The hunting party moved along a cleared track into the southern forest. They were joined by a dozen other riders: six young nobles in finery marked with house sigils, and six commoners, older than Jack, dressed in muted riding gear. A dozen guards on horseback were never too far away, ready to protect the nobles.

  Jack recognised one of the older commoners. The man was the same age as his father and dressed in riding gear similar to his own. Jasmin’s father, an Expert Scribe at the Royal Library, whom he got to know well in his first life. He looks tired. What’s he doing here?

  In his past life, he didn’t recall Jasmin’s father being an avid hunter. While Jack courted his daughter, Alric spent most of his spare time reading or fishing.

  I’ll have to stay away from Jasmin in this life. I can’t take the risk. Perhaps after Greaves is dead. Maybe. His heart felt crushed at the thought, but he knew it was the right thing to do. The safe thing to protect someone he once cared deeply for. Jasmin had been spared death in his first life, but with all the changes, who knew what would happen this time?

  Jack rode near the middle, a strange in-between figure. Acknowledged by the older nobility, but not one of them. The older commoners kept their distance. The younger nobles looked at him with curiosity and… disdain. He was getting the attention from the older nobles that they wanted, attention they expected.

  The woods pressed in, thick with birdsong and the smell of damp moss. The scent hounds were kept on long leashes, ranged just ahead of the group, noses low to the ground, searching for the scent of a deer. Their handlers spoke in low tones, guiding them between trees and underbrush. It was patient work; no rushing.

  As they rode, the six nobles continued to pay Jack an unusual amount of attention. Greaves and his cohort kept the mood light… at least on the surface.

  Underneath, something predatory writhed. Jack felt it; it was still looking for a weakness and an opening. He felt a compulsion to relax, to go with the flow. He was safe… Jack shook his head. Stay alert. I’m not safe. I’m not safe.

  Baroness Quill drew her horse alongside his. “You sit well, Jack. Balanced and measured. Do you often ride?”

  “Not really, my lady.” Jack offered a half-shrug. In truth, he’d never even touched a horse in this life. But in his past life, he’d worked with horses as a temporary farm hand. He once drove a wagon for a merchant for a few months as he moved from one city to the next.

  She smiled. “You would’ve made a fine cavalryman. Or a lord’s shadow.”

  Jack frowned, but forced a smile. No, I wouldn’t. I’m a scribe. I just want to be a scribe.

  Baron Argil chuckled from behind. “His will is too strong to be ordered around like a common soldier. The Fates have plans for this one.”

  Jack felt his skin prickle. He turned in the saddle just enough to offer another polite smile. “I wouldn’t know, my lord.” The Fates again. What do they know?

  Baroness Idrisa, the youngest of them, leaned over at one point and whispered, “Has anyone ever told you, Jack… that your eyes don’t quite belong to your age?”

  Jack blinked. “N-no, my lady.” Fuck! They know. They have to know. What do they know? His pulse surged. Blood rushed in his ears, drowning out the hunt’s noise. His throat tightened, and memories flashed. Greaves was pinning him to the wall in the alley. His neck was being crushed and burned again. He waited for the blade to cut into his gut again… it never came. But the predator had sensed a weakness.

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  Idrisa smiled. “Curious.”

  The nobles nodded and smiled at one another.

  For a moment, Jack imagined them as his friends. He could share his secrets with them… He shook his head. His thoughts were muddled; they were telling him to trust the nobles. To follow them. No. I hate them. I hate them.

  Their presence felt like threads; light and harmless. But those threads could tangle or tighten when pulled. They said nothing more for a while. But their gazes lingered. They were circling him like a pack of hungry predators waiting for an opening.

  Jack felt something probing his mind again, a noose tightening around his neck.

  Greaves and his cohort led the way, their horses trotting through a corridor of moss and ancient trees. The lymer hounds picked up faint deer trails now and then, leading the group across soft ridges and down fern-covered slopes. Horns signalled across the forest at intervals, long notes for direction, short bursts for confirmation.

  They passed other hunting parties: young nobles flanked by guards, older lords riding with a relaxed confidence, and knots of servants and automaton porters ferrying refreshments, spare arrows, and medical kits.

  It was just before midday when one of the scent-hounds stiffened. Its handler gave a short, sharp whistle.

  Everyone froze.

  Then came the call. “Stag… north-east… moving! Big one!”

  Greaves straightened in his saddle. “Release the hounds.”

  Three handlers blew their horns in unison.

  From a nearby clearing, a dozen strong pack of deerhounds was loosed. The greyhound-like dogs surged through the underbrush, their barking rising like thunder. Their role was not to kill, but to chase, harass and to drive the deer to exhaustion.

  The horses jittered. Some of the younger nobles grinned with excitement. One of the commoners murmured a quiet prayer.

  Jack sat still. Wishing he were at home crafting a spell scroll, eating one of Zia’s misshapen biscuits, or just sitting in the kitchen chatting with his mom. He felt the probing at the back of his mind again. Are they using a skill on me? It felt closer. He glanced around; the six nobles were still watching him.

  The predator no longer circled from the trees. It was riding beside him. Fuck! They’re using a skill on me. He could feel it now, a compulsion. He wasn’t aware of what they wanted him to do, but he wanted no part of it.

  Jack considered running, but had nowhere to go. The Viscount’s hunting estate spanned thousands of acres of forest. He was surrounded by enemies; a single nod from any of the six blood cultists and their personal guards would cut him down.

  The dozen personal guards had kept their eyes on him in shifts, never less than two pairs of eyes at any time. A jackalkin, who might have been a rogue, made no attempt to hide the fact that he was watching him. He grinned every time Jack looked his way. The beastkin joked with a badgerkin, carrying a large hammer, whenever he looked nervous; they were laughing at him.

  Jack felt panic rising. I can’t run. Fight it. Don’t let them in. I’m Jack. A scribe. I’m a scribe…

  Somewhere ahead, through the trees, a great crashing echoed as the stag ran. The deerhounds were upon it, not to tear, but to torment… snapping at legs, forcing turns, denying the animal rest. They were creating a weakness, an opening for the main attack.

  The nobles chatted and laughed as their prey panicked; the sound of the barking and yapping dogs got closer.

  Jack began to feel weary; he was losing the battle. His eyes drooped, and his breathing slowed.

  And then, after ten minutes of calculated herding and pursuit, a horn was blown, and the deerhounds were recalled. A new set of fresh dogs was released to maintain the momentum. Another ten minutes of torment, the quarry slowed and tired, ready for the noble’s blood sport.

  A red-brown stag burst into the clearing, massive, wild-eyed, lathered in sweat and blood from shallow wounds. The hounds slowed their pace, falling back at their handlers’ whistles. The magnificent creature stood in the open, its sides heaving, its legs trembling beneath it.

  The stag was vulnerable; the conditions were right for the nobles to finish the hunt.

  Why am I so tired? He shook his head, but it didn’t help. Why didn’t I want to be here again? This is where I should be… with my good friends.