A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(106)

So?

They’re still alive in the Queen. Otherwise their bodies would be dead, too.

Nan snatched Roan out of the jaws of something like a crocodile covered in hair and blinded it with a slash across its eyes so that it went blundering into the mob, snapping at friend and foe alike. She knew what Sarah was saying: kill the Queen, free the girls’ souls, and they might return to their proper bodies.

Or might not. Right now, the Queen was the least of their worries, even if they could figure out some way to bring that shield down. And right now, even though reinforcements were no longer pouring through the portal every minute, the odds were still not in their favor. Well, ask your spirits if they can pry the girls away from the Queen. That might weaken her.

She had no more time to spare for Sarah; they had already lost Agansing and Karamjit, and that only left five fighters to guard the psychics. One of those was down, too. How many soldiers had they lost? And what about the magicians on the other side of this mob? How were they faring? The Queen might not have her reinforcements, but she could still win this battle, and once they were all out of her way, she could probably reopen the portal herself—or wait for the girls to revive—or turn seven of the patients or staff here at the hospital into more of her soulless minions. There had to be at least seven of them who were virgins.

The Queen suddenly uttered a piercing cry that did not sound like a command, but Nan’s attention was captured by the sound of a horn on the other side of the room, where she had last seen Holmes and Puck.

It was the call of no ordinary horn. It held in it the lonely howl of a single wolf searching for his pack, the wail of a fury looking for vengeance, and the triumphant cry of a victorious elk. It made the hair go up on the back of Nan’s neck, and the small part of her that was not already terrified by the situation they were in gibbered with horror and demanded that she drop everything and hide.

Because something as dreadful as the Monster Queen had been called, and would without a doubt answer.

For Robin Goodfellow, Oldest of Old Things in all England, had summoned the Wild Hunt, and when one such as Robin calls, that which is called invariably answers.

The last time he had called it in her presence, she and Sarah had been children, and he had ordered them to close their eyes as it arrived. She had no such luxury today; with body weary and aching, wounded, and sweat-soaked, she had no choice but to keep fighting. But there was no doubt when the Hunt arrived.

The light in the room dimmed, the walls seemed to thin, then disappear, and they were all somehow standing, still fighting, in a snow-buried, mist-covered meadow. Nan somehow understood this was an echo of the meadow that had been here long before the hospital had been built. Confused now, the monsters spread out, and the Queen reared up to her full height, screaming unintelligible commands at them.

And then, breaking through the mist, came the Hunt in full cry.

First came the hounds—black as velvet with fiery eyes, they circled the monsters and humans alike, bellowing and baying in tones that made Nan want to clap her hands over her ears and sink to the ground lest she go mad. Then came twenty riders and their leader, all on horses as black as the hounds with similar eyes; they also circled the group and halted before Puck. Puck’s mount bowed before the one-eyed leader, and Puck saluted him.

The fighting had completely stopped. The monsters appeared to have no idea who to attack, and the Queen seemed struck dumb.

In fact . . . they weren’t moving at all. And neither were most of their friends.

That was when she realized that she couldn’t move either.

No, she realized. None of us can move. The Huntsman has frozen us in place. This is his ground, and he can command us and everything on it.

“Oldest of Old Things,” said the leader, in a voice like something coming from a tomb. “What is this that has come into our England?”

“It is Death,” Puck replied steadily.

“It is Wickedness,” Holmes stated, looking up fearlessly into the eye of the Huntsman.

“It doesn’t belong here!” cried Nan from where she stood, whatever passed for the blood of these things running down her sword and dripping onto the ground. At least we can talk! “Huntsman, will you hunt? Will you drive these things out, or send them to their fate?”

The Huntsman looked over the heads of all the creatures between himself and her, and she sensed she was being weighed and measured, and if she could have shivered, she would have. “And will you Hunt beside me until I release you, Battle Maiden?”

Sarah gasped. “No—” whispered Memsa’b. Nan knew why. Since that day one summer when the Huntsman had claimed a murderous ghost as his prey, she had studied the Hunt, and she knew all about it. If you promised the Huntsman you would Hunt with him until he released you—you might hunt for an hour, or a year, or . . . well, there were those in his Hunting Pack who had not been released in centuries.

But if this was what it was going to take—

“I will,” she said, raising her chin as Neville flew to her and landed on her shoulder.

“I Hunt too!” the raven declared, and the Huntsman laughed.

“Well said! Hunters!” he called, making his horse rear and prance. “Bring the lady a steed!”

She found that she could move again. Behind her, she heard Sarah whimpering. One of the riders trotted out of the pack, leading a riderless horse. Nan mounted into the saddle and settled her sword in her hand. “I’m ready,” she declared.