“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.
Kestrel was standing in her mother’s house. There were cool hands on her shoulders, with red-stained fingernails and thick silver rings. Granmos. Kestrel looked out the window, straining to see into the dark forest.
They weren’t alone. They hadn’t been alone for weeks.
The shadows between the trees moved, and Kestrel caught her breath. A tall and nightmarish creature slowly emerged from them. He approached carefully, a large key swinging from his waist. Kestrel could see his yellow eyes shining like wet marbles. They were fixed on Kestrel’s grandma.
“Grabber,” Kestrel whispered as her grandma’s stalker walked toward the house. She was gripped with the desperate urge to run away, but her grandma held her firmly in place. The grabber hadn’t ever been this close before.
“That’s right,” her grandma whispered in her ear. “I met him a couple of weeks ago. I call him Horrow. That was my father’s name. Suits him, doesn’t it? Give him a wave, duck.”
Kestrel raised her hand slowly, transfixed by the creature’s half-dead face. It turned its head and stared at her.
Then, slowly, it raised its own hand.
And it waved back.
Kestrel opened her eyes. She was still in the face painter’s clearing, but the vision had been so strong she could almost feel her grandma’s hands on her shoulders.
“Kes?” Pippit mumbled in her ear. “Wot?”
“Nothing,” Kestrel said, wriggling her finger in her ear. She was disturbed. It had felt so real it was almost like a memory, but she knew that she had never waved to her grandma’s grabber. And it was impossible that the grabber had been there, fully formed, for weeks without attacking. Kestrel crumpled up the strange vision like a piece of unwanted paper and tossed it out of her mind.
“Trapper,” Pippit urged, pushing his nose against her face. “Gruh!”
“Where’s my dad?” Kestrel asked urgently, looking around. “What happened to him, Pip?”
Her gaze fell on her dad’s coat, which was in a pile next to the dead face painter. Immediately her ear went pop again, and Kestrel’s memory flooded back so fast she almost fell over.
She winced as she remembered falling from the tree, and the black dog standing over her. She’d followed the black dog to her mother’s house and promised that she would never speak to Finn again . . . and she’d done it because something awful was happening.
In the distance, a dozen wolves howled in celebration. Kestrel felt all the warmth leave her bones.
Her dad was being chased by his grabber.
“Dad!” she yelped, dropping the coat. Panic swept over her. She had to catch up with him. Kestrel jumped over the face painter’s body, making for the trees.
“Smell trail,” Pippit said. “Still there. Trapper!”
“We’re not too late,” Kestrel said, dizzy with astonishment. “We’re going to make it!”
They raced into the trees, leaving the dead monster and the stunned wolf behind them.
10
TERRIBLE HUNGER
Kestrel knew at once where her father had been. His footprints were stamped deep into the earth, running jaggedly from tree to tree as he tried to shake the grabber off. There were paw prints laid over the top of them, deep holes with an explosion of claw marks around each one.
But the grabber still hadn’t caught him.
Her dad knew the forest too well to be easily cornered. Kestrel had never come so close to finding a grabber before it ate. She could tell from the way the grabber had weaved between the fallen trees and boulders that it was stretching the hunt out for as long as possible. She prayed it would continue to lag behind.
The trees were riddled with holes, and thick red bloodmoss covered the ground. It slid away from under her feet as she ran, revealing patches of black, wet mud.