To murder me, take the scenic route.
Someone called Caelan spoke from behind me in the dark. I'd never heard him sound that exhausted and dry and humorous. My pulse raced as I turned fast with the knife.
Approximately ten steps away, he leaned against a tree at the opening, sitting on the ground. Not busy. Gauged not. I was sitting there, looking exhausted and angry. As if nothing had happened, our horses were munching grass and not moving.
Lost, I dropped the knife. "What? How?"
He said, "I didn't go anywhere," and stood wincing. He removed pine needles off his clothes. "You did it."
I first looked at the ground-carved sign, then at him. "The footprint... the spirals..."
"I made the spirals," he added, embarrassed. I observed them in the moss along the creek this morning. I saw thes
