The Legend of the Werestag Read Online Free PDF

The path was always there, to lead her back.
    But then the path grew fainter. Until she wasn’t even sure she was following a trail anymore, but perhaps only tracing a dried-up rill. She could hear the stream gurgling in the distance. That same stream emerged from the woods into Denny’s south meadows, where they sometimes picnicked on pleasant afternoons.
    A rancid odor filled the small depression where she’d halted—as though something were rotting nearby.
    A little shiver of nerves swept her, but she bade herself to stay calm and survey her surroundings.
    She pivoted slowly. A copse of alder crowded her view, and the stag’s shining form had disappeared.
    But she was not lost. If she had no other alternative, she could follow the stream to those familiar meadows, then return to Swinford Manor from there. It would make for a long walk home, and a muddy one, but she had several hours of good moonlight left, and a warm cloak. There was no cause for alarm.
    She was in no danger of wandering aimlessly in the woods until she died of thirst or starvation.
    A harsh grunt made her jump.
    No, she was in danger of perishing in this very spot.

    Cecily turned toward the ominous snuffling noise. There, in the underbrush, lurked a boar. She’d never seen a boar, but she knew this must be one—else it was the largest, hairiest, most foul-smelling and predatory pig she’d ever encountered.
    “Denny?” she called. Then, louder: “Portia? Mr. Brooke?”
    The malodorous thing shuffled closer. It was drooling. Slobbering and snorting. The beast’s rubbery lips quivered and curled, revealing a pair of sharp, menacing tusks to complement the smaller, hooked set bracketing his snout.
    “Go away,” she told it. “Shoo.”
    No response.
    A cloud moved across the moon, painting the forest a darker shade of greenish-gray.
    “ Denny! Help! ”
    As the beast lowered its head and began to charge, thoughts rioted in Cecily’s brain. Regrets, mostly. Of all the disgusting, miserable, lonely ways to die, she would end like this? And though she knew she had no one to blame but herself for this predicament, she felt an unreasoned surge of anger toward Luke. If he cared for her the slightest bit, she wouldn’t be here at all.
    That irrational stab of fury broke her silence. She had already stood up to one brute this evening. She would not go quietly now.
    “Arrogant, insufferable cad !” she screamed at the boar, grabbing up a fallen branch and raising it high above her head. Widening her stance, she braced for the impact, forcing herself to be patient…wait…
    She would only have one chance, one swing.
    A benevolent gust of wind whipped the hair out of her face. She focused her gaze on one flattened, bristled ear and tightened her grip.
    Almost…almost…
    Now .
    Just as she swung, some unseen force tackled Cecily from the side. She felt herself lifted effortlessly, then hurled to the ground. The stick clattered from her grasp. Loamy soil clotted against her cheek, and her fingernails scrabbled in moss and decaying leaves.
    She struggled to rise, but a heavy weight held her pinned against the ground. Was it the boar? It couldn’t be. She felt no bristles against her flesh, and it didn’t smell nearly bad enough. She tried to scream, but a hand clamped over her mouth.
    A hand. Yes. Fingers, palm, thumb. Human.
    “Be still,” a deep voice growled.
    And then the boar was upon them both.

    Cecily’s face slammed against the turf again as the beast’s second charge hit home. Despite the jolt, she was aware of the stranger’s frame surrounding her body, absorbing the worst of the blow. When the boar eased off, presumably to charge again, the stranger released Cecily’s mouth, grabbed the tree branch she had dropped, and rolled over swinging. Even with her face still pressed into the dirt, she heard a dull crack and a porcine squeal of pain that told her the club had hit its mark.
    The man’s weight was gone from her now, and she