“Tell me what happened,” she demanded.
“There’s so much,” he said, his face falling.
He dropped to his knees. Kestrel, her bravery crumbling, ran into his arms. She was cold and tired and any minute now the grabber would be on their trail.
“I’ll get it,” she said fiercely. “I’ll kill your grabber before it has a chance to blink.”
Her dad hugged her tight. Kestrel sagged and breathed in deeply, longing for the smell of dirt and old wool and wolf blood.
But her dad stank like rotting flowers.
Kestrel gagged. She tried to twist her face to the side, so she could breathe, but her dad’s fingers dug in too tight.
“Stupid little girl,” her dad said, his voice twisting in the middle, changing into something new.
Kestrel screamed. She looked up, then wished that she hadn’t.
The creature she was hugging wasn’t her dad; it wasn’t even human. It had a bald, liver-spotted head and a blurry face that looked like a painting half rubbed out. She tried to focus on its nose, but her eyes kept sliding away from it, as though there was nothing to see. It only had the shadow of a face, a blurry jumble that was impossible to look at without feeling like you were sliding sideways.
“Let’s have a look,” the creature said as she struggled. It grasped her hair, peeling her away just enough that it could see her properly. “Not bad. I’ve, ha, outdone myself.”
Kestrel did the only thing possible, which was to spit at it. The creature disgustedly pushed her away and wiped its face. It shrugged off her dad’s brown coat, which slumped to the ground like it had fainted.
“Where’s my dad?” Kestrel shouted, bunching her fists.
“The hunter?” it said. It sneered despite its lack of a discernible face. “I don’t know. I just took his things.”
Now Kestrel could see the creature properly. It had long, pale legs, jutting knees, and stumpy feet with ingrown toenails. Its arms were similarly long. Its fingers were twice the length of Kestrel’s, and it had no thumbs. Its skin was greasy and pale like an uncooked sausage.
The weird, cloying smell should have warned her that she was walking into a trap, but she’d been stupid. Granmos had written about these creatures. The words unfurled in front of her eyes like long, spidery streamers.
Their sweete smelle makes you sicke, and they can transform to look like someone you trust. They steal body partes from you, and use it for their terrible magic, in whiche they controle youre body and minde. With an iteme of clothinge, they can wear any face for a shorte while. Be warned, for they are lazey and wille make you their slave.
“Face painter,” said Kestrel. She swallowed a wave of nausea. “You’re a thief and a liar. You stole my dad’s coat and changed your face to look like him.”
The face painter might have been grinning, but she only had the impression of countless yellow teeth.
“I could wear his face all day long if I wanted,” it said. “All I need is a body part, and I’d have his looks forever. You’re lucky I only borrowed his coat. Bones are much better.”
“Don’t you dare,” Kestrel growled, boiling with rage.
The face painter snorted, and Kestrel launched herself at it. She hit the face painter square in the chest, and it fell backward with a cry.
She reached for her spoon. But the face painter grabbed her hands with surprising strength and pinned her to the ground.
“My mother will find you!” Kestrel cried, wriggling uselessly under its impressive weight. “She lives in the village, and she has an awful black dog with teeth like a mincing machine. She’ll rip you apart!”
The face painter, still holding her down, looked at her with new interest.
“I’ve heard of her,” it said. “And you’re the daughter who hunts? That’s, ha, fascinating.”
“Yeah!” said Kestrel, hiding her surprise. “So you’d better let me go right now!”
The face painter grabbed her hair and tore a clump out. Kestrel yelped in pain, but then it relaxed its grip on her. She backed away quickly. The face painter twirled the strands of hair between its fingers, grinning as Kestrel ran toward the trees.
With every second that passed she knew that her dad was closer to being eaten by his grabber. Pippit poked his head out of her pocket, wiffling his nose, picking up the trail again.
The face painter muttered something under its breath, then there was a short, sharp pain between her ears as though someone had pinched her brain.
Snap.
Kestrel stumbled to a halt and looked around, blinking at the unfamiliar cage of trees. Why was she in a clearing? Where was she going? She tried to grab hold of her memories, but they slipped away like water. The last thing she could recall was talking to Finn in the tree, the snow swirling around them. Why couldn’t she remember why she was here?
“Kes?” Pippit hissed.
Kestrel turned around. She saw a creature with a blank, smirking face and pale, greasy skin. She took a step back, catching a scream in her throat. The faceless creature snorted with laughter.
“What are you?” she asked sharply, but it didn’t reply. Kestrel felt a bolt of panic, and marched toward it with her spoon out. “Where am I?”
She raised the spoon, but the creature snatched it away and put it in its pocket. “Don’t get angry,” it said. “I’m only tinkering with your brain.” It twirled something between its fingers, and Kestrel recognized it as a clump of her hair.
Face painters, her grandma had said in the notebook. They steal body partes from you, and use it for their terrible magic. Kestrel snarled.
“Tinkering? You’re using magic to steal my memory,” she spat. “Tell me why I’m here!”
Pippit nipped her hand. “Trapper!” he hissed. Kestrel felt a pang of fear. Something was wrong. Something to do with her dad. But what? She had to find him.
The face painter twirled the clump of her hair in its fingers again, sneering with its empty face.
“Don’t even think about leaving,” it said. “If you leave this clearing I’ll tie another knot and make you forget even more. I’ll make you forget how to survive the forest. You’ll be dead within seconds. You’re my slave now.”
Deep in the forest, a wolf howled and was echoed by a dozen more. The face painter grinned, tapping the spoon in its pocket, reminding her that she had no weapon.
At least, that’s what it thought.
Kestrel opened her mouth and loosed a huge, teeth-shaking howl that made the face painter clap its hands over it ears. She did it exactly how her dad had taught her, bending her voice in the same way the wolves did when they found food. It echoed through the trees and sank into the depths of the forest.
“What was that for?” the face painter snapped.
Kestrel flexed her fingers, willing the wolves to hear her. For a moment it seemed that nothing was going to happen.Then softly, something padded out of the woods behind her, its paws crunching over the ground. The breeze stirred, and she caught a whiff of something animal, something dirty and hungry and bloody.
The face painter’s expression changed.
On the other side of the hollow, standing in the shadows, was a tall and bony wolf. The wolf’s eyes were covered in a cloudy film. It looked half starved, and clumps of its fur were falling out. It had a slavering expression that screamed I will eat the first thing I knock to the ground.
The face painter silently backed away from her. Kestrel grinned triumphantly, then realized that she was standing between the wolf and the face painter, alone in the clearing.
“Oops,” said Pippit.
The wolf sniffed the air, straining toward her. Kestrel scanned the ground, looking for something to defend herself with. Her eyes fell on her dad’s coat, and she caught a faint whiff of blood and bacon. There was no time to question how it had gotten there. The wolf crouched, ready to pounce, whimpering excitedly.
It took a moment for the pieces to connect in her head. She grabbed the coat half a second before the wolf started running toward her and lobbed it at the face painter. The face painter caught it without thinking, bewildered.
The wolf twisted away from Kestrel in a blur of gray fur and leaped in the other direction. The face painter screamed and dropped the coat as the wolf’s teeth snapped. The mangy wolf drew back, its mouth dripping red where it had sunk its teeth into the face painter’s arm.
Kestrel grabbed a branch from the ground and held it in front of her, but the wolf wasn’t interested in attacking her yet.
It flew for the face painter’s throat. The face painter was strong and almost pushed it to the ground, but the wolf was starving and desperate and filled with fury, and it sunk its teeth into its neck.
The face painter gurgled, slumped to the ground, and fell still. The wolf dug its nose into the face painter’s shoulder, then withdrew sharply, realizing it had made a mistake. It turned its attention to Kestrel. She backed away, grabbing a branch from the ground and holding it out in front of her.
“Good wolf,” she said, digging her fingers into the heavy branch. Her shoulder was burning. “Enjoy your tasty treat. You don’t want me. I’m just a—”
The wolf jumped. It flew toward her with its mouth open, a blur of teeth and tongue. Kestrel swung the branch without thinking. The wolf and the branch connected midair with a sharp smack, and the branch was knocked from her hands.
Kestrel readied herself for another attack, but the wolf was on the ground, breathing shallowly, a red patch on the side of its head.
Pippit charged over to it.
“Geddit!” he yelled, pulling out tufts of its fur.
“No!” Kestrel said, surprising herself by pulling him away.
Pippit gave her a look of pure disgust.
“It’s just a mangy old wolf,” she said. Really, the thought of killing something as it lay on the floor made her feel ill. Some hunter she was. “It probably won’t last much longer anyway.”
Kestrel leaned over the face painter’s body and snatched her spoon from its hand. She ripped the clump of her hair from its fingers and pulled it to pieces, letting them fly away in the breeze.
Without warning, the face painter coughed and grabbed her ankle with astonishing strength. Kestrel screeched and tried to kick it away, but its fingers were locked tight.
“We’re not done with each other yet,” it wheezed. “I’m going to leave you a, hnur, gift. When I took your hair, I, hnur, saw a few things. Things you’ve forgotten. Shall I shake them loose?”
“Let me go!” Kestrel shouted, bending down to pry its fingers away.
The face painter grabbed her ear and pulled her head to the ground, holding her down with an iron-like grip. She struggled to get free, but the face painter inserted a long nail in her ear and wriggled it around.
“Get lost!” she yelled, wrenching its hand out.
Suddenly, the hand went limp. The face painter was dead. Kestrel jumped away and rubbed her ear, wishing she could unscrew it and wash it in boiling water.
Then she felt something like a cold stream trickling through her brain and pooling in the front of her head. Something in her head went pop, as though a bubble had burst.
And then she was no longer in the forest.