It wasn’t even nine in the morning when Alex decided he couldn’t spend another day holed up in the Happy Motel with his thumb up his butt. Fawkes had told him to rest, but he felt fine. Better than fine, actually. His nerves were in a much better state. His nerves were steadier, and it had been days since he’d last had one of those nosebleeds.

  When Hunter materialized at the camp, the other Aspirants had already finished their morning weapons practice. Wroth had them running laps again, standing off to the side with his massive arms crossed over his chest, watching like a hawk sizing up prey.

  “Good morning,” Hunter greeted the Elder.

  “Morning?” Wroth snorted. “It’s nearly noon, Transient. You’ve missed half the day already.”

  He seemed to be in an unusually dour mood, but Hunter had more pressing matters to deal with than figuring out why.

  “Where’s Fawkes?”

  Elder Wroth waved a hand, gesturing vaguely toward the woods.

  “Sniffing around. She said someone was skulking near the Training Grounds last night, or somesuch.”

  “I see. Uh… thanks?”

  Wroth grunted.

  Hunter reached out to his familiars through the mental link they shared. Indeed, they were out in the woods with Fawkes and the mutt, looking for tracks. Without another word to Wroth, Hunter turned on his heel and headed into the trees.

  He caught sight of Fawkes fifty paces or so from the treeline, crouched low in the underbrush, inspecting the ground.

  “Hey there!” he called.

  Fawkes raised a hand in greeting, her eyes still fixed on the dirt, scanning for signs. Fyodor barreled through a bush, tail wagging furiously, and stood up on his hind legs to lick Hunter’s face.

  “Easy there, boy,” Hunter said with a laugh, ruffling the direwolf’s ears. “Is it just me, or is he getting bigger?”

  “He’s still a runt, for a direwolf. Count your blessings.” Fawkes straightened up, brushing dirt from her hands, her brow furrowed as she glanced back down at the ground. “Didn’t expect to see you here today. Not this early, at least.”

  Hunter shrugged.

  “Resting’s overrated.”

  “You may come to regret these words sooner than you think,” she said, but her mind was elsewhere.

  “What’s this I hear about someone lurking around?”

  “Did Wroth tell you?” Fawkes scoffed. “Yes. Someone was watching the camp last night. And I doubt it was their first time.”

  “Any tracks?”

  “One set,” Fawkes muttered, scowling. “Footprints say it was a man, judging by the size. He was alone. Looks like he was hiding right there –” she pointed to a small, scraggly bush nearby. “Can’t say how long he was there, but the prints are deep. He must’ve been crouched for a while, just... watching.”

  “Watching what?”

  “Beats me. We were all in the tents, fast asleep, save for Yuma. He was still sitting by the fire.”

  “Was it him that spotted the lurker?”

  “That’s the weird part,” Fawkes replied, her scowl deepening. “He claims he didn’t see or hear a thing. It’s like he was in a trance, staring into the fire the whole time.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  Fawkes paused, considering it.

  “Yes,” she said at last. “He didn’t look like he was lying. But you might want to check with your feathery lackeys, too. They were the first to get spooked – like they caught a whiff of something off before any of us did.”

  Hunter nodded, closing his eyes as he reached out to Biggs and Wedge. The two ravens had been circling the area, scanning for anything out of place. Moments later, they swooped down, landing on his shoulders like a pair of oversized pauldrons, their claws digging in lightly on his poncho. Biggs cocked his head, sharp eyes glinting with curiosity. Wedge let out a low, throaty caw, as if eager to report what they’d found.

  Show me, he projected to them.

  He barely had time to finish his thought before Biggs and Wedge flooded his mind with a chaotic whirl of images and sensations – a kaleidoscope of moonlit leaves, the scent of smoke, the faint outline of a dark shape in the underbrush.It was all too much, too fast, like trying to drink from a firehose.

  “Okay, stop, stop!” Hunter blurted out, wincing.

  Fawkes glanced up, one eyebrow arching.

  “Everything alright?”

  “Yeah, just—” he jerked a thumb toward the ravens perched on his shoulders. “Their minds are as chattery as their beaks. Give me a second to sort it out.”

  He closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath, emptying his mind of the noise and tension. Slipping into a meditative headspace was second nature now—so much easier than it had been when he first started. He focused on the bond with his familiars, drawing the tangled threads of their shared vision into something clearer, sharper.

  Show me.

  They did.

  The jumble of sensations began to sort itself out, the ravens’ vision bleeding into his own. The images flickered and swirled in his mind, sharper now, vibrant with colors he knew he shouldn’t be able to see. Surreal hues painted the scene in shades of light and shadow he couldn’t name. He remembered reading somewhere that some birds – including ravens, apparently – could see ultraviolet light. To Biggs and Wedge, the world was a living map of secrets, hidden signals shining in places he’d never have known to look.

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  Thankfully, the images they pulled from the previous night were more muted, the sharp, vivid colors dulled to faint glimmers. The world was dimmer, softer. There wasn’t much ultraviolet light after sunset, he guessed. Biggs and Wedge also shared his own Low-Light Vision Ability, so even in the darkest hours, they could see the world outlined in delicate strokes, as if drawn by the faintest starlight.

  They showed him a ghostly, half-lit world, where everything was etched in silvery ephemeral lines – the jagged edges of rocks, the curve of tree trunks, the ripple of leaves in the wind. Everything had been quiet. From their vantage point, Biggs and Wedge had been perched high on a pair of branches overlooking the camp. The fire had burned low, little more than a bed of glowing coals. Only Yuma had still been awake, hunched over by the campfire, his face lit by the dying embers. He looked lost in thought, staring into the flames.

  Suddenly, a sound. A rustle, somewhere off to the right. The ravens snapped their heads in unison, sharp eyes locking onto the source. The underbrush shifted ever so slightly, like something large had pressed through it and then stilled, holding its breath. Fawkes and Fyodor heard it too, stirred awake in one of the tents. Yuma didn’t react – didn’t even look up.

  The ravens took wing. Hunter’s vision lurched as he felt himself soaring alongside them, the ground dropping away in a dizzying rush. He gritted his teeth, fighting the vertigo and nausea that bubbled up.

  Then it came into focus: a faint, ghostly silhouette crouched behind a scraggly bush, edges defined only by the starlight lines of the Low-Light Vision. It was a human shape, hunkered low to the ground, still as a stone. Hunter bade his familiars to fly closer, instinctively straining to get a clearer look, to make out the lurker’s face – then he remembered he was watching just a memory.

  Somewhere below, Fawkes burst from her tent, shouting. The silhouette flinched, hesitating from a moment. Then spun on its heel and bolted into the trees, moving with a frantic, almost animal speed. Biggs and Wedge shadowed the figure from above, their sharp eyes tracking every hurried step, every frantic glance over the shoulder. The booming voice of Wroth snapped the ravens’ attention back to the camp. Biggs and Wedge hesitated for a moment, then wheeled around and returned to their post. Fawkes, Fyodor, Wroth, and the three Aspirants were all awake now, gathered near the campfire, eyes scanning the darkness.

  By the time Biggs and Wedge circled back to pick up the lurker’s trail, it was already too late. The only trace left behind was an uneasy stillness hanging in the air, like the echo of a whispered threat.

  “Well done, guys,” Hunter told his ravens as he opened his eyes. “You did really well. Thank you.”

  Still perched on his shoulders, both ravens answered with a synchronized caw, their voices sharp and triumphant. Hunter could feel their excitement buzzing through the link, a wave of giddy pride radiating from both birds. They were clearly pleased with themselves.

  Fawkes was staring at him, her expression caught somewhere between curiosity and mild confusion.

  “They were showing me what happened last night,” Hunter explained, giving Biggs a scratch under the beak. Wedge puffed up his feathers, clearly still basking in the praise. “They got a decent look at our mysterious visitor.”

  “Showing? They can do that?”

  “Apparently, yes.”

  Fawkes tilted her head, one eyebrow arching skeptically.

  “And?”

  “There was someone crouched right here,” Hunter said, pointing to the spot near the bush. “Probably a man, judging by his size. I couldn’t get a clear look at his face, though. He bolted the second you shouted. Ran like hell, didn’t even glance back.”

  “Brennai?”

  “Looked like it. He took off toward the village – straight shot, like he knew the path well. Ran really fast, too. Too fast.”

  Fawkes frowned, her lips pressed into a thin line.

  “Armed?”

  “Maybe. He didn’t look like he was carrying anything larger than a knife, though, if even that.”

  “I see.”

  Her eyes drifted back to the Training Grounds, back to the Aspirants slogging through their laps.

  “What about Yuma?”

  “It was as you said. He just sat there, staring into the fire. Like he was high or something.”

  “High?”

  “Intoxicated.”

  “No,” Fawkes shook her head. “He snapped out of it pretty fast once I started yelling. Whatever trance he was in, it didn’t last.”

  Hunter gazed toward the camp as well, absently patting Fyodor’s head, the direwolf leaning into his touch with a contented huff.

  “So what do you make out of all this?”

  Fawkes’s eyes narrowed, her expression hardening.

  “Whoever it was, they weren’t just a garden-variety peeping Tom. We can rule that out.”

  “Yeah. Why watch the camp at night? There’s nothing to see.”

  “Unless there is,” Fawkes nodded in agreement. “That’s why I was initially suspicious of Yuma. Thought maybe he was in on it.”

  “Do you think the lurker was here to meet someone?”

  “Possibly.” Fawkes shrugged. “Who, though? And why all the secrecy?”

  “Could it be a thief looking for something to filch?”

  “We don’t have anything worth filching,” Fawkes shook her head. “Not just lying around, at any rate. If they wanted supplies, they’d have hit the village instead.”

  “So what do you make out of all this?” Hunter echoed his earlier question.

  “Someone’s spying on us. Who and why, I can’t be certain. If I had to bet, though, my money would be on Elder Rook.” She paused, then gave a short, humorless laugh. “Well, not him personally, obviously. One of his crew.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s as paranoid as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs,” Fawkes sighed. “Besides, he and Elder Wroth have this ridiculous, juvenile rivalry going on – like they’re still trying to settle who can piss farther. He could be keeping tabs on us, make sure the old ox doesn’t show him up. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “Would they attempt to mess with us in any way?”

  “Sabotage?” She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. What would they do, put sharp pebbles in our shoes so that we can’t run around as well? No, lad. Pray it’s just one of Rook’s goons. There’s a lot I find disagreeable about the man, but he’s no threat to us.”

  Hunter gave it some thought.

  “Is there anyone else who’d have a vested interest in what happens here, then?”

  “The Brennai should be all rooting for the Aspirants, village politics notwithstanding. They’re all scared halfway to death. So unless it’s us that someone has it out for – you and me, I mean – I don’t see why any of the folken would stick their neck out and do something shady.”

  “There is someone else,” Hunter said, frowning as the thought took shape. “What about that doomsayer?”

  Fawkes’s expression darkened.

  “I thought about that too. He’s a troublemaker. If he’s got it in his head that we’re some kind of threat, who knows what he might try. And he’s Ghost Nation. I don’t want to sound like Vanchik, but you know as well as I do they’re not to be trusted.” A shadow darkened her eyes. “Not by a long shot.”

  She was still bitter about the Brethren’s treachery over at the Vale of Ghosts. She had every right to be. Seeing Reiner like that – broken, lifeless, his body left to rot… It was enough to turn grief into something darker, more corrosive.

  One could argue that Sister Peregrine and Brother Aurochs had their own reasons, their own grief. This Brother Marten guy, though? For who-knows-what reason, he was trying to incite fear and unrest among the Brennai. And he was sinister enough to make that Kenneth Copeland televangelist guy look innocent in comparison.

  What was he up to?

  Hunter’s jaw tightened as he thought about it. He flexed his fingers instinctively, the stiff, useless ones on his left hand barely responding. He turned to Fawkes, grim but determined.

  “You know what? That whole crippled hand joke has gone on long enough. It’s time to get it fixed. Now.”

  She studied his face for a moment, then nodded.

  “Hope you’ve got your business sorted out on your side of things. You’re going to be stuck around here for a while. And it won’t be pleasant, either.”

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