Untethering Dark

Chapter Five

Gudarīks chased the taste of fear and flesh away with another one of the witch’s cookies. He slaughtered the human trio one-handed, so not to spoil the treats with their blood.

No one had ever offered him Springerle before.

Or tried to poison him.

He chuckled at the memory—the sudden change of her mind, and only then scenting the death cap. Nothing that grew in his forest could kill him, but how thoroughly duped he would’ve been.

Cunning, wily creatures who didn’t go down without a fight—prey that stuck it to the predator, made them choke on their barbs, their poison, had his full admiration and respect. Nature did not create creatures equally, but with every weakness came unique strengths. Prey never meant helpless, just targeted.

And maybe, just maybe, as magically enhanced as it was, it could have killed him.

Not a theory he was keen to test, but it didn’t diminish the taste of the poison-free Pl?tzchen he had eaten.

It wasn’t the flour, the sugar, or anise that had him craving more of the witch’s confections. No, what drew him was the infusion of her effort. He could taste it. Every layered feeling. The careful concentration, the struggle, the frustration, and the tantalizing depth of triumph after dancing repeatedly with failure.

Lovely, delicious emotions baked right in with the dough.

And for once, something other than fear.

He didn’t know much about the witch that dwelled in his forest. By the time he arrived at her front gate each night she was already squirreled away inside the cottage, curtains drawn. Some nights the windows were dark. On others, they were awash with the warm glow of firelight. But never did they indicate anything more about the life held within. Not even the silhouette of a curious witch wanting to catch a glimpse of him.

All that betrayed the witch’s presence each night was the sound of her hammering heart.

From the outside looking in, the things he observed were small. Two well-doted-upon goats, a pair of snowshoes left out on the stoop, a tidy yard and winter garden painstakingly coaxed to life. She lived a quiet life of contentment, one so close and yet so distant from his.

Night after night, year after year, the witch, and the hag that raised her, left him offerings of flesh. A tithe for living in his forest. And every night he collected it and hunted for the intruders who dared linger after the sun had set instead.

But this was the best offering yet. A steady diet of fear fed him well, but he quite liked the taste of these other feelings. Something new and varied.

He popped the last Springerle into his mouth.

When the witch offered her body to him, his first thought hadn’t gone to sustenance. The way she openly appraised him, he thought she meant to lie with him.

It was just the sort of thing a Hexe would do. Bed down a formidable creature, produce strong offspring, raise the next generation of Hexen, expand their coven and the breadth of powers they could tap into...

Such a proposition had never tempted him before. At least the producing offspring part. A different sort of drive always occupied the forefront of his mind.

But had she really propositioned him? The scent of fear had been potent, too potent to leave room for much else but bravery.

It began the moment she spoke to him, made a promise. I’ll be back.

No screaming. No running. No hiding. Just staring down an inevitable end with her head held high and poison at her sly, cunning fingertips.

If she had tried to run or hide, he would have eaten her as his predator’s instincts demanded. But true to her word, she returned and faced him dead on, bravely accepting her fate. The courage with which she offered her life and a plate of lethal, homemade Pl?tzchen... This was someone who understood the old ways of the world, who knew courtesy and respected ritual, but did not bow down without a fight.

That was when his fury quelled, the fierce rumbling in his stomach fading to nothing.

The way she looked up at him with her mismatched eyes—one slate gray, the other so pale its color was little more than swirls of smoke and mountain fog around the black pinprick of a pupil.

The way her snowy hair felt like silk in his hand.

He looked. Really, truly looked and appreciated her features for their beauty.

Her nose sloped elegantly; such a clean, unblemished line he’d only ever seen achieved with the mountainside after new snowfall. Angular cheeks, lips rosy but thin. Not much there, but no matter. He didn’t have lips at all.

There wasn’t much he could glean of her figure beneath her puffy, powder blue coat, which fell to the tops of her knees. And beneath those, fur boots. She wasn’t completely human, but she covered herself head to toe like one.

What a joy it would be to unwrap her, to discover all her edges, both soft and sharp. If she offered, he would accept.

His interest pulled like a cord, somewhere deeper, somewhere lower than his stomach. Desire was a kind of hunger with the potential to be just as insatiable.

He would definitely go back.

As the wind picked up, snow pelting from all directions with the beginnings of a blizzard, the sounds of distressed bleating snagged his attention. Ears pricking toward the sound, Gudarīks sniffed the air. Goats. Two of them nearby.

Even in the worsening weather, it would not take long to find them.

He moved with ease, even in the deepening snow, using his sense of smell to track them through the forest. That is, until a new scent caught his attention.

Human . There were more than three trespassers this night.

The locals smelled differently, had the essence of der Schwarzwald in their blood. Gudarīks smelled one now, and the blood of the game caught in their snares.

A hunter.

And a rule breaker by the humans’ count to be setting traps on protected national park land. But Gudarīks didn’t care about human rules, apart from where they overlapped with his, and subsistence hunting wasn’t one of them. He never begrudged a creature’s need to eat and feed their family.

But that wasn’t to say an offense hadn’t been made.

Wandering this deep in the woods after sunset meant they were fair game for feasting.

They didn’t see him at first, watching through the trees. Garbed in puffy winter gear, the hunter snowshoed along, trekking poles in hand with a white-furred rabbit slung over their back.

Gudarīks took a silent step forward, not even a crunch as hoof met snow. But the trees around him creaked and groaned; a twig snapped, as if the forest itself issued a warning.

The hunter stopped, head turning in his direction, their eyes rounding, the rush of blood pulsing in a frantic staccato.

A low growl rumbled in the back of Gudarīks’s throat, mouth slick with saliva as hunger set in, gnawing at his insides, demanding retribution.

Letting go of their poles, the hunter dropped to their knees, bowing in supplication. “For you, Wald Vater,” they said, voice shaking as they unstrapped the rabbit from their back, and pushed it toward him, a small smear of blood tracking in the snow. “Please.”

The growl died.

An offering.

Anger, then hunger ebbed away, and calm fell over Gudarīks. So few remembered. But this human did. It was a good offering, too—all the hunter had. Picking up the rabbit, Gudarīks tore off a leg, but left the rest, feeling merciful.

Though the hunter quaked, heartbeat spiking as Gudarīks chewed through bone and gristle whole—likely uncertain of their fate—they remained bowed and still. No sudden movements or meeting his eyes, which would be a challenge whether intended or not.

While each forest predator reacted differently to prey, dissuaded by different behaviors, deference was owed to them all. If only the hikers and skiers that flocked to his stretch of forest were so wise, they would be spared, too.

As Gudarīks withdrew into the deep shadows of the approaching night, leaving the hunter in peace, he felt the distinct sensation of being watched. Not by the hunter. Something else. Something deeper in the woods.

He sniffed the air again and caught a whiff of cigarette smoke.

Another human. So many out this night.

“Oh, mighty Gudarīks. Where was your mercy before?” A woman’s voice, whispered on the wind in an ancient, long dead tongue.

He whirled around, scanning the trees.

A pair of red, narrow-set eyes stared back, flickering like fire.

He lurched away with a warning roar, ready to strike, rend, destroy.

And then they were gone. Just like that.

He searched the area where he’d seen them, obsessively sniffing the air, scratching at the snow, and searching the tree canopy. But nothing. Just a figment of his imagination.

Better to focus on what he could sense.

Cigarettes and bleating goats.