Obsidian Mirror Sampler_Aug12.pdf - Hachette Childrens

The bus ran over a small hump-backed bridge and
stopped in a street. The driver peered round his
screen. ‘Wintercombe.’
It was far sooner than she’d thought. She scrambled
to the door, looked out cautiously and jumped down.
‘Thanks.’
‘My pleasure.’ His voice was dry. Doors swished shut
in her face. The bus roared away.
It was the village, but intact. People lived here. Over
the huddled houses the sky was already darkening. Shouts
made her turn, fast, but only a few men came laughing
out of the pub. The Replicant and his wolf could be here
in half an hour. She had to hurry.
Avoiding the houses she slipped down a footpath
marked Wintercombe Abbey; it led into woodland. Great
trees creaked overhead. She felt tiny under them, and
uneasy because the wolf wasn’t the only danger. Getting
into the estate would be difficult. Through the Wood.
It was so silent the rustle of her own footsteps
scared her.
The path descended into a deep hollow, banked on
each side. Broken winter umbels lay snapped and trampled
in the mud. After about a mile she stopped, holding her
side, and listened. Everything seemed quiet. Then, as she
turned to go on, she heard the sudden, excited howl.
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