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

one bolt, in the animal’s stomach. The other bolt yielded no blood, even though it had struck the wolf’s heart. I pressed my boot against its pelt and tugged the bolt free. It pulled far more easily than the one from the gray wolf’s skull.

I stared at the bloodstained bolt in the moonlight, turning it back and forth in my fist.

I shot and killed this wolf the same way I had killed the gray wolf. Why did these two die when the rest of the wolves survived every attack?

Something howled in the distance. Crimson and I whirled toward the forest.

I shoved the bolt into the pouch with the other one and hurled myself onto Crimson’s back.

We fled, leaving the large wolf carcass for Favreau to clean up in the morning, if he ever chose to leave his house again. I had to find out how Pierre forged these two bolts. And I had to live long enough to do it.

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23.

We charged through the forest, pounding over twigs and pine needles as the rain turned to mist. Back to the village and to L’atelier de Forgeron de Leóne, the only home I had now.

How long it would remain a home, I couldn’t know. But Pierre and his parents had to let me stay at least one more night!

Another howl rang through the trees, closer than the first. The wolves had picked up our scent.

Crimson thundered ahead without any

prodding. My sides ached from the jarring ride, but 210

I refused to restrain him. Not with so much forest to cover.

The howling increased, from two or more wolves. They could be organizing themselves, picking out a trail, searching for us.

They would find us in minutes. Well before we reached the village.

A growing chorus of howls rose as we raced on, sweating in the fresh humidity. They would surround us again, in greater numbers. This time, they would not hold back.

“Helena? Helena!”

I gasped. Had someone called me? I wished it was possible, this deep into the forest. I tugged on Crimson’s reins for a moment.

“Helena! Helena, is that you?”

I froze in the saddle. Crimson stamped his hooves, eager to flee. I scanned the area, searching between black trees. A horse approached from the fog, its rider bearing a lantern. The trotting silhouette took on a dark shape, lightening as it drew closer. Beneath the wide-brimmed hat, Father Vestille’s eyes held a look of horror.

“Helena! Helena, what’s happened? Are you all right?”

I couldn’t answer as he came toward us, appearing from nowhere. I was too exhausted to think.

“Helena, what’s wrong? I’ve been

searching everywhere for you.”

The wolves howled again, less than half a mile away. I jerked at the sound.

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Father Vestille studied the woods behind us. “You went after them, didn’t you? The wolves.”

I said nothing.

He turned sharply at another shrill howl.

“They’re closing in. Come. My hovel is nearby.”

He turned and took Crimson’s reins, leading us away at a fast trot. I said nothing, did nothing to resist. The battle and blood and terror left me numb and aching. I only wanted to sleep.

To sleep without dreams or nightmares.

We continued through the woods at a steady pace. Father Vestille focused on the muddy path, seeming to ignore the wolves’ terrible howls.

We entered the little clearing where his house stood, a sturdy structure of clay and large stones, small but protected. For the first time since my childhood, the sight of Father Vestille’s hovel warmed my heart. A place to lie down and rest, where the wolves could not break in. I was so intent on returning to Monsieur Leóne’s shop that I had never considered retreating to Father Vestille’s home. Of course, I would never have accepted his invitation tonight if I wasn’t so desperate.

He led us to his stable behind the cottage and jumped down from his saddle. He looked about, then led his Palomino into its stall, closed the gate and moved to the pile of hay beside it.

I sat atop Crimson, heart pounding, chest heaving. The wolves would find this stable any moment. But I waited, my mind and body numb.

Waited