She tightened her grip on Tobias’s arm, glancing around, but it was impossible to see. Where had everyone gone?
“Stop walking,” whispered Tobias.
Along with his voice came a flurry of whispers. Fiona caught only fragments: “…philosophers... escaped the Purgators... that one in... beautiful... shouldn’t fly... Borgerith of the Rocks…”
She inched closer to Tobias just as the fog began to thin a little, and the woods around them grew sparse.
They stood on a rocky hill, in some sort of town common. Surrounded by onlookers in the mist.
The werewolves.
She blinked, suddenly unsure if the scene before her was real, or if she was losing her mind from lack of sleep.
On a rocky throne, not ten feet from them, sat a beautiful young woman, a few years older than Fiona. Her long, brown hair tumbled over a fur-lined cape, and she wore a stag’s head with gilded antlers as a crown. She clutched a scepter, topped by a carved wolf’s head. Chunky necklaces, made from animals’ teeth and seashells, draped over a colorful dress: amber, pumpkin and cerulean shades that dazzled Fiona’s tired eyes.
The last of the fog wound through dirt roads, between ramshackle houses, and down a bouldered hill, and when it had fully cleared, Fiona had a better view of the people who surrounded them—a few hundred humans, and nearly as many wolves and dogs.
The woman—their queen—was stunning, but eerily still. When she narrowed her dark eyes at them, goose bumps rose on Fiona’s arms.
“My name is Estelle Younger, Queen of Dogtown as sanctioned by Borgerith, our goddess of stone.” The wind played with her hair, but the rest of her was still as her stone throne. “You philosophers seek sanctuary with us?”
Thomas tried to smooth out his ragged ensemble. “We do. And we can pay you. A pound of gold.”
The woman’s eyes darted to Fiona, flashing from brown to gray. “You bring a bloodsucker with you.”
Fiona stiffened. “What—you don’t like bats?” Rein it in, Fiona. You need this chick to like you.
The young Queen rested her elbows on her knees, her gaze unwavering. “Did you know that at the time our town was founded, ‘bat’ was a common term for a streetwalker? All that flying about at night.” Her lips curled into a smirk.
“That’s a fun fact.” Fiona already wanted to smack those antlers off that pretty head.
“Borgerith tells us that fur isn’t meant to fly,” Estelle continued. “Mammals are meant for the earth. Nyxobas, a shadow god, created vermin like you to serve him. But we don’t worship Nyxobas here.”
After two sleepless nights, Fiona was running fresh out of patience. Blood rose in her cheeks. “Yeah, that sounds like a great theory and all, but in the rest of America, we learn about something called evolution. Everyone who’s not an idiot knows that bats share a common ancestor with other—”
Tobias touched her arm. “We’ll control the bat. We would be most grateful for sanctuary, and we’ll give you two pounds of gold.”
The Queen nodded slowly, her eyes roving over Tobias’s bare chest. “Three pounds, fire demon. You may stay, but if I find out the bat is spying for Nyxobas, I’ll rip her wings off myself. Her familiar is not permitted here. Ever. And she must stay outside our homes at night. She’s nocturnal anyway, so it shouldn’t be a burden. She can make herself useful by helping with night patrols if she wishes to prove her worth.”
Tobias frowned. “Night patrols?”
“We need people to watch for the Picaroons,” said Estelle. “This isn’t Maremount. There’s no fortress here.”
Fiona shivered, the cool morning air chilling her bare shoulders. “What on earth are the Picaroons?”
Estelle cocked her head, unblinking. “They’re pirates, of course. They worship Dagon, the monstrous sea god. And the Picaroons are just as monstrous as he is. If they catch you, you’ll find yourself churning in a shadow god’s belly.”
Fiona hugged herself. Perfect. She’d be wandering the woods at night, looking out for monsters. So much for a safe haven.
2
Celia
Estelle seemed so relaxed in her rocky throne, her gold nails curling over its leafy armrests. Emerging from steely clouds, the rising sun stained her antlers a lurid tangerine color. Behind her, an old, wooden belfry stood weathered by the ocean winds—so crooked it looked like it might topple over onto the rocky hill.
“Let me think a moment about where I should put you all,” said the Queen.
Fiona’s gritted teeth suggested she was struggling to control her temper. She couldn’t have been happy about the night patrols. Celia remembered little about Dagon, except that he was hideous and lived in the muck at the bottom of the sea, and she’d heard parents tell their children terrifying stories of the Picaroons to keep them tucked in bed at night.