A Touch of Death

Chapter 12

Aoife tore through the woods, no longer conscious of what direction she needed to go as her feet crunched through fallen leaves and dying grass, the scent of dirt and damp and decay rising all around her. An undercurrent of what she now realized was animal musk suddenly seemed stronger and sharper, the pounding of animal feet behind her louder than even her heartbeat in her ears.

The Enchanter's warning sang through her ears, far too late, and she could hear whatever was behind her closing in not ten steps into trying to run. There was no hope of escape, but fear spurred her onwards despite that.

Until her foot caught on a fallen branch.

Aoife lurched forward, body airborne for a fraction of a second before landing face first in the dirt, skidding to a stop. Her palms and right shoulder screamed where she'd taken the brunt of the impact, but all of that faded to an inconsequential throbbing when she looked behind her.

It was huge, standing over twice her height and covered in fur the color of dark storm clouds, matted in places from blood and debris. Teeth too large for its mouth curled over the sides of its jaw, dark eyes examining her. A paw with curved claws made for slashing and tearing came down beside her head as it moved closer, and Aoife flinched away, though there was nowhere to run. No point in playing dead.

A Nightmare Wolf could sense life itself.

Falk told her about them, back when they would spend time together brewing potions in the little woodshed. Legends said that they were Fae mounts during the War, stronger and faster and deadlier than any horse, but that after the War large packs of them had turned wild. They had the ability to sniff out life, which made them particularly useful on the battlefield for both finding survivors and sniffing out spies, as they were also able to pick up on some imperceptible difference in scent that marked those with the ability to use magic, and those without. Nightmare Wolves were known for breathing on their prey to incapacitate them, drinking the life from them with the breath itself even as they ripped the body to shreds. Most claimed that the biggest and strongest lived to be hundreds, or even thousands of years old, and that the older the wolf, the more potent the breath. Some said the breath was an anesthetic, an aphrodisiac, or even hallucinogenic, and they were occasionally hunted in hopes of gathering the fluid they secreted for sale or study. No one had lived to tell the tale, as far as Aoife knew. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she fought to get out from under the scrutiny of its single eye, a jagged slash running across the left side of its face and across where its other eye remained closed.

A thousand thoughts ran through her head, the first of which was a niggling sensation that it might not be able to kill her, though she wasn't sure that brought hope in this scenario. She sincerely did not want to test her survival ability after being doused with Nightmare breath and shredded into a hundred pieces. Among other things, the wolves were known for playing with their food, especially those trained by Fae generals, and there was no telling how long it would keep her alive before shredding her, or if it had any sense of what would kill her.

Or even if it cared if she died, since killing for sport was also on the table. Anything could happen with these creatures. One had terrorized a village when Aoife was younger, coming through in the night and leaving behind a string of bloody corpses that were only half eaten. All of them were Touched. Aoife wasn't completely sure what to do at this point, because to move slowly was death, but to move quickly would likely startle the animal and also cause certain death.

There wasn't time to think about it further before the wolf lowered its head, opened its massive jaws, and breathed.

Aoife held her breath until her lungs burned, still attempting to slip away, but fear made her short on air and she was forced to take in a gasping, coughing breath of the reeking air. It smelled like sulfur and tar, the metallic tang of blood, and the warm wetness of saltwater all boiled together to the breaking point. She gagged, her stomach heaving as she rolled to her side, keeping her nose low to the ground in hopes that the smell of the damp earth would keep it away to some extent. A low, keening noise came from the wolf, and it breathed again, shorter this time. The wave almost seem stronger, though, like it was more concentrated.