How long she followed Charlie, Emery was uncertain. Time passed strangely in the forest. The moment she stepped over the roots and brambles creating a natural boundary from the field, she began to lose her way. Charlie seemed always ahead, a fair, shimmering shade against the dark, calling to her whenever she began to grow weary, begging her to follow, to find him. But so much hindered her. The gnarled roots and hanging plant life and tree limbs, the way the trees seemed to move ever so slightly as if to confuse her, the disorienting little lights that flared every so often, enticing her to follow them . . . her senses could comprehend only so much. And things other than the trees moved in that black, shadowed place. The silence was deceptive; it wasn't a close silence but a cavernous one. Strange, unidentifiable titters and moans echoed from distant and near places at once, but she could see so little that had there been any threats to her safety, she wouldn't have known it. In fact, the farther she went, the more certain she became that there were many dangerous things in this forest, and that she had been incredibly foolish to wander into it. Not only that, but by the time she was sure she'd lost Charlie, Emery knew, irrefutably, that she'd lost herself as well.

At last she stopped toiling forward, no longer sure which way even was forward. She could see very little, even though she'd thrown off her costume mask long ago. She stood on a huge root that had wound its way above ground and placed her hand against the trunk of the root's tree to steady herself. Above, the branches twisted into black snakes and joined the even blacker canopy of limbs and fading leaves above. Looking in any direction was like trying to see through the dark waters of the deep sea, where occasional shafts of pale moonlight illuminated strange, solitary objects: a precarious pile of rocks that couldn't have arranged themselves naturally, a sickly-colored trellis of fungi spiraling down an embankment, a shimmery curtain of what might be spider thread . . . but the moonbeams were few and far between, some so distant that Emery couldn't quite distinguish their nearness. More prominent and threatening were the shadows within shadows that surely moved around her. Wolves lived in forests, didn't they? Emery was sure she saw a sparkle of light against a pair of eyes . . . certain something slithered across the earth under her feet. Blue, celestial fae lights, like little stars fallen from above, floated and blinked at slow intervals like drunken fireflies. Emery thought she'd heard of such lights, that they led travelers astray.

But what way was astray, at this point? What had she done? She'd been so stupid. How could she have followed Charlie so recklessly? If he were under some spell of the witch's, perhaps this was the very goal, to lead her into this forest, where she'd be easy prey for literally anything out to get her.

She dare not call out for Charlie anymore. He was too distant, surely, but what should she do? Beginning to breathe a little too loudly, a little too quickly, Emery turned her body around and determined to walk in the direction from which she believed she'd come. It was likely hopeless, but she couldn't think of anything else to do.

Trembling, Emery stepped off her perch onto soft earth and slowly, carefully, attempted to backtrack. It was difficult and, frankly, terrifying work. Running into the forest, Emery had been driven by excitement and purpose; she'd seen Charlie, right in front of her, and she'd been so preoccupied by keeping up with him that she'd paid no attention to her surroundings. But now, she felt the ground sucking at her feet if she stepped in certain places and things brushing at her cheeks and arms--things that she couldn't see. She heard faint, metallic giggles right near her ears and low, rolling rumbles from far away. Even in the darkness, she caught movements in the corners of her eyes but never quite saw anything other than the faerie lights attempting to lead her further astray.

She'd never felt so alone and yet so watched at the same time. After what must've been fifteen minutes of movement, seeing nothing that differentiated one place from the next, Emery felt a bit of hysteria begin to rise inside her. Surely the shapes were closing in; surely her slogging feet were being pulled a bit more with each step.

Then a sudden cry—a piercing, tremulous shriek—echoed from somewhere a little too close, and Emery gave a short scream of her own. Her hands went to her mouth to try to keep the noise in, but they shook so badly she could hardly hold them straight. Why was her breathing so incredibly loud? She crouched down, tried to make herself small, hoping whatever had created the shriek wouldn't notice her. And maybe she could stay like that until the darkness cleared into daylight, or until something at last came for her.

Head buried in arms, shuddering almost uncontrollably, Emery felt, abruptly, that someone or something had drawn near, so she looked up sharply and saw, as pale as a ghost, visible in his whiteness against even the impenetrable black surrounding him, Charlie.

He was so near that she gasped, scrambled to her feet. How long had he been there? How had he approached so quietly? But it was him, surely, as weird as he looked--it was him. His soft hair was a little longer around his chin, now, and his eyes were somewhat sad--that ruddy cheerfulness she'd known him to possess was muted. His cheeks were pale, no freckles visible on them, but if he'd been in this forest the whole time, Emery understood why he might look sickly. And, of course, Carman could have him under some kind of spell. This was him, she was sure. Her heart practically leapt into her throat.

"It's you?" she asked, stupidly.

Charlie could only gaze at her, almost shimmering, frowning. "Help me, Emery. Please."

The girl's stomach tightened. "Wh-what can I do? Tell me. Let's get out of the forest. We'll go together."

He shook his head slowly enough that none of his curls moved. "Come with me," he pleaded, holding out a hand toward her. "I'll show you."

"Charlie--I--" Something felt off, and yet, Emery couldn't leave him. "Is it the witch? Does she have some enchantment on you? We can get Cathbad; he can break it. Let's go back. Do you know the way?"

"I need you . . ." He ignored her questions, keeping his hand where it was, waiting, lips quivering as if in distress.

"Is she hurting you?" Emery cried. "Charlie, right now? Is she hurting you? I'll go, all right? I'll come."

She reached out her hand, but just as her fingers were about to meet his, a flash of light so bright Emery had to step back and raise her arms before her eyes sliced through Charlie from behind, dividing him from head to toe right in front of her. The sound of it was almost worse than the sight of it--almost like a drill spiraling into a concrete wall--and before she knew it, Emery was staring at Cullen, who now stood right across from her, his Sword of Light radiating golden heat, now at his side.

"Wh-what did you do?" Her voice rose more than she wanted it to. "Charlie--you--you killed him!"

Cullen slightly hung his head and, rather than speak, indicated the ground where Charlie had fallen. Emery's eyes followed his sword, which acted something like a flashlight, and saw to her disgust a pile of something moving . . . white things . . . "Are those maggots? Oh my God!" She backed away in disgust.

"It was a fetch, likely," Cullen said in his deep, calm voice.

"A fetch?"

"A double."

"So . . . what does that mean? Like, a ghost? Is Charlie dead?"

"I couldn't say, though I think it unlikely. If anything, a fetch would indicate impending death. That man's life is probably endangered."

Emery groaned. "I knew that, already." The conversation lulled, and the girl seemed suddenly to comprehend who stood before her. Her body tensed, and something fluttered inside, but she couldn't deny the immense relief she felt at his presence. Surely he could fight off anything in that forest and get them out of it alive.

He was watching her, she saw, and at last he said, "Unfortunately, I do not know the way out."

Emery's spirits began to sink, again. But he went on.

"Daylight will serve us better." He raised his sword and seemed to look about. "The earth falls flat there. Follow close by."

He began to move, walking slowly enough for her to keep near, and the fear of the forest kept away any anxiety she might have about their proximity. When they reached the clearing he'd spoken of, she felt only more relief.

Not putting down his sword, Cullen removed his brown cloak, which was lined with sheepskin, and held it out to Emery. "You're not clothed for this air. Take it, and we'll rest here until light. None dare approach so long as I wield Claíomh Solais."

Emery's first inclination was to refuse the cloak, but she was, admittedly, poorly dressed. She'd worn only a short tunic and her riding breeches under her costume, and she'd shed her own cloak as she'd run toward the forest. She hadn't realized how chilly she was until Cullen offered his garment to her. More convincing than the cold, though, was the fact that her undergarments were a little too thin, and she felt uncomfortable before him. So she took the offering and wrapped it around herself.

Sitting down on the soft ground, her back cradled between forking tree roots, Emery waited to see what he'd do, whether he'd scold her or grow angry, or whether he'd try to get closer to her. But he just stood there, looking frustratingly handsome with his dark green tunic, which ended at his knees and was overlaid with the brass scales as if he were ready for a fight. The leather straps of his boots twisted up his calves toward the bottom of the tunic, and a brown tartan was pinned across one shoulder. He'd shaved some of the hair off the sides of his head, she noticed, around his ears, but the rest was kept long, and what would've hung in front was pulled back into tight braiding, the rest tied together in a knot at the back of his head. The dark reddish-brown of his locks gleamed in the soft light still emanating from his weapon.

"You used that sword," Emery said, breaking the awkward silence, "when you fought Dark, at my school."

"Yes," he said with a slight nod.

The girl waited for more, but he only looked aside and seemed intent on silence. She grew irritated. "Aren't you going to yell at me?" He looked her way; that was something, at least. "Aren't you going to tell me how stupid I was to go outside the gate? That I'm too vulnerable and should've listened to you and never should've just run off into this forest?"

"You're not to blame," he replied, leaning against a tree. "I'll have the heads of whichever men were at watch tonight."

"What? No!"

"If they can't even keep a woman inside the walls, how can I expect them to keep an army out?"

Emery jumped to her feet. "I am to blame. Just me. I tricked the guards; it wasn't their fault!"

He crossed his arms and studied her, his face inscrutable.

"Don't hurt them. Please."

"I will do as I see fit," he told her, no anger or annoyance in his tone but also no hint of acquiescence.

Discouraged, Emery sat back down and pulled her legs to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and placed her chin on her knees. She wasn't going to look at him. He made her so angry. She almost wanted to throw his cloak back at him but was too warm to seriously consider it. "How are you even here?" she muttered. "You said you weren't coming back until after Samhain."

She heard him exhale—a sigh? And there was some noise as he presumably sat down across from her. "Why did you not tell me about Fear Doirich?"

Forgetting her determination not to look at him, Emery raised her head and found that he actually wasn't sitting but had sheathed his sword, so that only about a half-inch of light was now visible from around the hilt. "How do you know about that? No, don't tell me—Cathbad told you, didn't he?"

"As he should have long ago." Cullen turned his head toward the forest. "Damn the druid." Emery heard his anger finally rise as he looked directly toward her again and added forcefully, "You and he cannot keep secrets of this nature from me."

"There it is," Emery said sarcastically, in spite of her better judgment. "There's the scolding. I knew it'd come at some point."

Shrouded now in almost-darkness, Cullen's face was impossible to make out. Rather than address her audacity, though, he calmed his ire. "When his message reached me, I rode two days without stopping. I arrived just as you saw, when you went into the forest."

"Am I supposed to thank you?" she kept on, knowing she shouldn't but unable to stop herself. "I didn't ask you to save me. I've never asked you to do anything for me. I don't need you!"

He said nothing in reply to her. Nothing. He just stood there, and she couldn't make out anything that might indicate what he thought of her outburst, her rudeness. She knew--knew--that she did actually need him. At least, she needed him in that moment to keep her safe from whatever dark entities might be hovering about. She'd have gone with maggoty-ghost-Charlie if he hadn't shown up, and who knew where she'd be, now, if she had? What had that thing intended to do with her? She shuddered to think of it. And if Emery were honest with herself, she knew she needed him in other ways, too, though she wasn't entirely ready to admit it. Why couldn't she bring herself to be less abrasive with him?

Because, she told herself, he was infuriatingly condescending, acting as if she were his belonging, something he could order around. And because he wanted to resort to violence at the drop of a hat. Was he really going to decapitate the guards on duty that night? How guilty and ashamed she'd feel if they died due to her actions!

And yet, her life depended on him right now, as it had more than once in the past. Why did she keep getting in these situations that gave him the opportunity to save her? It was maddening to feel so indebted to him.

Oh, but there was more than the debt. Her thoughts suddenly moved to the images she'd seen when she'd put her hand to that stone, and her skin tingled from her scalp down to her toes. She realized his body had been in the cloak she was now wearing, and that caused her to pull it tighter around her, as if it could embrace her the way he had in the vision. That was him, across the way—the same man. How could it be? How could she feel such conflicting emotions toward him?

Relenting, embarrassed, Emery softened. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I am grateful that you're here right now and that you got rid of that fetch thing. So . . . thank you, for that."

He shifted his position a bit, perhaps moving his weight from one foot to the next, before responding, "Rest, if you so choose. I will stand watch."

Abashed, Emery caught herself from snapping something about overprotectiveness, recognizing that she was truly exhausted, and she allowed herself to drift into an uneasy sleep, contrary thoughts of Cullen wrestling in her scattered dreams.