The Hunting Moon by Susan Dennard

Author:Susan Dennard
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tor Publishing Group

* * *

The rest of the journey is an aching, hobbling affair in which Winnie tries to ignore the pain in her leg and just move. She leans on Jay and jogs as much as she can, and when that becomes too miserable, she walks.

Until at last Winnie can’t walk anymore. She needs to stop, she needs to look at her leg, and she needs just a few seconds to process what happened—first with the sadhuzag, then with the will-o’-wisps.

“Please,” she finds herself saying as she staggers to a nearby beech tree and drops onto a gnarled root. Her glasses are filthy. Sweat pours off her brow.

Jay drops to the earth in front of her. “Leave it,” he tells her quietly, catching her hands before she can try to pull apart the slashed cotton of her joggers and examine the damage.

“It … hurts.”

“Because the sural nerve got hit,” he replies, and Winnie hates how much her traitorous body responds to him saying the words sural nerve or that she then imagines him studying an anatomy book. Pain is making you ridiculous.

Jay tips forward until his shadowy head blocks her view of her leg. Somehow, although he smells of sweat and forest, the scent of bergamot and lime still wavers through. Winnie is overcome with the urge to curl forward and rest her head on top of his. Take a nap that way or maybe wail her stress and confusion into the trees.

Instead, she squeezes her teeth together and closes her eyes. A good plan, since two seconds later Jay’s fingers move into the cut and pain like a thousand phoenix burns erupts inside her brain. Way more pain than a simple slash should be causing—even in the sural nerve.

“I think there’s poison in the wound.”

“Venom,” she corrects automatically. “Poison is ingested.” Her teeth grind and grind and grind.

Jay’s head lifts and Winnie cracks open one eye. A smudge on her glasses blurs over the left half of his face. Despite the distortion, it is impossible to miss the hard fury that has settled over his features.

Except where Winnie expects him to unload on her, he instead seethes: “I’m sorry, Win. I should have been better prepared. My watch must need winding.” He raises his arm, although she can’t see the glass face in this light. “I got the time all wrong.”

“Jay,” Winnie says softly, “we’re here on my behalf, which makes all of this my fault.”

“I’m a hunte—” He breaks off, a grimace tightening his eyes. Then he amends, “I’m Lead Hunter. I should know better than this, Win. I’ll go to the Friday estate and get a four-wheeler. Then I’ll come back for you.” He shoves to his feet, stealing the bergamot and lime and blocking out what little light the sky provides. “It’ll take me about an hour. Maybe a little more.”

“An hour?” Winnie shakes her head, clutching at the rough bark of the beech. She tries to stand. Pain screams through her, and she topples right back down.

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