It was a short fight. The skinny one picked up his companion and threw him against a tree, the branches of which trapped him in a wooden embrace, like a cage. Then he turned and fell on me. Two coarse, knotted hands grabbed my shoulders painfully and I stared up into flat gray eyes that had nothing human in them. He wriggled down my body, his tough, uneven skin scraping against mine except where the tank protected me.

I ignored the pain his movements were causing and grabbed the stick, my only tool, in my mouth. My eyes zeroed in on the thong threaded through the top of the bone disk, despite the fact that it was brown and barely poked out of the scattered leaves. I knew I might get only one chance at this, and I had to concentrate. I managed to get the end of the stick through the small loop and began trying to work it closer. If I could get it to touch my skin or even just my aura, it might be enough. Then I heard a squelch, and something slick and clammy nudged my belly. I froze.

It felt like something old that had been left underground to rot for a very long time, spongy and moist and bloated. But it moved sluggishly, twitching against my lower stomach. I couldn't see anything except my attacker's shoulder and the small patch of path, but my brain conjured up images of an enormous white grub or a fist-sized slug. When its chill dampness slithered eagerly between my legs, I swear my heart stopped.

I was so paralyzed with horror that I just lay there as the inhuman thing swelled against me, like a rotten fruit about to burst. Its sodden cold raised goose bumps across my entire body as it leeched away my heat, numbing me as if an icicle was being rubbed over sensitive areas. Through the shudder-inducing revulsion, I understood that the horrible gelatinous shifting was it changing forms, trying to find one compatible with my body. But the one it came up with bore no resemblance to human virility. It suddenly grew firmer, its slimy consistency congealing into a fat, rigid shape as unyielding as a wooden stake. If the thing pierced me, I knew I wouldn't survive, that it would eat my heat and replace it with its damp chill. The green man, some part of my brain recalled: the old Celtic peoples had sacrificed one of their own to the land, so it would grow rich and fertile off his flesh. Only it looked like this forest preferred a green woman.

When the parody of an organ began to thrust, the action so very male, so very human, my paralysis broke. I screamed and jerked my head in a violent negative motion. I hadn't planned it, had almost forgotten what I'd been doing, but the action caused something small and hard to land on my cheek. My crossed eyes identified it as the rune disk and my heart started up again. I wasn't sure how to cast it, wasn't convinced that it would work at all. But I screamed the name inside my head because my mouth didn't seem to work.

I don't know whether that was the right procedure, but it did the trick. Sort of. With no warning, I found myself, not twenty minutes back in time, but maybe two. The oak men were coming for me, and Mac was leaping to intercept them, so focused on saving me that he didn't see the roots straightening themselves into spears, coming for him. I didn't hesitate this time, but yelled a warning and fled down the path towards his discarded backpack.

I was sobbing now that I could breathe freely again, and my hands were shaking so hard that I wasn't sure I'd be able to get the pack open. The shorter creature reached me when I had only one buckle undone. He grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled, and he must have had better leverage on his feet because this time, the tank ripped. My amulet tumbled into view, jostling Billy's necklace for space between my breasts, and my attacker let out a screech and jumped back. He cradled the hand that had brushed against the charm as if it had been burned, and a black mark appeared on his skin in the shape of the rowan cross. I plunged my hand into the half-open pack and finally clutched the gun.

I am not the world's greatest shot. In fact, I suck. But even I don't usually miss when my targets are three feet away. I didn't worry about aiming, just let off a barrage of bullets that splintered the barklike skin of the oak men as if I was firing at actual wood. The taller let out a squeal and took off down the trail, while his fat companion huddled on the ground, hands over his mossy head. The iron bullets obviously caused them pain, but although they were oozing a syrupy substance from every wound, they were both alive and moving when my clip ran out. I stared at them in disbelief; what did it take to stop one of these things?

The coat Pritkin had given me was lying nearby, where I had dropped it alongside the pack when we stopped to rest. But I had no time to search for the right bullets. The short Fey realized that I had stopped shooting and grabbed for me. I flattened the rowan charm against his forehead, pushing it into his skin as hard as I could. The flesh around it immediately turned black and start smoking, giving off a smell exactly like a burning campfire.

He tore away from me, clutching his head and screaming. I don't know whether he would have tried again, because the pixie suddenly appeared and, despite the fact that he was momentarily incapacitated, slapped him with the flat of her sword. The blow must have been more forceful than it looked, because he went sailing into the forest until he was stopped by an overhanging limb. He hit the ground hard, unconscious or worse. I didn't wait to find out, my only thought to get to Mac.

Huge hands descended on me at the same time that a scream reverberated through the forest. I looked down the path in time to see a root as large as a small tree erupt from the scarred ground right under Mac's feet. Time seemed to stop-I couldn't even feel my heart beating anymore-and then everything suddenly sped up. The root ripped out of the ground, piercing Mac through the center of his back. "No," I breathed, but no one heard, no one cared. Mac's body strained upward until his spine left the grass completely, his fingers digging into the hard-packed dirt, then the root burst out of his torso in a great gush of blood.

The pixie nodded once to the guards and they released me. I shot down the path, but Mac was already limp by the time I reached him, sightless eyes staring up without recognition. "Mac," I shook the unresponsive body gently. "Mac, please…”

Unresisting, his head lolled to the side just as a shower of gold hit the dark ground. My blood ran cold when I realized what had happened. Mac's wards had solidified and fallen away, leaving the skin between the unmoving leaves as pink and unmarked as a newborn's. I picked up one of the small shapes with a shaking hand. It was the tiny lizard, frozen in midleap. Next to my knee was a snake as long as my arm, uncurled from its usual place around his neck. And beside his ruined chest lay an eagle the size of my hand.

I stared at them numbly, knowing what it meant that his wards had deserted him, but not willing to let my brain shape the word. A deafening din rose up from the assembled spectators, but I didn't even look up at the screeching and howling. Until the roots came back.

If I had thought there were a lot before, I was instantly reminded how many are needed to feed even a small tree. They were suddenly everywhere, shooting out of the forest, erupting from the ground, diving from the underbrush. A few paused to leech Mac's blood from the spreading puddle that had almost covered the path, but most dove for him like hungry sharks. The flailing mass flogged my body like bark-covered whips, while the earth around Mac boiled with activity. Dozens of roots wrapped around him, binding him, as thick as a shroud. Then a huge knotted specimen slammed into my stomach, driving the air out of my lungs. I fell to my knees, and when I looked again, Mac had disappeared. The only sign that anything had happened was the golden wards that stuck up here and there out of the churned-up dirt.