Melanie Magnolia hid in the ferns and watched the burned barn across the clearing. The shadow-beast had done that last night. Now the villagers blamed every winged folk in Rosewood, and they had started sharpening things. Melanie wanted to tame the beast before someone died. But she had never seen it up close. She didn't know if it hunted from hunger, or fear, or rage. Guess wrong, and it would tear her apart. She pressed her hand to the willow beside her. Purple crystal blooms hung from its branches and gave off a faint glow. The tree calmed her, the way animals always did. Her dark wings trembled anyway. "You'll die if you walk in there blind." The voice came from above. A fairy dropped from the branches and landed without a sound. He carried a bow and a quiver of worn arrows. His wings were pale and thin, his eyes sharp blue. Melanie knew him by reputation. He was the hunter who lived deep in the dark woods, the one who had faced the beast and lived. "Damien Nightshade," she said. "You've seen it." "Up close." He touched a scar on his forearm. "It nearly took my arm off." Her heart sank. "So it's cruel." "No." He crouched beside her and studied the barn. "It clawed me after I shot at it. Before that, it just watched me. It didn't attack until I did." Melanie leaned forward. "Then it isn't hunting people. It's afraid of them." Damien shrugged. "Maybe. It moved slow. Favored one leg. Something's wrong with it." He glanced at her, and his mouth twisted. "Why does a soft thing like you care?" "Because they'll burn the woods to reach it," she said. "And they'll blame us for every fire." He went quiet. Then he pointed. "There." The beast slid from the treeline. It was larger than she'd feared, all black smoke and long limbs. It dragged its back leg. A splinter of white bone showed through the fur. Its eyes swept the clearing, wide and darting. Not rage. Pain. Melanie stood. "Don't," Damien hissed. He grabbed for her wrist and missed. She stepped into the open with her palms turned up. The beast froze and bared its teeth. She did not run. She hummed the low tune she used for wounded rabbits. One slow step. Then another. The beast's growl broke into a whine. It lowered its head. She saw the wound clearly now, deep and swollen and going bad. Behind her, Damien swore softly. "It let you close." "It's hurt," Melanie whispered. "That's all it ever was." Then the wind shifted. Torchlight bloomed at the far edge of the clearing. Voices. The villagers had followed the beast's trail, and they had come armed. The beast smelled them and reared back, panicked, its ruined leg buckling beneath it. Melanie stood between a terrified creature and a mob that wanted it dead.