Wild Magic by Cat Weatherill Page A

running them through his hands like water. “Go well, my friend.”
    The stallion bowed his great head and turned away, whinnying to the gray mare as he did. Together they disappeared into the wood.
    Finn sat on the grass, his back resting against a wagon wheel. He looked at the moon again. It was clear of the treetops, heading for the highest point in the heavens. He started to chew a thumbnail. The night was so quiet, he could hear his own heart. His own breathing.
    With the beat of a wing, Flyte flew from the wagon to a nearby oak. He settled. Tidied a stray feather. Watched Finn with dark eyes.
    â€œSoon?”
    Finn had asked the question but the hawk didn’t reply. He knew Finn was really talking to himself.
    â€œHow will it be, Flyte? Fast? Slow? Will there . . . be pain?”
    Finn’s breath was coming faster now. Fast and shallow. He glanced at the moon. It hadn’t moved since he last looked.
    In the glade, nothing stirred. No sounds disturbed the silence. No wind in the trees. No owls in flight. Nothing.
    Then a rustle and— shooo!— Flyte launched himself into the darkness . Seconds later he was back on his branch, ripping at the dead mouse in his talons.
    Finn shook his head. While he waited for the most terrifying moment of his life, his companion was thinking only of supper. But that was how animals behaved, wasn’t it? They hungered, killed, and devoured. No thought. No guilt.
    Soon he would understand that.
    Time passed. The moon rose higher. Finn watched it and remembered the hunt. Remembered following the silver stag as it flashed between the trees like a moon through clouds.
    â€œWhy did I follow?” he asked himself for the umpteenth time. “What spirit possessed me? Perlal, Fennon, the others—they all tried to warn me. Why didn’t I listen? I can think of only one reason: my human blood. My mother’s blood, hot and thick in my veins. What else could it be? The others respected the law. I alone rode into that forbidden place.
    â€œI was enchanted—I’m sure of that now. The forest worked its mysterious magic and I couldn’t resist. No, that’s not true. The human part of me couldn’t resist. Instead, it spurred Aspen on.
    â€œOh, how I wish I could turn back time! I would follow my friends and feast in the castle. The stag would run free to this day. And I would not be burdened with such a curse.”
    Finn paused for breath and, as he did, he became aware of a smell. A strange, sweet smell that turned foul on the tongue. The smell of decay.
    He unlaced his leggings and pulled them from under him. The wound was festering. The flesh was rotting on the bone.
    â€œOh!” Finn felt faint just looking. His breath started to come in gasps. The smell was getting stronger. It seemed to be oozing from his skin. All over his body. Such a stink.
    He looked at the moon. It had reached the zenith: the highest point on its journey. It would go no higher tonight.
    â€œNo,” moaned Finn. “No. Not now. Not here. I never meant it to happen. Please. Anything I can do. Anything you want from me but this. Not this— ah! ”
    No more words. Finn was thrown forward onto the ground as the first pain hit him. It ripped through his body, like a hand had reached down through his mouth, gripped his guts and pulled them right out. He writhed on the forest floor. His body was itching all over. He wanted to scratch. Had to scratch. He looked down at his bare legs and saw the fur. It was pushing through his skin, thick and wiry. Red as rust.
    Finn tried to cry out but his tongue wouldn’t let him. There was nothing but a snarl, caught somewhere at the back of his throat. He shook his head, trying to shake it loose, and it came out as a growl—so unexpected, so loud, he terrified himself. Fear: that was all he knew now. Fear and pain, fighting inside him like wild dogs. His body was a battleground, elf versus Beast, and the