The village smelled like fish, woodsmoke, and something baking.

  Aoife slowed as she crested the hill. Below her, stone cottages clustered around a small harbour where fishing boats rocked in the shallows. Nets hung from posts to dry. Children chased each other between the buildings while women hung laundry and men mended gear. It looked peaceful and ordinary. The kind of place where the most exciting thing that happened all year was a good catch.

  Third time lucky, she thought. The first two villages had been dead ends. She had found two Oisíns, but the first was an infant and the second was a man nearing the opposite end of his life. She'd smiled through those conversations, played the lost traveller, and moved on before anyone asked too many questions.

  She was running out of smiles. Running out of time, too, probably.

  But this boy, whoever he was and whatever made him worth hunting, was the thread she'd been pulling since Corrán. The Hound wanted him badly enough to bargain with lords and send soldiers across the Isles. That meant he mattered. That meant he knew something, or was something, or could give her the answers she needed.

  She adjusted the satchel on her shoulder, feeling the weight of the stolen artifact inside, and started down the path.

  She'd made good time from Corrán. Declan's contact had been true to his word, dropping her at a cove just shy of Ballinacor. She'd walked the rest, following the coastline, checking the map she'd stolen against the landmarks she passed. The villages Cú Dubh had circled were small fishing communities, the kind that kept to themselves.

  The path down to the village was well-worn. She kept her pace casual, her expression neutral. Just a traveller passing through. Nothing to see.

  A woman and man in faded clothing were walking up the path in the opposite direction. Aoife figured in a village this small, they'd know an Oisín and she could cross this one off her list.

  "Hello," Aoife said with a small wave.

  "Hiya," the man replied.

  "I'm from the Western Isle looking for my cousin, Oisín. Does he still live in this village?"

  "Aye," the man replied. "He lives with his Da in the home near the docks. The one with the nets outside it."

  Aoife's heart fluttered. She could barely contain her excitement that her goal was in front of her.

  "Much obliged," she said, "and sorry to interrupt."

  "No worries, Cormac will be happy for another set of hands for the nets. That boy has been off all week collecting shells."

  Aoife nodded and walked past. She made her way down the path and through the huts. They had peat moss roofs and stone walls. She tried to give friendly waves at the faces she saw, but the most she got back was a smile and nod.

  She approached the house with the nets to see a man was outside mending them carefully. Weathered face, salt-stiff beard, hands that moved with the ease of long practice. He looked up as she approached, squinting against the morning light.

  "Morning," she said.

  "Morning." He didn't stop working, but his eyes tracked her. Taking her measure. "You're not from here."

  "No. I'm looking for someone who lives here. A boy named Oisín."

  The man's hands didn't falter. His expression didn't change. But his eyes moved, just for a heartbeat, toward a building up the path. A house with constant smoke floating above it.

  Then his gaze was back on her, flat and unrevealing.

  "Who wants to know?" he asked.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  "A friend."

  "That's not an answer."

  "It's the only one I've got."

  They stood there for a long moment. The waves broke against the shore. The gulls cried overhead. Aoife didn't look away.

  Finally, the man spoke. "He's not here."

  "Do you know where I can find him?"

  "No."

  A lie. The glance had been involuntary, the kind of tell that came from years of habit. She'd finish this conversation so the old man wasn't nervous, and follow that lead.

  "You sure?" she asked.

  "I'm sure."

  "If you see him," she said, "tell him to be careful. Tell him to watch out for a man that looks like a black dog. He's not a friend."

  The man paused his mending and looked at her hard. Then he went back to his nets. The conversation was over.

  Aoife didn't push. She'd gotten what she needed. She turned and walked the short way down the path to the smoking hut.

  It was a bakery and warm inside. The air was thick with the smell of fresh bread and something sweet underneath. A girl about her age worked behind the counter, red hair in a long braid, freckles scattered across pale skin. She looked up as the door opened, and her smile was the automatic kind that came from years of greeting customers.

  "Can I help you?"

  "I'm looking for someone. A boy named Oisín. Do you know him?"

  The smile flickered. Not with fear or suspicion, but with confusion. The girl's brow furrowed, and she looked at Aoife like she was trying to work out a joke she hadn't quite heard.

  "Oisín?" she repeated. "The fisherman's son?"

  "I don't know whose son he is. I just have the name."

  The girl studied her. Aoife could see the questions forming behind her eyes.

  Who was this stranger? Why was she travel-worn and sharp-eyed? Why was she asking after Oisín of all people with such urgency?

  "Are you... in trouble?" the girl asked. "Or is he?"

  "I need to find him. It's important."

  "Important." The word came out flat, disbelieving. The girl wiped her hands on her apron, still watching Aoife like she might sprout a second head. "Oisín. You're sure you mean Oisín?"

  "How many boys named Oisín live in this village?"

  "Just the one. That's why I'm confused." The girl shook her head slowly. "He's... he collects shells. He helps his father with the nets. He's not the sort of person strangers come looking for."

  You'd be surprised, Aoife thought. I was that person once, too.

  "Do you know where I can find him?"

  The girl hesitated. Her eyes moved over Aoife again: the satchel, the boots, and finally the knife handle barely visible at her hip. Whatever calculation she was running, it came out in Aoife's favour.

  "He's been going to the northern cove. Every day this week." Something complicated moved across her face. "Past the northern point, through the rocks. There's a gap if you know where to look."

  "Thank you."

  "What do you want with him?"

  Aoife was already turning toward the door. "To warn him."

  "About what?"

  "A dog is coming."

  The bell above the door chimed as she left.

  The path north wound along the clifftops, the sea crashing against the rocks below. The wind pulled at her hair and tugged at the satchel strap. She kept her pace steady, her eyes moving between the path ahead and the tree line to her left where the scrub brush grew thick enough to hide anything.

  She thought about what she'd say when she found him. Hello, I stole something from the monster that's hunting you. I don't know why he wants you. I don't know what you are to him. I just know that if I found you first, maybe I could use that.

  Not exactly inspiring.

  The truth was simpler and uglier: she needed leverage. The Hound wanted this boy badly enough to bargain with a lord, badly enough to send soldiers across the Isles, badly enough to keep notes and maps in his tower. Whatever Oisín was, he mattered. That made him useful.

  It also made him a target, and targets had a way of dying when Cú Dubh was involved.

  The northern point came into view. It was a jut of dark stone reaching into the sea like a crooked finger. She could see where the cliffs curved inward beyond it, forming a sheltered cove. The rocks between looked treacherous, sharp edges slick with spray, but there was a path through them if you knew where to look.

  She followed the cliff's edge, picking her way carefully. The wind was stronger here, the spray hitting her face in cold bursts. Below, the waves churned white against the stones.

  Then she saw him.

  A figure on the beach, crouched at the waterline. Dark hair, simple clothes, moving with the unhurried ease of someone who had nowhere else to be. He was sifting through something in the shallows. She could only assume it was the shells, just like the baker's girl had said.

  This was him. This was the boy the Hound was hunting.

  He looked so ordinary.

  Aoife started down the rocks toward the gap. She'd have to be careful how she approached. The rocks were dangerous, but she also didn't want to scare away the boy. Maybe she could…

  A sound behind her. Brush moving.

  She froze.

  It wasn't the wind. Wasn't an animal foraging. The movement had weight to it, and purpose, and it was getting closer.

  Her hand went to the knife at her hip. She turned slowly, keeping her footing on the slick rocks, putting her back to the sea.

  The tree line was thirty feet away. The scrub brush swayed in the wind, and between the branches, something was moving. Something large. Coming toward her without hurry, without stealth, like it didn't care if she heard it coming.

  Like it wanted her to.

  She drew the knife. The boy on the beach below hadn't noticed her yet. Hadn't noticed anything.

  The first thing she saw coming out of the brush was the scythe.