Marie struggles to keep her sister under control and to keep from arousing the suspicions of the neighbours in their small French village.īut when the baker's young son is killed, fear and anger prompt the villagers to demand that something be done about the wild beast in the forest that rumours have circulated about for years. And it falls to Marie to determine who Ama's victim will be each time she transforms. Now, each month, she turns into a wild beast who craves flesh. When Ama returned, she was different: cursed by Lady LaClaire.

Marie also uses them to mark her sister's victims, a task she has had to take on ever since her father sold Ama to the Lord and Lady LaClaire to be their servant until his debt to them was paid. But the scents that she creates also serve a darker purpose. With Papa never home and the burden of trying to make their worn and dilapidated house into a comfortable home falling squarely on her shoulders, Marie works hard to earn a few precious coins by mixing perfumes to sell at the market. “That's true of very few people in this world,” the old woman said, leading me on anyway. “I only want to help,” I said, to hear the sound of my voice in the too-quiet hall. What had Ama seen, what had she felt on that night? Had she trusted her mistress and been betrayed? Had she seen it coming? Anger and fear warred in my heart. Something deep and dark had happened within these walls, some kind of magic I barely wanted to imagine.

I had to figure out what happened to Ama in this house before the hunters came for her. But I didn't have time for any of that now. I preferred well-laid plans and hedging my bets. And I was making up the rules as I went, which didn't sit well with me. That was exactly what I planned to do with him – play a game. The rest of her teeth were graying in bright red gums. The woman gave me a sad smile, exposing a gap where one of her front teeth should have been. Pity welled in my chest, but I took a breath and forced it down. How strange that he should cling to a stranger in his own home. She wrapped her hand around a small candelabra and pulled it from an alcove. Weak light trailed in from the two windows and illuminated specks of dust drifting up from the carpet with each step the servant woman took. Not when I was this close to a cure for Ama.Ī large clock stood sentry by the door, its great brass ticker swinging back and forth with a heavy sound. The angels didn't make me feel welcome or safe – instead my skin tingled with the urge to turn around. Faded images of angels with dusty blue robes and feathery wings stared down at me from the ceiling with huge, bulging eyes.

A wide staircase framed with dark mahogany wood stretched up toward the second-level gallery.

Stalking Shadows by Cyla Panin