Red Rider RIsing: Book 2 of the Red Rider Saga by D.A. Randall (best books to read for beginners .TXT) 📗

They’ll keep getting stronger and more numerous and killing everyone they feel like killing. We can die trying to stop them or sit at home and wait for them to come. I’m not waiting.”

“But – silver? That’s impossible, Red.”

237

“So are these wolves, over six feet long and able to …”

He waited for me to finish. “Able to what?”

I almost said they could talk and stand upright. Something I never shared with anyone outside my family, not even Pierre. At least, not after the week of the attack, after seeing the confused faces of Father Vestille and Francois when I told them what happened. I couldn’t bear to receive that same look from Pierre. “… able to organize themselves to attack in large numbers,” I finished. “They staked out that pig farmer’s house to get at his daughter.”

“What makes you think that?”

“There were plenty of wolves on hand last night to attack. Yet for the last two weeks, they only took one pig at a time. They didn’t care about the pigs. They only wanted to draw out the farmer and his little girl. Once she came outside, the wolves showed up in full force.”

“But why would wolves attack a little girl when they could go after a whole herd of pigs?”

I thought of Father Vestille’s story about the Lycanthru, practicing witchcraft on wolves.

“They’re not wolves. They’re some other sort of creatures, under some kind of spell. I’ll need silver bolts. My blades and other weapons need to be silver, too. Even my grappling hook, just in case.”

Pierre wrinkled his brow. “We don’t have that much silver to spare, Red. How much does it take?”

238

I peered into the smelting pot at the sparse drops of melted silver. “How much was in those bolts?”

“Barely a trace.”

“Then that’s all I need. Just a little on the tip of each bolt and the sharp edges of each blade.”

Pierre rubbed the back of his neck. “Red, suppose you’re right. Suppose this will kill them.

They’re not likely to show up at that farm again.

How will you even find them?”

I thought of Touraine, telling me about the men who delighted in reports of wolf attacks.

Men who might belong to the Lycanthru.

“I have an idea where to start.”

239

26.

A few hours later, after I ate some bread and pork prepared by Pierre and rested a little more in his loft, I rode toward La Maison de Touraine.

Pierre had outfitted all of my weapons while I slept, gilding each new bolt and knife edge with silver. He said his father would be furious to learn he had melted down other customers’ works to make new bolts for me, putting their orders further behind. But he planned to tell him he found some imperfections and needed extra time to finish. I thanked him for it.

240

It was near nightfall. Villagers started to tug their cloaks about their shoulders as they passed by in the street. Many of them stared at me with a fresh sense of surprise. Instead of wrinkling their noses at me, they stopped in their tracks and followed my movements, almost in a sense of wonder. As though it had suddenly become admirable to wear a giant red cloak.

I rode up to the hitching post at La Maison and left Crimson to stand beside it. I patted his neck. He had slept well at Father Vestille’s last night and gotten more water and oats from Pierre.

He seemed fit and ready for whatever might come tonight.

I pushed through the thick doors of the tavern.

Raucous conversations stopped. I scanned the room. Every eye fell on me.

I stood at the door, uncertain what to do.

Were they staring at my scars? At the red hood?

I stepped forward, listening to my own slow boot steps on the floorboards as I approached the bar counter. People began to murmur and resume their excited conversations, now strangely hushed. Were they talking about me?

At the bar, Touraine wiped the counter where a man had just spilled his beer. As I drew near, the gaping man slid off his stool, filling my face