A Touch of Death

Prologue

Aoife ran.

Faster, I have to move faster!

Footsteps and hoofbeats pounded behind her, the dim lights of lanterns marking their path as they followed her through the forest. No, not followed. Hunted.

They're coming.

She could hear them as they followed behind, gaining ground with every second. The animals in the hunting party made much more noise than her frantic footfalls, but that didn't matter. Their horses ran faster than human legs, and their enchanted hounds could no doubt smell the sweat on her neck and hear the beating of her heart from five hundred paces away.

Her legs protested with every step, crying out that she should stop and rest, stop and give up. What was the use, anyways? They would find her, and they would capture her, and they would kill her.

An arrow streaked past out of the corner of her eye, followed by a fiery flash of pain against the outside of her left arm. Aoife gritted her teeth against the sting, and managed not to cry out. She was lucky that it had only grazed her.

Quick, now!

The urge to live pressed her forwards through the dark woods, dodging trees and jumping shrubbery, leaving dirty brown footprints on the thin coating of clean, white snow dusting the muddy earth. The air seemed to become colder as she ran, burning her lungs and drying her eyes. Her cloak was soaked through from snow drifts, tangling around her legs at every turn, causing her to stumble and slow her pace.

Frustrated and shaking, Aoife pulled at the ties around her neck with stiff, frozen fingers, undoing the knot and shoving the sodden cloak off to the side of the path without hesitation. It landed haphazardly over some low scrub bushes. It would be colder without it, but none of that mattered if she couldn't escape. Right now, speed was more important than any fleeting extra warmth it might provide.

A creek ran beside where she pulled off her cloak, not yet iced over. The water would be frigid, but could also cover her tracks. She splashed down into the creek, wincing as the water soaked her boots, and trudged onwards as quickly as she could manage. The babbling creek moved quickly, knocking against rocks and making enough noise to cover her splashing.

Aoife jumped down a small waterfall, no more than three feet high, biting her lip as her very bones seemed to vibrate from the impact. The ledge provided enough shelter that, if she stooped, she could hide as she kept moving.

Watching her footing among she slippery stones, Aoife heard a clamor from behind her, followed by raucous shouts of joy.

"The demon is dead!"

The call echoed through the forest, and a shiver ran down her spine. Were they trying to trick her, to get her to slow down? Or had they seen her discarded cloak and the bloody arrow that missed its mark, simply assuming that her body had disappeared into the night?

The hunting party wouldn't leave her alone easily, not after blaming her for the death of three village residents. With luck, her abandoned cl­oak had convinced them ­she'd died or disappeared, turned to ash like the demon they thought she was.

To tell the truth, Aoife wasn't ready to think about those deaths. She was worried they might have been her fault after all, however unintentionally...

But that was a thought for another day, when she was far away from here and safe.­

After spending roughly a hundred paces in the creek, she pulled herself onto the bank and scrambled to her feet. The sturdy, green vine she'd grabbed to help haul herself up turned brown and brittle under her touch, but it held fast while she climbed. At least the jaunt in the water hadn't put her off course— she was going West, to Quilland, where magic was more accepted. Where no one would know her. Where she could have a fresh start.