A Forest of Wolves by Chelsea Luna Page A

climbed out of bed and stumbled to the door. He wrenched it open and I smelled a whiff of the garlic I’d rubbed on the knob the night before.
    Stephan stood outside. An uncharacteristic grin claimed his flushed face. “Marc, you have to see this.”
    â€œSee what?”
    Stephan shook his head. “I won’t ruin the surprise. Come see for yourself. I promise you will not be disappointed.” He hurried from the door.
    â€œWhat is that all about?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t know, but I have to go.” Marc jogged after him, holding his shoulder so he wouldn’t jostle the wounds on his back.
    Stephan’s coyness heightened my curiosity. What was the harm in following them? They hadn’t told me that I had to stay behind.
    I followed the men.
    The ground was wet from the morning dew and my shoes sunk into the muddy grass. The dress Ruzena had given me was too big, so I held the folds of my skirts as I ran, which slowed me down. I wore no corset beneath my gown—that was a luxury—only my chemise.
    Marc and Stephan were on the street ahead.
    Stephan darted between two houses and disappeared from the road. Marc slipped between the houses, too. Both men were now out of sight. I hadn’t lost them, though—I heard other men in the distance.
    What was going on?
    I reached the narrow strip of land between the two houses. Crowded gardens claimed the space behind the homes, except for a small clearing where the land met the forest.
    I stopped when I reached the clearing.
    Twenty rebels with their weapons drawn circled something. They stood close together, looking down at whatever it was in the middle of their tightly drawn circle. What were they looking at?
    Marc and Stephan approached the group.
    Tension filled the air despite the men laughing and smiling. They were proud of whatever they had caught. Was it a large animal?
    Henrik’s tall frame stood head and shoulders above the others in the center of the circle. His presence in the group heightened my curiosity.
    The rebels parted for Marc to show their capture.
    Marc went rigid; his spine straightened and every muscle in his shredded back tensed.
    I couldn’t see through the wall of rebels; they were too big and burly and crowded too closely together. What could cause such a reaction in Marc?
    I shoved past the men and entered the circle.
    Henrik crossed his arms over his broad chest, beaming with satisfaction.
    A man knelt on the grass at Henrik’s feet. His head was lowered, so I couldn’t see his face. The man’s hands were tied behind his back and his mouth was gagged. The rebels had caught a prisoner. Was it a member of the Royal Guard? Was it someone I knew? Why was Henrik so amused?
    My stomach sank.
    Gleaming blades were pointed at the man’s throat, but he’d ceased struggling. He sat limply in the middle of the rebel circle. Defeat was etched all over his body. His shoulders were hunched. The man was filthy—as if he’d been out in the wilderness for days when he was captured.
    â€œRaise your head,” Henrik said to the prisoner. “Now. Show my brother your face.”
    The prisoner didn’t move.
    A rebel kicked the man in his lower back.
    The prisoner lost his balance and, because his hands were tied, he fell hard on his face. The crowd roared with laughter as he struggled to sit up.
    Henrik helped him to his feet. “Up you go.”
    It couldn’t be . . .
    The prisoner silently stood beside Henrik.
    Henrik smiled at Marc from ear to ear. “I found someone you were looking for, Brother.”
    The prisoner’s head rolled back and the long, scraggly, ginger-colored hair fell away from his face.
    Kristoff.

Chapter Six
    T he sinking feeling rapidly changed to drowning. I sucked in a gulp of early morning air.
    Marc didn’t move. He didn’t respond to Henrik or the cheering crowd. He stood frozen, staring down at Kristoff. Marc’s eyes bore