it. He stepped toward me, removing his gloves and swiping a clump of shaggy blond hair from his eyes. “Red,” he said. “How are you?”

  Even after I stopped wearing my red hooded cloak at age seven, Pierre continued to call me “Red”. Hearing him call me that still warmed me inside. “Fine,” I said. “And you?”

  “I’m all right. Is everything going all right with the crossbow?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Perfect.”

  “How are the blades working?”

  “Fine, Pierre,” I said. “They work just fine.”

  He swallowed. “I keep hearing about your activities. But I haven’t seen you for days. Where have you been staying?”

  I hesitated. “In the woods.”

  It wasn’t exactly a lie. But I couldn’t risk anyone – especially Pierre – knowing where I was hiding.

  He shook his head. “That’s no good. You need a safe place to sleep.”

  “I have a safe place,” I said, stepping closer to him. “Trust me. I just can’t explain it right now.”

  He released a quiet sigh. “You know you can stay here in the loft. Whenever you like.”

  “I know,” I said. But I would never risk sleeping in the loft above Pierre’s shop again. If a Lycanthru ever saw me heading this direction late at night …

  “You said you found out who’s behind all these wolf attacks. So who is it?”

  “I can’t tell you. I’m sorry.”

  He raised his palms and his eyebrows. “How am I supposed to help you if you won’t tell me who we’re fighting?”

  “You’re not. I’m fighting them.”

  “I can do a lot more than just make weapons, you know.”

  “I know,” I said, resting my gloved hand on the table. “But I don’t want you getting hurt.”

  He covered my hand with his own. I didn’t pull away. I should have, but I didn’t.

  His dark brown eyes stared into mine. “You know I’m here if you need me.”

  “I know,” I said. “But you can’t always help me, Pierre.”

  “I can try.”

  I wanted to melt into his gaze. Pierre almost made me forget my hideous scars. And the fact that I had become a pariah, shunning the day to hunt wolves at night. He made me feel so normal. So accepted.

  But it was only a feeling.

  “I need some more bolts,” I said.

  He looked slightly wounded, but nodded. “I’ve got some r
eady for you. Twenty-two this time.” He grabbed a burlap satchel from the shelf and laid it on the oak table, its metal contents clinking against one another.

  I gaped. “That’s incredible, Pierre. Thank you.”

  He shrugged. “Anytime. I dipped all the tips in silver. You said it only takes a trace, right? I keep telling Papa I made mistakes and had to scrap some metal and silver pieces, so he doesn’t wonder why we’re short on some material.”

  I half-smiled. “You rarely make mistakes, Pierre.”

  “I know. He’s getting more suspicious. So don’t let him see them. I know you can’t pay, but, I mean – you’re protecting everyone, Red. It’s working. I’ll do anything I can to help.”

  This time, I took his hand in mine. “Thank you.”

  “Helena?” a woman’s voice greeted behind us.

  I turned to see Madame Leóne, Pierre’s stepmother, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiled down at me with open arms.

  Madame Lisette Leóne. The woman Grenault said he was targeting.

  I swallowed. “Hello, Madame Leóne.”

  “Oh, come here!” she exclaimed, lunging forth and clutching me against her in a tight embrace. I felt awkward, my dirty clothes pressed against her finely embroidered dress, one of the many she had stitched together herself. But she wouldn’t let go, and I didn’t want her to. I finally relented and hugged her back. As if hugging her for the last time.

  She released me at last and took me by my shoulders. “Let me look at you. Are you well? Have you been eating?”

  “I’m getting by,” I said, staring at her. She had become like a second mother to me. I couldn’t lose her.

  I wouldn’t.

  “That doesn’t sound too healthy to me. Though you look well.” She paused, her eyes assessing me and my strange garb. “So it’s you, isn’t it? You’re the ‘Red Rider’ people are talking about, killing wolves at night.”

  I stiffened, steeling myself for another show of disgust or extreme disappointment. “And – if I am?”

  She studied my clothing for another moment. The man’s trousers, tunic, and boots. The large hooded cloak. The crossbow slung at my side. She smirked. “Well, it sounds like you’re becoming some sort of a legend,” she said. Her emerald eyes softened as she touched my cheek. “But I think your parents would rather you stay safe. Don’t you?”