Red Rider RIsing: Book 2 of the Red Rider Saga by D.A. Randall (ebook e reader .txt) 📕

couldn’t hear myself. Couldn’t think of anything but the wolf as it dropped to all fours.

The monster prowled closer, its open mouth salivating.

Something kicked open the front door.

Francois Revelier burst in, carrying his ax in two fists like a hammer of judgment. He rushed at the giant wolf and raised his weapon. Its silver edge caught the sunlight from the door and flashed with blinding light. He brought the heavy blade down as the beast charged, striking its shoulder and knocking it to the floor. The wound trickled blood as the wolf struggled to rise.

Then it stumbled, confused, and fell. Fell to the floor and didn’t move. Francois squinted at it, looking perplexed. The wolf’s vacant eyes no longer blinked.

Francois set his jaw and stomped forward.

He lopped off the monster’s head with one clean stroke. The wolf lay there in its own blood, still 157

and horrible and harmless, while Francois stood over it like David over the head of the slain Goliath.

In that instant, I learned that heroes existed.

People who would risk their own lives to save mine. People like Francois.

Something growled from outside. At each window, the head of another large wolf eyed us.

The same wolves that studied me from the forest.

Francois turned as they burst through the openings. They leaped on top of him and bit into his back, his shoulders, his arms. Francois dropped his ax and screamed as he sank to his knees beneath the bloodthirsty pile.

Then the head of the first wolf – the one Francois has slain – turned again to smile at me.

Then – impossibly – its head slid back to its body to rejoin its neck, re-forming itself. It stood on its hind legs again and grinned at me in triumph.

Then it joined the others feeding on Francois as he flailed his arms and shrieked.

I jerked upright in bed and whirled about in the blackness, trying to focus.

I relaxed my neck and shoulders in the dark room. On the cot in the loft above the blacksmith’s shop, where Pierre let me sleep. I was alone. No beasts or monsters. Only me and my scars.

I lay back down and drew the red cloak back around myself. The cloak that belonged to Pierre’s mother, before she died.

I pulled the blankets up to my shoulders and lay there on the warm cot, wide-eyed and shivering.

158

17.

“Red?’

Pierre’s head popped up through the hole in the loft floor. I pulled the dress up in front of my bare shoulders and gasped.

He spotted me standing in nothing but my linen chemise, before I covered myself with his mother’s cream-white gown. He immediately lowered his gaze. “Uh, sorry, Red. I just – I noticed you lit the candle and you were up, so –

Just wanted to let you know Father Vestille’s 159

preparing for burial. People are already heading to the church.”

“All right,” I said, still clutching the dress.

“My clothes were covered in blood. I hope you don’t mind me borrowing one of your mother’s gowns.”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Sure. No problem.”

I waited. “I’m just dressing now.”

“Right. Yeah. Of course. I’ll just, uh – wait down in the shop.”

“Yes, you will.”

“Yes, I will,” he repeated, and was gone.

I waited to hear him descend the last step of the wooden ladder before I lowered my hands. I resumed dressing in his mother’s satin gown. It was the only suitable outfit that wasn’t tattered with age.

A full-length mirror stood beside the wardrobe. The dress would work, though it seemed more suited for a ball than a funeral.

I donned her red cloak and tied it about my neck.

“Let me know when you’re ready, all right, Red?” Pierre called from below.

I stared at my reflection. At the red cloak around my head and shoulders. The bright color I had been forbidden to wear for nine years. Ever since the wolves began to rule my life and the lives of everyone around me. Wearing this cloak gave me