5. Rosalina
5
Rosalina
A ll my life, Papa has been called crazy for going on about magic and wicked faeries that steal you from this world and take you far away to enchanted lands. They said he was crazy, that it was his way to cope with the grief of a runaway wife. But here, in the deep dark of the forest, Thomas’s pale fingers tremble on the flashlight. I wonder if there’s a part of him that’s starting to believe my father.
And maybe there’s a part of me too.
“This is pointless,” Lucas grumbles from behind me. He insisted on coming, and neither of us have forgotten I haven’t given him an answer on his proposal. Nor did the shocked crowd when I ran out after Thomas, all whispering I was mad for not saying yes to Lucas. Maybe I really am as crazy as my father.
None of it bothers me right now. Because I need to find him. Papa’s gone out many times before, but he’s always come back. My heart races, and not just because of the blood on the jacket. Something is terribly wrong.
Lucas and I creep behind Thomas as he tries his best to remember the path, only the dim gleam of our flashlights guiding our way. I should be grateful for Lucas’s presence, his protection, but the way his hunting rifle glints in the moonlight makes my skin prickle.
“Uh,” Thomas’s voice wavers. “Maybe we’re getting close. I’m not sure.”
I squint my eyes, but every time I focus on something, the flashlight blinds me. “Turn off the lights.”
“You’re mad,” Lucas says. “We should come back in the morning. I’ll get the lodge to organize a search party.”
“Just turn off the light,” I snap. “ Please .”
He groans but shuts off his flashlight. While my eyes adjust to the dark, the sounds of the forest come alive: the scraping of branches in the wind, the soft hoot of owls, and the scurry of little creatures in the underbrush.
And Thomas’s wheezing breath.
A small light flickers at the edge of my vision, and I cut through the mist toward it.
The wind plays with my hair. This way, this way, I swear it says.
An overgrown rosebush stops my advance. The thorny vines twist into the trees, and the roses are heavy in bloom, dark red petals carpeting the forest floor. Strange for roses to bloom in October. Something wet glistens on the petals in the moonlight.
“What the fuck is that?” Lucas turns on his flashlight, and I blink at the sudden brightness.
But there, illuminated by the light, is red blood and torn patches of fabric.
“This is where I found the coat,” Thomas stammers.
Lucas leans close. “The blood is fresh. He couldn’t have gone far.”
There’s a broken section of the rosebush near my feet, thorns and flowers torn away. “He went through here.”
“Pumpkin, wait,” Lucas starts. “Can’t we come back in the morning?”
But I’m already on my knees, pushing through the brambles. It’s a patchwork of thorns, each as cold and hard as a slab of winter ice. The thorns catch in my clothes and scrape along my cheek. Warm blood drips down my chin. Hastily, I wipe it away and keep moving deeper into the hole. He must have gone this way.
Behind me, Lucas mutters a goodbye to Thomas, who has endured enough trauma tonight without crawling through a creepy overgrown rosebush. Branches snap as Lucas shoves through the hole after me.
“I’ve been in these woods hundreds of times,” Lucas says, “and I’ve never seen wild roses.”
“Maybe you weren’t paying attention,” I murmur. Mud stains my palms, but there’s a misty light up ahead, the chill of fresh air. This must lead deep into the forest. Papa could have gotten turned around and been unable to find his way back.
Something akin to hope blossoms in my chest and I keep moving, breaking through the last few thorns into the open air.
And nothing is the same.
The strangest feeling ripples through me and I take a deep breath. The smell is damp and wild, with tinges of moss and wood. A hint of rot and decay, like an old, forgotten grave.
“Where the hell are we?” Lucas straightens, putting a hand on my shoulder.
This is like no place I’ve seen before. It’s like we’re still in the rosebush, but now the vines are thick as tree trunks, with thorns long as my arm. There are no flowers. Below my feet is loose dark soil and lacing mist. I can barely make out a deep night sky through the tangle of briars.
Behind us, I can still see the rosebush we crawled through, the red flowers the only spot of color in this whole place.
Slowly, I reach my hand toward a bramble. It’s not entirely black, but a deep purple. “Wait—” Lucas shouts.
A current of energy ripples through me as my hand touches the massive branch. I swear the plant shudders beneath my fingers.
Lucas grips my arm and pulls me back. “What the fuck are you doing?”
I turn to him, and I can’t stop the smile that breaks over my face. “Don’t you see? We’re in the land of the fae. Papa finally found it.” I pull out my phone. No signal. No surprise there.
Lucas’s dark eyes widen as he takes in our surroundings. I can see his mind at war. But somehow, I know this is right. Even the air tastes different. We’re far from home.
I run a few paces forward and yell, “Papa! Papa, I found you. It’s me!”
Lucas unstraps his rifle, holding it tight in his hands. Bright moonlight illuminates a small trail through the thorns. We begin to walk. Lucas turns every so often, letting out a sigh of relief when he still sees the rosebush behind us. The trail narrows, and one side dips down into a rocky gully, thorns crawling their way across the dark bottom.
I cup my hands around my mouth. “Papa, it’s me, Rosalina! I’ve come after you.”
A strange chittering noise sounds from beyond the mist. Then it multiplies, coming from behind and… below. Laughter.
A silhouette emerges from the tangle of fog and vines. Lucas backs up and stumbles into me. I turn and see more shapes closing in on his side too. We’re surrounded.
As the moonlight washes over them, disgust and fear flood my body. These are like no human or animal I’ve ever seen. These creatures look as if they’re out of some twisted nightmare. Humanoids with ashen bodies. They wear simple leather armor and dirty rags. Yellow eyes flicker like a dying candle, and sharp teeth poke out from twisted, gruesome faces. Their very skin rots off their bodies, covered in moss and festering yellow wounds. And in their hands, they hold dark black blades, thorns filed and sharpened from the surrounding plants.
Maybe we’re not in the land of faeries.
We’re in the land of monsters.