Of Blood and Bone (Chronicles of The One #2)(37)

The rest of her free time she spent in search of the wolf with the golden collar. She combed the woods but not only couldn’t find the wolf, she found not a single track, no scat, no sign.

She did spot Mick a few times, and deliberately changed directions just to make a point. But as the leaves fell, swirled, left branches empty, she decided to let him catch up with her.

When he popped out of a tree in front of her, she stopped Grace. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“You don’t own the woods.” He watched the owl swoop down onto a branch. “He goes where you go now.”

“When he wants to. The apples this morning are nice. If I had some more, and some sugar—brown sugar’s best—I could make apple butter.”

“How do you make butter from apples?”

“My mother taught me. It’s good. If I made some, I could leave some out for you. You can spread it on bread or biscuits.”

He walked along beside her horse, occasionally running up a tree and flipping down again. A trick she decided she needed to learn.

“What are you looking for?” he asked her.

“Who said I’m looking for anything?”

He gave her a smirk. “I know when somebody’s trying to track. But you haven’t been hunting.”

“We have enough venison. Plus, Mallick likes to fish. I might hunt for a boar, but not yet.”

“So what are you looking for?”

“Well, if you must know, I’m on my second quest.”

“What was the first?”

“Taibhse and the golden apple, dummy.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” He slid into a tree and out again. “What’s the second?”

“A wolf with a golden collar. I have to get him to give me the collar.”

At that, Mick laughed until he fell down. “That’s never going to happen.”

“What do you know?”

“I know Faol Ban would eat your liver before he turned over his collar.”

“Is that his name? You know about the wolf?”

“Everybody knows about Faol Ban. Boy, were you born last week? He lives in a secret den and roams the woods at night. The goddess of the moon gifted him the collar for his loyalty and bravery. He’s sure never going to give it to some girl.”

“Which moon goddess?”

“I don’t know. One of them.”

It probably mattered, Fallon thought. Now that she knew the name, more of the story, she might find more in one of Mallick’s books.

“Anyway,” Mick continued, “we’re having a bonfire for Samhain. It’s fun. You could come if you want.”

“I have to do a ritual with Mallick, and honor those who’ve traveled behind the veil. We always did a bonfire at home—a ritual, too, but then we got to wear costumes we made and play games and carve faces in pumpkins.”

“Where is that? Home?”

“A full day’s ride north of here. A farm. My mother was a chef and my father was a soldier, before. I have three brothers. Do you have any sisters?”

“No, just me and Dad, but we’re part of the clan. There are thirty-three of us. Thirty-four now,” he corrected, “because Mirium just had a baby.

“There’s the shifters,” he continued, flipping over to walk on his hands for a few feet. “I guess there’s, oh, about a couple dozen. There’s a faerie clan, too.”

He flipped back over. “There are a lot more of them if you count the little ones, the pixies and the nymphs. They left the apples, and the flowers the other day. They’re really good at getting things to grow. One of them only has one good wing because he got hurt in a Purity Warrior raid, and nobody can fix it. But he gets around okay.”

“Maybe Mallick could fix it.”

“He couldn’t. He tried. He’s good at healing, too, but he couldn’t fix it.”

“I’m sorry. They killed my father. My sire.”

“I know. Everybody knows the story of Max Fallon and the New Hope Massacre.”

“They do?”

“Sure.” His head tilted as if he heard something from far off. “I gotta go. The bonfire’s fun. Maybe Mallick will let you come after the ritual and all.”

He raced off, a blur, and was gone.

A bonfire would be fun, she mused. But even if Mallick loosened the reins enough to let her go, she didn’t think she’d have time.

She’d be waiting until Mallick slept at night now so she could hunt the woods for Faol Ban.



The night the veil thinned between the living and the dead held crisp and clear. The wind, light and free, sent leaves dancing. As dusk fell, little faeries, glimmers of light, watched from a distance as Mallick fashioned an altar out of stones. At his bidding, Fallon brought out the athame, the candles, the apple, the herbs. She made more trips to fetch the pumpkins and gourds left at the door that morning, and the cauldron.

Following her mother’s teaching, she decorated the base of the altar with the pumpkins and gourds, some wildflowers that had survived the first thin frost.

She went back in one last time for a small plate of bread, a bolline, and her father’s book.

When she set the book on the altar, Mallick nodded approval. “This is the night of ancestors. You show respect.”