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

shots to make sure I kill it. With enough bolts to shoot down four more before I reload.”

“Four – four more?”

I squinted at him, wondering why he seemed surprised. “Wolves hunt in packs, Pierre.

You know that. There were at least four that attacked Francois.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think – I mean, you can’t hunt them all down at once.”

“I can try.” I tugged Pierre’s thick leather gloves on, then gathered my father’s crossbow and a handful of bolts. I slung the strap of Pierre’s repeating crossbow over my shoulder and grabbed tucked a few knives into a sheath, placing them in a leather pouch with the bolts, to hang from Crimson’s saddle.

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I strode into the brisk evening with Pierre fast on my heels. Crimson turned sharply at the opening door, eager to be off.

“Red, you’ll be careful, right? Promise you’ll watch yourself.”

“I’ll watch myself.” I hooked the repeating crossbow onto the saddle, along with Papa’s crossbow and the ammunition pouch, then hoisted myself up.

“With that red hood, they’ll see you coming a mile away.”

I knew he was right. But I refused to live another day in fear. And this hooded cloak was the only thing bolstering my confidence to survive the night. “I want them to see me coming,” I said.

He narrowed his eyes. “… What?”

My blood surged. Crimson stamped his hooves, perhaps feeling the same fire. “I want to make them afraid, the way they made us afraid.

Whatever those things are, I want them to know one of us is fighting back.”

Pierre gaped, as if uncertain what to think.

“Red, what are you going to do?”

I set my jaw like stone. “Something.”

I spurred Crimson forth. He snorted and charged ahead. Lightning stabbed at the horizon as Pierre called after me.

I saw Father Vestille on his Palomino, trotting toward L’atelier de Forgeron de Leóne.

We met with surprised eyes and I fumbled with the reins, nearly making Crimson stumble before he galloped past. Father Vestille tugged his horse to a halt and struggled to turn about.

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“Helena! Helena, come back!” he called.

I can only imagine how he would react to the bare trousers beneath my flapping cloak. I might be cast out of the church.

It no longer mattered. I still had faith, but I had lost all patience. If he put me out of the church for trying to save our province, so be it.

The cries of Pierre and Father Vestille echoed behind me, farther and farther away as I galloped through the darkening streets.

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MY

DISCOVERY

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19.

Rain started to drizzle as I arrived at La Maison de Touraine, but it didn’t dampen the wild revelry within its walls. I could see why Mama often referred to taverns as “dens”. The crowd inside rumbled like a pack of growling beasts. I had never set foot in this place except for the banquet to honor Francois, the night he died.

But La Maison was a center for local gossip. The perfect starting place to learn what anyone knew about the wolves. Someone must have heard rumors or witnessed recent attacks.

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An alcoholic stench filled the misty air. I wished for a safer way to seek information. My parents would have preferred that I forget this place altogether. But Francois had told me to seek out his friend if I ever needed help.

As we trotted toward the hitching post, two men on the front porch stopped their conversation and stared. At the red horse and its red-cloaked rider. The short man’s mouth hung open. I wondered how much I resembled the Apocalyptic horseman that brought a plague of war. Though I doubted this squat man or his liquor bottle spent much time listening to the Scriptures.

“Evening, Monsieur,” he greeted.

I said nothing as I swung off Crimson’s flank to plant both boots together on the ground. I had no business with this man and his tone seemed more demanding than friendly.

“I said, ‘Evening,’” Squat repeated. He and his slim mustached companion stepped between me and the entrance.

“Evening,” I muttered.

The mustached