When the Woods Go Silent (Haret Chronicles: Dark Fae #1)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

R OSE

My thigh is aching more after the walk home.

Safely inside my bedroom behind several locked doors, I yank the curtains tightly closed against the blank darkness of the forest beyond. Suddenly feeling unbearably dirty, I rip off all my clothing and toss it onto the laundry pile. A hot bath will hopefully fix everything, letting me wash away all the ick of the night.

I dump in a bunch of Epsom bath salts because I think they help healing, and as the water rises, I sit on the edge of the tub, finally ready to examine the bite on my thigh.

Except.

It’s not there.

The blood is there. I scoop a handful of warm water onto my thigh and rinse it away, pink water dribbling onto the plush bathmat. Underneath is nothing but smooth, unbroken skin.

Not even a bruise, even though the skin is tender.

What the actual fuck?

My brain spirals back to the nights when I heard window glass breaking, yet never found any damage. When I impossibly cut my finger on a pristine pane of glass. And when the motion alarm woke me up, but every camera was blank.

No. Absolutely not. This is not the same, and I did not imagine that asshole biting me.

There’s blood, for fuck’s sake. Still, my hands start to shake, and my heart is pounding so hard that a hot bath suddenly sounds like a very bad idea. I might pass out and drown, and then where would we be? I shut the water off abruptly and dive naked under my covers, pulling them over my head like a frightened child.

My stomach still rolls with unexplained nausea. My thigh still smarts from an invisible wound. And I’m so, so confused.

It feels like I’m being gaslighted, except the only one responsible for it is me. I’m the one telling the story, and if I can’t trust my mind, what’s left?

I’ve worked too fucking hard in therapy to become my own unreliable narrator again.

Focusing on my breathing, I struggle to control the spiral of anxiety. Ruby is safe somewhere, and I’m not hurt. Confused, but not hurt. Things will make more sense in the morning. I repeat the positive thoughts again and again until the words feel like nonsense sounds, but I’m gradually calming. Keeping my head under the covers, I try to distract myself by scrolling social media for nearly an hour, tossing and turning without getting sleepy.

My mind is spinning slower now, but still spinning, and I wish I had a sleeping pill or something.

“This is ridiculous,” I finally mutter, wrapping myself in the blanket and padding out to the kitchen. I’ll make some chamomile tea at least. But the gifted bottle of pomegranate liqueur catches my eye, and I uncork the top to sniff the golden liquid. My stomach doesn’t rebel now, and I wonder if alcohol would be quicker than tea at this point.

Not bothering with a glass, I tip the bottle to my lips and try a few sips. It warms my insides and soothes me instantly, something settling in my core with a heavy, sensual weight. The nausea doesn’t return, so I take another swig, already feeling more relaxed. So much better. Filling a glass with water, I head to my room, turning back at the last second to grab the liqueur.

Scrunching down under the covers again, I sip a little more, savoring the tart-sweet taste as I play a matching game on my phone. The combination finally lulls my thoughts, and eventually, my eyes grow heavy. Just as I reach out of my blanket cocoon to put my phone on charge, I hear the door of the shop open downstairs, and the beeping of someone resetting the alarm.

Ruby. She’s home. She’s safe. I’m not alone anymore, and that knowledge soothes the last bit of restless worry in my mind. Finally, my eyes slide closed, and I sink quickly into the blissful nothingness of deep sleep.

THE WOODS

The fire-haired girl is no longer at the window, watching us, unaware that we watch her back, tapping at the building to find its weakest places.

She came here as a wall, shutting us out completely. But she’s crumbling, bit by bit, as her awareness grows. More than many humans, she has chinks in her wall.

We would like to widen those chinks and draw her within our trunks, deeper and deepest.

Our vines crawl across the building beneath the silver moon, creeping up the walls made from our fallen kin, circling to find any entrance. We need to read the rings, and we would like to taste the girl. Something sings in her, a song we have long forgotten.

There. A place where glass does not quite meet wood. The tiniest vine wriggles inside, wrapping up and around the wood, loosening it. Widening the space for larger vines, larger still, until we can almost...

The glass splinters. Stabs.

Sap flows, but still we must find the rings. We must read the rings. The building is silent, and the girl still sleeps, so we press forward. What is a little sap lost, when we are about to remember everything?

Branches stretch to sweep the building, vines crawling pitter patter up the walls until we find the rings. Yes, but no. Not in boxes, safe where the old man kept them, but dangerously displayed for anyone to read. Does the girl have any idea what she’s done? What the Dark Mother could do with these rings?

We snatch the rings and spin them open one by one, faster and faster, shredding the knowledge as we consume it.

This magic is for the woods. Only the woods.

But this cloud-dark moon is busy, and before we are done reading, we must grow still to watch and listen. Not inside the building, but inside ourselves. Other creatures, unbelonging and unwelcome, roam between our trunks.

Time is short. Retreat. Retry. Gather and protect.

Weaving our vines around the rest of the rings, tight like an unfurled leaf, we pull them along the forest floor to hide at the heart. To bury among the roots and hide at the heart. To bury among the roots and keep the rings safe.

Then, now, we can turn again toward the unbelonging creatures. The cold, careless woman with white-blue skin sneaks through the caves, sewing her skeins of frost throughout the dirt. She weaves a network of ice that should have no place here. She must be watched. We press the rings tighter into the heart, hiding them deeper and deeper.

And there, closer to the human town, are men with ice in their blood and blood on their soles as they tramp through the moss and leaves, dragging metal and heavy bags of dead things. Our roots curl tighter around the rings, wrapping them and binding them, binding them and wrapping them, away from the cold and the dead.

“This is the second time this week I’ve needed to hide a body,” says the golden-eyed one, and in the caves, we feel the cold one pause, listening to the freeze of their magic as though it sings to her.

“Like I said, accident. It won’t happen again.” The words from the other man are hard and cold, though he himself is not as cold as the other two. He has ice only in his heart, not his fingers. He is weaker, though he tries to hide the weakness.

“No, Arlo, it fucking won’t. Or you’ll be the one I bury next. You know we can’t afford any fucking attention right now, and if you can’t control the servers better, you’re no good to me.”

The men stop in a soft place and begin to move the dirt, the metal cutting through our roots to make a space for the dead things. It’s no matter. Roots regrow. The rings are far from here, deep in the heart. Here, the insects will be happy with their new meals, and their food becomes ours with time.

“There’s something else,” the other man says as they finish, and we taste his fear as it seeps into the dirt around us all. He does not want to say the something else, but he will. He is not as strong as the icy one. He is the sapling struggling to grow as tall as the oak.

“Tor, there’s something weird about that Rose girl. She didn’t go under like they usually do.”

They stare at each other, anger crackling between them like lightning.

“She didn’t eat much at dinner. You probably bit her too soon, like the impatient fucker you are, and now she has a story to tell. This is exactly why we don’t mess with locals,” he hisses.

The weak one looks up, his eyes heavy on our branches, dragging them down like spears. “She ate enough. But I bit her, and she freaked out. Stood up and walked the hell out of the restaurant. It’s not normal.”

“There’s nothing weird about her. She just didn’t have enough gobbelin blood,” the man of ice says, handing the metal to the other like he’s trying to knock him down. “Stay away from her - and any other local. Or I’ll feed you to the fae myself. Now, take this shit back to the lodge and make sure you clean up the rest of the mess. I have other things to do.”

They fall silent as they separate, weakness leaving the woods and strength going deeper. If he’s looking for the woman, he won’t need to go far. She’s been listening, creeping and crawling through her ice webs, a spider drawing her trap closer. We don’t like her. Don’t want her here among our branches and roots.

But we do not have the strength or the knowledge yet to drive her away. For now, there is other work to be done. Our roots curl around the newly dead things, poking holes in the wrapping so the insects may feed. The dead things are humans, young ones. Cold, bloodless, like leaves in the dead of winter. But still, food enough for us all.

And wait. There, another disturbance at our ragged edges. Yes, this moon is indeed busy.

The building opens, and our vines unfurl, sliding down the sides, eager to meet the girl we covet. She chooses tonight to meet us, walking into the darkness without hesitation, her soft skin naked and pale in the moonlight, fire-red hair licked by the breeze.

Does she seek the rings already? We scramble to pull aside our rocks and twigs so she will not stumble, and the tender ends of new branches sweep across her skin, tasting, tasting. Waiting to see what she will do. What she might say to us or ask of us. We will do it, for her.

Yet. Something is not right.

She... sleeps.

Something is wrong and not right. The girl whose skin smells of rain-wet roses and midnight fog does not see where she walks. Does not hear when we whisper to her. Does not belong here. Not like this. Not like this.

Something is wrong.

We wrap our vines around her wrists, curling between her fingers and back again, tangling into her bright wild hair, working to slow her steps. She needs protection. But she pulls away gently, walking on, unseeing but intent. Blind and bound to some further destination.

And the ice. Oh, the ice. The ice is coming for her, freezing our roots and cracking apart our tender buds and snapping our slender branches as it speeds toward her in the darkness.

We need help if we are to help her. We are too weak. Something is wrong.

Such ice is not meant for such fire.

Where is the gentle man? The one who whispers the old language, who moves beneath our branches like an animal, soundless and seeing everything. He will know what to do. He will help us. We search our trunks, the pine needles trembling as the message is passed from tree to tree, seeking him. Searching him.

We will draw him to the girl. He will help her. He is strong. She does not belong here, with the midnight-haired woman of ice and greed.

She does not belong here, not yet. Not like this.