In the back of her sleigh, Shoal shifted in her bundled furs. She scanned the ground for signs of pursuit, but the snow was disturbed only by sleigh tracks and paw prints.

“Slow down,” she murmured to the driver, her breath crystalizing on the air. “There’s no sign of them.”

The driver slackened the reins. The dogs, frightenend into silence by the earlier displays of blood and sorcery, slunk through the snow, tails tucked. They needed the time to catch their breath. It was Shoal’s hope that Whistbone’s ignorance would lead him to push his dogs beyond their limits.

The sleigh driver turned back to her. Fear shone in his eyes. “What will you do now?”

“I have no plan,” said Shoal. “Whistbone can fend off any magick I know.”

“Do you think he’ll find us?”

Shoal’s eyes darted to the driver’s shaking hand. Seeing the direction of her glance, he turned forward.

A line of white fire blazed across the dim, wintry sky. It outlined a man’s form.

“Get out of the sleigh,” said Shoal.