The road was long and the end could not be seen through the thick fog. At the end, however, stood a horse. A stallion darker than the shadows. He remained still, like a statue. As did his rider.
The rider sat on the stallion’s bare back, watching out for something. The rider’s eyes were a hard, cold, grey and his hair darker than the horse they sat atop. He wore a hooded cloak that hung over his shoulders. Underneath the cloak, he wore what was left of a robe. It hung in tatters, the black fabric hanging in strips that swirled in the wind.
Against the dark of night the rider was hardly visible. At last he moved, suddenly and urgently. The rider spun the horse around with a sharp tug on the reins and sped through the forest. Dodging trees and jumping rocks, the pair raced, moving as one object.
The rider looked quickly behind, just one glance; any more could send them into bark or stone. The night and fog hid them, but the pursuers were visible to those who knew what they were looking at. Grey shapes whipped through the leaves, like wolves. But wolves they were not. They were men. Men hell-bent in doing what they thought was right, men who wielded the power of gods. Even as their horses’ ran and the wind blew past them ferociously, their cloaks did not move. They seemed frozen in time.
The first rider, the black rider, was gaining ground. The eyes that had held a steely gaze were now filling with fear, like a basin under a tap. Her horse never seemed to tire. The black rider was indeed a she, Skyla Taylor by name.
Things that could only be seen out the corner of your eye moved through the foliage. Skyla dug her heels into her stallion’s sides, driving him on. They’d been galloping for what felt like hours. Finally they burst through the last trees and into the dawn light.
Skyla pulled hard on the reins, bringing the black stallion to a sudden halt. They were free, for the day at least. When night came again, the hunt would be on once more, the hunt for an angel.