Last Ride of the Umbra Fae

7. Ryder

7

Ryder

W e rode for another hour under the luminescence of the moon. Vessa had a never-ending glow to her, as if there was some sort of power she harnessed from the moon. Beneath the night sky, it illuminated her existence to the world; an essence I found hauntingly beautiful, ethereal perhaps. As End’s Wrath’s little spark of joy rode off into the dark, I realized why he was willing to do anything for her.

I didn’t know much about the Umbra Fae other than that these two were living legends in my neck of the woods; the last vestiges. To see them in the flesh was like a mirage one couldn’t help but curiously wander toward.

Long ago, they had dwelled somewhere in the west on an island called Black Water Woods, a land only accessible to their people, surrounded by bright, cerulean shores and obsidian sands and covered with a haze that had swayed the fearful humans from ever crossing it.

When we finally found a place to rest for the night, I watched Vessa dismount. The curiosity and the allure remained tempting.

When she caught me in her line of sight, the threat of my imminent demise was written in her gaze.

I tipped my hat her way, but all I got in return was a scowl. Her bird stretched his wings wide, and they exchanged a look I couldn’t translate. It made me think they must communicate through the bond. At least the prick was far more tolerable in this form, but his obligatory presence was getting in the way.

Her hat was already back on, hands gloved, her glow now dimmed and hidden beneath her dark brown coat. She removed her boots and massaged her feet and ankles before slipping them back on.

“A beauty like that will only burn you, boy. It’s best you keep your distance,” End’s Wrath said, arching a salt-and-pepper brow my way before he went back to unstrapping two thick, wool blankets. I was far from a boy—although I appeared to be in my early thirties in human years, I was over one hundred years old—so I had an idea of what I wanted, but that was beside the point.

“Ain’t she old enough to decide that for herself, End’s Wrath?”

He paused briefly, then laughed darkly as he turned my way with a grin a little too wicked, even for him. “Fine,” he drawled, tossing me what I assumed was her blanket. “It’s your funeral.”