“Mushroom?” he impatiently finished for her.
“Yes! You’re just a mushroom farmer.”
“I know because Gravaldor once destroyed our entire town.” He didn’t add anything about his parents because he didn’t share stuff like that with strangers. Everyone in Dullshire was right. Lore Keepers were selfish, and they only brought doom.
The girl’s face softened, but she didn’t back down. She took a few steps closer to Barclay and jabbed her finger into his chest. He wobbled but didn’t fall over.
“I need to do this, and you can’t stop me.” Mitzi squawked in agreement. The girl kept walking and poking him until he’d backed up to the edge of the trunk. “These are the most difficult items to find in the Woods, and I collected them all.” She waved the jar with the Mourningtide Morel in front of his face. “These will summon and trap Gravaldor. It’s perfect.”
Barclay’s eyes widened as he examined the mushroom in that jar. Up close, he realized its scarlet dome was actually crimson.
“Wait!” he said. But the girl gave him one more jab, and he toppled off the trunk. He landed painfully in the center of the clearing, a pine cone squashed underneath him.
“Wait!” he sputtered again. “That’s not a—”
But the girl had already set the jar down, completing the perfect line.
Suddenly, deep in the Woods behind him, there came a howl.
Barclay scrambled to his feet. To his right, the trees shuddered. Then, to his left, footsteps scurried through the shade. A figure rushed by so fast, it was merely a blur.
“Barclayyyyyyyy,” Selby moaned from the top of the hill.
Barclay waved at him to hush. Behind him, Barclay heard the sound of something breathing. There was a low, guttural growl.
His heart pounded, and he desperately clutched his Beast-warding charm. It usually calmed him in dangerous situations, even ones without Beasts. It helped him clear his head enough to think his way out of trouble.
But then a pair of glowing eyes appeared through the trees.
He couldn’t think his way out of this.
The girl jumped down beside him. “Once Gravaldor walks closer to the jars,” she whispered, “the Lore will trap him here. Then I can bond—”
“I don’t think that’s—” Barclay started.
There was another growl, and she hushed him. But Barclay knew he was right. Gravaldor was massive and impossible to hide. And the mushroom she’d used wasn’t a Mourningtide Morel.
But it didn’t matter. Even if this wasn’t Gravaldor, she’d summoned something, and now they were all going to die.
The girl held her arms out, as though whatever Beast stalked around them could be tamed like a puppy. “Mitzi, help me.”
The baby dragon gave a low huff.
“Mitzi, we’ve talked about this!” the girl hissed. “If I’m going to be Grand Keeper one day, you can’t be my only Beast.” When Mitzi still did not comply, she added, “But you’ll still be my favorite!”
At this, Mitzi seemed to relax. She crouched low on the girl’s shoulder, prepared to attack whatever monster circled them. The girl glanced down at Barclay. “Now, don’t make any sounds. No sudden movements. We don’t want to alarm—”
“Barclayyyyyyy,” Selby cried again.
Everything next seemed to happen at once.
Something tore out from the trees, claws raised straight at them.
A light burst out of Mitzi’s mouth, so bright that Barclay had to close his eyes.
But even without his sight, he knew the growl he’d heard before. It was low-pitched and dangerous, the sort of sound a bully might make if they had backed Barclay into a dead-end alley. It was the sound of victory. It meant the predator had found its prey.
A breath blew hot against Barclay’s neck.
He ran. He ran as fast as he could.
He knew better than to flee. Many wild animals only attacked once the chase began. Barclay was basically asking the Beast to eat him. But as smart as Barclay might have been, he was too terrified to stop himself.
He heard the sound of footsteps pounding after him. He ignored them and quickened his pace. He was running faster than he ever had in his life. The gray trees blurred past him like a smear in the corner of his eyes, and the air that usually whipped at his face and knotted his hair had gone eerily still. It seemed impossible, but he swore he was going faster than the wind.
And the pair of eyes, he realized, weren’t behind him. They were beside him.
The Beast wasn’t running after him. It was running with him.
The thought startled him so much, he tripped and fell facedown. When he groaned and rolled over, the last thing he saw was a mouthful of black teeth.
THREE
Barclay woke up covered in leaves, Selby and the girl panting over him.
“He’s dead!” Selby wailed.
It took Barclay a moment to remember how he’d ended up here, on the ground, aching all over, with only Selby and a stranger. But as he squinted at the gnarled branches overhead, he remembered where he was—the one place he was forbidden to go. The Woods.
Barclay sat up and whipped around. Then a terrible pain shot through his shoulder, and he looked down to find his sleeve had been shredded and an ugly red gash stretched down his arm. Beneath it were hints of glimmering gold.
“Where is it? Where’s the Beast?” Barclay asked, panicked. He looked around, but doing so made the world tilt like he was tumbling down another hill.
The girl’s nostrils flared. “The Beast is there.” She poked at his wound.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“You have a Mark. Like mine.”
She rolled up her sleeve again to reveal her golden Mitzi-like tattoo. Only this time the Mark moved. It padded across her skin, then curled up and yawned, as though preparing to go to sleep.
Barclay realized Mitzi was no longer perched on the girl’s shoulder. The dragon was in the tattoo. The magic of it all made Barclay want to rub his eyes, to make sure what he was seeing was real.
“It was supposed to be my Mark,” the girl continued. “Even if I messed up the trap, if you hadn’t been there, then I would’ve bonded with the Lufthund—”
“Bonded? Bonded like a Lore Keeper?” Barclay winced as he smeared away some of the blood on his arm and stared at his Mark in horror. He’d barely gotten a glimpse of the Beast that had chased him, but the tattoo resembled a wolf. It moved, prowling menacingly over the top of his shoulder, its fangs bared.
“Yes. Exactly like a Lore Keeper,” she huffed. “A Mark is where a Beast dwells when it isn’t out in the world.”
As she spoke, the Mark on Barclay’s shoulder thrashed, and the Beast snapped its jaw.
Selby stared at it openmouthed. “Does this make Barclay a Lore Keeper?”
“No,” Barclay hissed. He would never become a Lore Keeper. Beasts weren’t companions—they were monsters. He might’ve broken Dullshire’s most important rule, but it hadn’t been his fault. He hadn’t chosen this.
Suddenly he felt sick. He staggered to his feet, only to immediately throw up on the forest floor.
When he’d finished, he held out his arm, which pulsed painfully where the Beast had slashed him. “Get it off me,” Barclay told the girl.