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The Orchard Run
You run.
The orchard hill has never been this long. Sera keeps pace beside you, three-legged-limping and still faster than you, her horn throwing pink light on the trees like a lantern with a heartbeat. Behind you, Aunt Bee's bell rings again — and again — each ring a little wall the wolves have to climb.
“The split tree!” Sera calls. At the top of the hill it stands, and the space between its two curved halves is not dark like night. It's dark like deep water, with something silver moving far down in it.
A wolf's cry tears the air — close, too close, off to your left where the bell can't reach.