Hunt has mastery of his hounds and fellow riders. The wickedness of such a display seems entirely to rest upon the cruelty of his command. On some occasions, like the Peterborough incidents, the hunt seems to leave little or no carnage behind. Other, more bloodthirsty rides, however, show no mercy to even the most venial of sinners.
Some, but not all, accounts of these rides include mentions of hounds. These range in description from the terrifying Black Dogs, roughly the size of a calf, spoken of in English folklore, to the nearly indescribable hellhounds yelping incomprehensible gibberish amid sharp barks. Most accounts, however, seem to describe the Barguest (or barghest), a massive shaggy hound with powerful jaws that can tear limbs clean off, and teeth sharp enough to rend flesh instantly from bone. These hounds emit the pungent stink of brimstone, their eyes burn like coals, and they possess the ability to vanish in a flash of hellfire. Daring to cross paths in front of a Barguest can cause a wound to mysteriously appear that will fester, blister, and refuse to heal. Their most notable quality, however, is their howl, which is reserved for the nights on which someone of great importance is to die. Unlike the banshee, this person need not hear the howl, for it is not for them. It is for everyone else, a signal that someone great or powerful among them is that very night trapped in the clutches of Hell.
There is no known ward or protection against the Wild Hunt. It must simply run its course. If ill fate so has it that you find yourself hearing the roar of their hooves: find shelter, crouch low, and pray they do not notice you. An open field, the forest, or anywhere without nearby shelter is the last place you want to be when the hunt is called—for those hooves and horns may be the last thing you hear, and will certainly be the last thing you see.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE THUNDEROUS HOOVES OF TIFFANY THATCHER
Tiffany Thatcher had spent seven years with a rope around her neck, her heart heavy with regret, her feet charred black from the fires burning beneath her. She had but from the tolling of the witching hour to the ticking of its last, lingering seconds to find her prey and strike it down.
The Devil granted few reprieves; why he had chosen her she had no clue, but if it meant an hour off the noose she would take it without question—especially if it meant bringing that thing back with her. There wasn’t a moment she didn’t relive that night, not a second spared from the rope burn and the tears. But in Hell, she did more than choke, she spun lazily in front of a window, watching her husband drown over and over again beneath the lake’s waves as she burned.
And Jared’s murderer was here, dripping wet, wandering through the woods. Tiffany could smell the lake water on her; could smell the blood and tattered flesh beneath her fingernails; could smell the stain of her sins. Tonight she would drag that creature back to Hell with her, tearing apart anyone else that got in her way.
With her rode a morbid procession of a dozen maddened spirits, each somehow wronged, desperate to stave off the pits of Hell for even the smallest slivers of eternity. Together they rode, galloping through the hills of the material world atop mastiff-size goats as black as a starless night, looking for souls to take their place. The sound, deafening though it was, proved a comforting relief from the endless wails, moans, and screams that accompanied every painful, waking moment of the hereafter. This sounded like adventure; it sounded like life again. And though revenge was at the heart of their crusade, it was the exhilaration of the ride, the thrill of feeling alive again, that made it worth the extra suffering they would endure if they didn’t each return, soul in hand.
The gates of Hell were open and the Wild Hunt was called. They had a message for the world, and if the world was wise, it would listen.
The beautiful woman that was once Tiffany Thatcher was no more. All of her delicate loveliness had been drained, leaving a pale, ghoulish husk, her hair slicked down with years of sweat and grease. What strode atop that hellish steed was not the mother who had once cradled her cooing child, but a gaunt, cadaverous nightmare with sores oozing ochre puss and