After a few hours of quietly following the Hunter, who insisted his stone indicated a nearby presence despite no signs the party could see, they broke for a very late lunch in one of the old shrine clearings. The atmosphere was strangely festive. Perhaps because the Hunter had said that there was no real danger til after the sun had gone down.

  Barry, fully prepared for his role in these proceedings, brushed some leaves off one of the waist-high stone plinths. He draped a checked cloth over it, smoothing the folds over the age pocked surface of the stone, and pulled out a number of savory pastries baked the previous day. He unwrapped them from their wax package, deftly arranging them on the plinth.

  Harlox wandered over.

  “That’s a lot fer one person,” he rumbled nonchalantly.

  Barry said, “Is that so.”

  “Mayhaps ye’re set on turnin’ into a pig?”

  Barry held up one of the pork pastries. “Mayhaps. An’ to what hell do ye suppose pigs go when they indulge in cannibalism?”

  Harlox grinned. “I don’t rightly know. But tell ye what, why don’t I help ye an’ take one off yer hands? So’s ye don’t find out.”

  “That’s mighty kind o’ ye, takin’ on such a burden.” Barry handed up the pastry.

  Harlox took a bite, flaking crust dusting his beard. “Oh, ye know me. Always keen to help.”

  A queue had formed behind Harlox during this discussion, so Barry found himself hurrying to finish setting up.

  “Bit dry,” Harlox said as he turned away.

  “Merry, did ye bring that jam I asked fer?” Barry asked over his shoulder as he squatted by his pack, rifling through it.

  He received no answer. He glanced around for his sister. He huffed when he couldn’t see hide nor tail.

  “Well, how do ye like that!” he muttered.

  “Beg pardon, Barry, any chance I could jest snag one o’ these?” Wendel asked, pointing at one of the pastries. “Only I jest saw Harlox do so an’ I’m fair famished.”

  Barry looked up at him. “What? Oh. Go on, if’n ye don’t mind there’s no sauce. Any chance ye know where Merry got to?”

  Wendel helped himself to a pastry. “Likely usin’ the necessity, be my guess. Harder fer women to find a fair spot on the trail, ye know.”

  Barry sighed the sigh of the long suffering. He couldn’t exactly protest that. He stood, scanning the tree line.

  He said, “I do worry, ye know? All this has me tenser than a-“

  Wendel took a bite. “Beg pardon, but this is pretty dry, Barry. Mebbe some sauce could help. Ye know, my grandpappy always used-”

  Barry slowly turned to meet Wendel’s gaze and raised an eyebrow. “I do believe I mentioned that sauce might be required.”

  Wendel smacked his lips nervously. “Ye know what, never ye mind. Delicious as always, thankee very much, Barry.”

  “Ye’re nothin’ but joy, Wendel,” Barry replied drily.

  Merry was not, in fact, using the necessity, though she did believe what she did was a different type of necessary. She was practicing with her ma’s bow a distance up the trail.

  She sighted along the arrow, drew back and released. The string twanged past her ear, slapping her arm guard.

  “Passing fair shot, miss,” a man rumbled behind her.

  Merry startled, pulling the bow string back on instinct.

  The Hunter held up his hands with a chuckle. “Ya got me. I surrender.”

  Merry flushed and lowered the bow. “My apologies.”

  He shook his head. “Nah need for sorrows. Less ya weren’t aiming for that knot up there?”

  Merry looked at the knot in the tree some thirty paces away, her arrow sprouting from it like a strange new branch.

  “I was,” she admitted. “‘S been a few years since I shot but that’s fair ‘nough, I suppose.”

  “Oh aye, good enough to shoot an eye out at a distance by ma accounting. Who taught ya? Momma?”

  Merry shook her head, grip tightening on the bow shaft. “She died when the last banshee came. The Dedicated taught me.”

  “Ah.”

  Merry glanced up at him sharply. “But this is my momma’s bow. So.”

  The Hunter leaned against a tree. “Sure. Ya want to kill a banshee with it. I follow. I like poetry as much as anyone.”

  Merry shifted her weight. “I… dunno if I can.”

  “Ya killed before?”

  “Animals an’ such, sure.”

  He shrugged. “Nah difference here. Just another beastie.”

  Merry mulled that over a moment. “I thought it a weird.”

  “Critters are critters, miss…?”

  “Merry.”

  The Hunter grinned. “Miss Merry. Ma advice? If ya see a shot, take it. Unless ya want another child’s momma to die.”

  Trish adjusted her pack’s straps again. She looked at the banshees loping between the tree shades with concern. She’d offered them shadow cloaks, though she was low on mana and her spirit ached. But Moonless had done something instead that made the air shudder around them as they passed under direct sunlight. She hadn’t been allowed to see what exactly had been done. She assumed it some secret magic afforded only to men’tuchs. Whatever it was, it wasn’t completely effective. They were slower on the trail of the fugitive than they were last night.

  Alsom patted her shoulder. Trish glanced at him, brow furrowed. What now?

  But all he did was give her a reassuring smile. She began to sign, then stopped and instead smiled back best she could. They pressed on.

  It was a strange party she found herself in, no less strange because she was missing her Vox with hearing folk around. Though she had her chalkboard, she still felt vulnerable. Without Chat on hand, she couldn’t easily communicate with Alsom. That aside, it would be easy to be overlooked should they come across the hunting party before Chat.

  She worried on it. Would Alsom’s voice alone be enough to stop the party from killing the men’tuchs outright? He just needed to buy time to introduce her or to get the Reeve on hand. Then they would be able to have a discussion and, hopefully, deal with the issue of the Hunter, disperse the crowd before the sun set, and then make contact with the fugitive. But would the Hunter allow Alsom to slow the party down? It was likely he had an agenda that necessitated some conflict with the banshees. Was she putting Alsom in danger because she needed someone to speak for her?

  Alsom grabbed her arm. She looked at him, alarmed. He pointed at an overgrown little wooden structure. She stared at it a moment then realized it was the shack Chatter mentioned. They were maybe twelve hours behind the fugitive. Less, if the weird had the sense to hide from the sun. She nodded to Alsom. It was a good sign.

  Chatter dove through a flock of sparrows and screamed mockingly as they scattered. Being an eagle was such fun. Alas that they were aloft for business.

  They dipped into a thermal and fixed their gaze on the forest below, swinging around and around in expanding circles. Grid search. How incredibly boring. But it was either this or tramp through the forest to try and find the hunting party by scent.

  They didn’t have much faith in their self-appointed task. However, that Hunter made them too nervous not to at least attempt to locate the party. If they could just convince the Reeve to arrest the Hunter, Trish would be that much safer. If they could convince the Reeve to take everyone home, everyone would be safer.

  They eyed the sun. It was about three in the afternoon. The sun would set soon. Would the fugitive adhere to proper times? Or would they emerge before midnight? Did they, in their maddened state, already walk the day?

  Chatter, preoccupied, flew into a plume of smoke.

  Brody was miserably leaning against a stone column eating an admittedly delicious pork pastry when he caught a whiff of smoke. He pushed off the stone with a thunderous frown.

  “Who’s lit a damn fire!” he exclaimed.

  Deird and Boyd glanced up at him from a patch of grass nearby in surprise, but he paid them no heed. He found the fire across the clearing. He stomped over.

  It was a perfectly serviceable fire, with a bucket of loose dirt next to it, even, in respect of fire safety. Brody grabbed the bucket and upended it over the fire. He stood there, panting, then stomped on the dirt for good measure.

  “What the hell!” he yelled, looking around ferociously. “Ye tryin’ to get us all killed! Which one o’ ye’s lit that fire?”

  Nobody spoke up.

  Then someone muttered, “Hunter said twas fine on account o’ it bein’ day an’ all.”

  Brody scowled. “Well that Hunter don’t have any kind o’ experience huntin’ banshee whatsoever!”

  “Oh but we been walkin’ hours, Brody. Well past lunch! An’ everyone knows banshee don’t walk durin’ day. Go on, let the boys have a hot meal,” Boyd said suddenly.

  Brody found himself being firmly chided away and off to one side. Somehow a new pastry found its way into his hand. It was warm. He watched as some of the older men intently went about making fire.

  “So this is going well,” a voice said in his ear.

  Something cool and dry slid against his neck.

  He flung the pastry across the clearing in surprise before he realized it was the demon.

  “Demon!” he hissed. “What the hell!”

  “I answer to both,” the demon acknowledged.

  The sliding sensation met his shoulder. He looked over. He inhaled and looked away. “Absolutely not.”

  The demon, the very much a snake demon, the oh sweet lady it was on his shoulder snake demon, said, “No, only my good friends call me that. You might try Chatter one of these days, though.”

  “I’ll not give you that naming power over me,” Brody said firmly, looking as far away from the snake as possible.

  “Superstition, Reeve? And so terribly wrong, too. Ah, I would love to plumb those depths with you but I come with a request from the Warden.”

  Brody forgot his not-a-phobia of snakes and looked at the snake nestled on his shoulder. “She’s well?”

  “As well as one would expect under the circumstances.”

  “Where is she? What about the men’tuchs?”

  The demon said, “They are hunting the fugitive together. But she requests you aid her.”

  Brody frowned, sensing a trap. “How?”

  The snake’s tongue flicked out. “You’re nervous. How delicious. She’d like you to arrest the Hunter.”

  Brody blinked. “Arrest! On what charge?”

  “We suspect he released the fugitive from its holding cell.”

  Brody laughed incredulously. “You have evidence?”

  “No.”

  Brody folded his arms. “I’m sorry but I am just not comfortable violating my oath.”

  “Ah but you’re comfortable watching another feckless Hunter lead your people to their deaths?”

  Brody shifted uncomfortably. “I have no legal recourse. All I can do is go with them. There is nothing illegal about what he, or they, are doing. Even if it is suicide.”

  “Brody,” the demon said firmly.

  Brody found himself paying more attention. It was the first time the demon had used his name.

  “Brody,” the demon said again, “If you were Trish? I would understand. I wouldn’t press. But you and I have seen what happens when the rule of law does not protect those who require its protection. I know you have sworn to uphold the law… but is it the law you want to protect? Or is the law just a shield you can use?”

  Brody’s lips tightened.

  The demon continued. “The law isn’t always right, Brody. You know that what happened here all those years ago was because the weirdens were legally beholden to the nobility. You saw the law was only changed after your people died. It changed because it was wrong but those people can’t change being dead.”

  “Stop.”

  The demon pressed on. “But Brody, you have an opportunity here for change. You can prevent history from repeating itself. Do what you didn’t do twenty years ago. Put your people above the law. Do what’s right for them.”

  Brody closed his eyes, pain on his face. He didn’t want more nightmares. He didn’t need more guilt. He was so, so tired. He thought longingly of his warm bed and warm milk and warm Flip, Rill hurtling into the space between them.

  “What… would you need?” he asked quietly.

  The demon said, as gently as a demon might, “Take the Hunter into custody for a day. That’s all we need. One day, and the banshees are gone. One day, and nobody else dies. One day, and history goes back to yesterday.”

  Fasa was eating her pork pastry cold, because someone just had to stomp out the fire though the professional had said a fire was perfectly safe at this time. She glared at Brody across the clearing, tearing another bite out of the pastry.

  Gari said, “Ye stare at him any harder an’ he’ll be aflame soon ‘nough.”

  Fasa looked at him balefully. “Aren’t ye mad? He almost got yer Krissy killed along with my Mal.”

  “Well, sure, but he was doin’ what he thought was best.”

  Fasa snorted. “I never liked him for Reeve. He’s a fool. Always has been.”

  “Aw, come on, Fas, he’s an alright sort.”

  “Him an’ his fancy accent. He spent three years o’ schoolin’ there an’ he comes back here all- all ridiculous an’ datin’ some rich city boy-"

  "Flip's alright..."

  Fasa continued, louder, "An’ then he lets our friends die? An’ he’s lettin’ it happen again? No sir, not on my watch.”

  Gari said, “Fasa, that weren’t his fault. He was jest a kid, we all were. An’ he’s proven a competent Reeve. Remember when he found-“

  Fasa cut him off. “Competent? Would a competent Reeve have hidden a banshee from us?”

  Gari subsided.

  “‘xactly,” Fasa said viciously.

  Then, “What’s he doin’?”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Brody marched to the middle of the clearing. He looked around then clapped a few times.

  He cleared his throat. “Attention, all. I have decided that now is the time when this farce ends. I am politely requestin’ that all ye head on home quick as rabbits right now.”

  “An’ if we don’t want to go home?” someone asked.

  Brody set a hand on his badge. “Then I’ll not be so polite an’ ye’ll spend the evenin’ in the cell.”

  Someone laughed. “Can’t fit us all in there!”

  Brody said, “No, but we can use the morgue for overflow. How’s that strike ye?”

  Boyd yelled, “An’ what ‘bout the Hunter? He ain’t goin’ stop.”

  Brody squared his shoulders. “Then I’m takin’ him in too.”

  Fasa had heard enough. She ducked away from the crowd.

  Gari hissed after her, “Where’re ye goin’?”

  Fasa said, “I’m goin’ to warn the Hunter! He’s the only one who can handle that thing an’ I’m not lettin’ Crybaby Brody lock him up for bein’ a hero. Nobody’s dyin’ on my watch.”

  “But do ye know where is he?” Gari asked.

  Fasa grinned sharply. “I saw him talkin’ with Merry on my way back from usin’ the necessity. So yeah. I know where he is.”