TWO
TWO
I wake to whistling.
Morning light barely grays the sky, and the woods beneath my platform crawl with fog. It takes my weary mind a moment to gather that it is far too early for birdsong. Perhaps the coo of a dove or the weary hoot of an owl, but the morning trills are at least an hour off.
The whistling moves closer, joined by the swish and rustle of fabric caught in branches and snagging on thorns. I groan, scrubbing a hand down my face. Of course, it would be her, back to torment me and risk the woods despite my frequent warnings. And now she is whistling , practically begging to be gored by an Erymanthian boar or torn apart by a lindworm. Rolling onto my side, I ease to the edge of my sleeping platform, scanning the fog for her hideous cloak.
It cuts through the gloom, the crimson weave absorbing what little light there is until she glows like a lantern.
Something unsettling furls in my belly at the thought of red lights and her, though I cannot decipher why. I grip the platform’s edge and scoot closer as if I could gain a better view as she skips through the woods. Her song bounces off the trees, the fog making it sound as though three of her whistle in harmony from different points. My ears prick and swivel, trying to catch all the sound at once, and I fight against the urge to look over my shoulder. Could I not see her cloak disappearing into the fog before me, I would swear she approached from behind.
The whistling fades, swallowed by the wood, and I roll onto my back. The sliver of sky visible through the trees has lightened to a pale blue. Another night passed without the creatures of the wood waking me with their cries. My eyelids grow heavy, the need for deep sleep growing stronger with each passing moment, and then I hear it—a slither across the forest floor.
In an instant, I am crouched at the edge of my platform, claws piercing the tree branch to keep steady. The fog beneath me whorls and churns, and I catch just a glimpse of leathery tail and jagged spikes.
A glimpse is all I need.
Lindworms are silent killers, happy to stalk their prey from a distance until they tire or become distracted, waiting until their meal settles beside a river or in the middle of a glade for a meal. That is when they strike, closing the distance between themselves and their prey in the time it takes most humans to reach for a blade. While their hearing is weak, their eyesight is unparalleled, even in the fog, but like all predators, they suffer from front-facing sight. If you manage to remain downwind of a lindworm and sneak up on them from the side, you hold a chance of surviving.
If.
I curse silently, rocking forward on the balls of my feet. My muscles strain to maintain my balance, but I must wait until the lindworm passes entirely before I descend and follow. Luckily, I am not concerned with staying downwind. The lindworm knows I am here, as do all the creatures in the wood. I protect them as much as I protect the humans, but this girl has broken the covenant.
I should leave the lindworm to its hunt. I should let the girl get pounced upon, stand aside, and let her learn her lesson before I interfere, yet something drives me from my platform.
I drop lightly to the forest floor, ears pricked forward to catch the quiet shush of the lindworm’s serpentine body coiling over leaves and grass. Keeping a fair distance between us, I join the hunt, loping from tree to tree and, when the fog grows too dense, dropping onto all fours to better scent their trail.
Hers I catch immediately. Powdered sugar and orange blossoms, a slight tang of sweat from her hike, the perfume caught in the wool fibers of her cloak. The lindworm is more subtle, with a clean, mineral scent that almost disappears in the fog.
Their trail weaves through the trees, avoiding the main path, and for that, I could strangle the girl myself.
Every villager knows not to leave the path. Witch-blessed standing stones line either side, and the creatures in the wood detest crossing their barrier. Carters, merchants, and traveling bands have worn the path smooth, and the trees avoid dropping leaves and branches to block the way. It is the safest means of traversing the wood during the day, so long as one is careful at the few places where the stones sit far enough apart to allow those like me to cross.
But instead of heading toward safety, the girl dances through the trees, skirting glades and meadows, where the farfadets and brownies sleep, and jumping over streams where the melusines lurk. It takes far longer than I care to admit for me to recognize that her movements are intentional. As if driven by an internal compass, she turns away from the path whenever it threatens to bisect her ambling route. A left and left again, over a fallen tree and under low-slung branches.
The lindworm slinks closer, hunkering on squat legs, ready to pounce. Its snakelike belly hushes over the undergrowth, and I risk closing the distance between us. Every muscle in my body is tensed and poised to launch at the lindworm when it decides to attack.
She leads us to another glade, and this time, she skips into the clearing. Sunlight pours down on her cloak, making her a brilliant scarlet beacon for any creature in a ten-foot radius. She spins and sweeps her hood back, and I suck in a breath as the sunlight catches in her auburn hair. The girl is a flame. Not just her cloak but her hair and rosy cheeks, the red of her full mouth as she spreads her lips into a broad smile.
Scanning the treeline, her eyes snag on something in my direction, and that smile widens. “Within,” she calls, “or without, dear monster?”
I startle as I realize her question is for me, and my surprise almost gets the girl killed.
The lindworm bunches, the spikes along its back lifting as it launches into the glade. Its toothy maw is wide open, jaws ready to snap and tear. The girl freezes in the center, her smile hardening into a baring of teeth. Her hands fly to the buttons clasping her cloak, and it is her lack of movement that clues me into a terrible truth: while she knew I stalked her through the woods—why else would she have wandered beneath my sleeping platform whistling at dawn?—she was unaware that another monster had joined the pursuit.
That is enough to thrust me into action. I sprint forward, catching the lindworm’s tail and yanking with all my might. The creature hisses, jaws snapping on empty air inches shy of the girl. Hand over hand, I pull the thrashing lindworm closer until I can wrap my arms around the base of its belly. With a grunt, I twist and drop into a roll.
We crash to the ground. Pain explodes in my shoulder, but I do not relent. My arms band tighter, and I roll again, releasing only long enough to flip onto the beast and pin its rear legs with my knees. I reach for its forearms, and a blinding series of stabs travel the length of my leg.
A wild cry rips from my throat, and I know without looking that spikes as long as daggers sink into my thigh and calf. I let the adrenaline of the pain fuel me and throw my body against the lindworm. My claws pierce the thinner hide at its armpits, sinking deep. The creature seizes beneath me, writhing and throwing itself in an attempt to dislodge me. Its tail coils tighter, and a rush of warmth sheets down my leg as something vital is pierced.
Jaws snap near my head. I press my ears back and give over to my fury. There is a reason I guard the edge of the wood. A reason I am the one to keep the monsters in and the humans out. I draw back my lips, revealing the cruel fangs I keep carefully hidden when the villagers come near. Froth coats my tongue and slickens my teeth; I angle my head, jaw dropping to ensure my bite is final.
A tree branch swings out of nowhere, colliding with the lindworm’s skull. The solid thunk vibrates through me, and with less than a hiss, the creature goes slack in my arms.
I whip my head up from its throat, dazed at the sight above me.
The girl stands there, gripping the fallen limb in one hand. A rosy burst colors her cheeks, her eyes bright with fear or perhaps excitement. Her cloak is swept back, revealing strong arms and the form-fitting bodice. This time, it is not the curve of her waist that grabs my attention but the swell of her breasts, heaving against tight laces as she pants. A loose curl has fallen free from her braid, dusting a delicate collarbone, and I find that my fury has immediately become something else.
Something darker.
I ease off the lindworm, stopping only to check that it is fully unconscious, and onto a knee, dropping my gaze away to compose myself and assess my injuries. My trousers are ruined —I will have to steal another pair—and blood mats the dense fur on my leg, weeping freely from half a dozen puncture wounds. Carefully, I test my ankle and my knee. I do not catch that the girl has moved closer until she reaches out a hand, waving her fingers for me to grab hold.
I stare at her offering. At the small pink square of her palm and delicate fingers. And I laugh. “So you can move quietly.”
“Is that all you have to say?” Her voice shakes, and the sound drags my gaze back to her face, taking in the full vision faster than my mind can decipher what I’m seeing. Blown-out pupils, eyes beyond wide. Her lips tremble, and she grips the front of her cloak as I take her in, unable to hide how her fingers shake.
“What,” I clip the word on my teeth, “is it I am expected to say?”
“A ‘thank you’ would suffice.” She stamps a foot, and I cannot help the laugh that barks out of me.
“A ‘thank you’? For what?” Pushing against my knee, I gain my feet, favoring the injured leg. It will heal in time. I have herbs and salves stored in the shelter near my platform, and the witch of the wood is not too far from where we are now. The sun is high enough in the trees that I know she will be awake and ready to attend to those who come in search of aid. “For leaving the path? For whistling and drawing attention to yourself? For not heeding my words that there are monsters in these woods?”
She huffs and tucks her chin, nostrils flaring as more glorious pink rises in her cheeks. “For saving your life!”
“You saved nothing.” I limp past her, sniffing and immediately regretting it. Orange blossom fills my head, soured by the dank stench of fear. I ignore the sudden urge to stop and soothe her, heading for the opposite end of the glade instead. “I had it under control.”
“You are bleeding from half a dozen wounds in your leg.”
“They will heal.”
“The scent of your blood will call all of these so-called ‘monsters,’” she fires at my back. “They will know you are injured and weak. Who will protect the villagers then?”
“I will visit the witch.” At her sharp intake of breath, I grab a thin aspen, taking the weight off my injured leg as I glance back. She stands only paces away, again having moved more silently than I thought her capable. The hood of her cloak has been drawn up to cover her hair, and she has wrapped the rest of the garish wool around her like a shawl. “You look scared, little hood. Is it of the monsters or the witch?”
“I am not scared of any witch.”
“Is that so?” I am moving before I can think better of it, limping across the meager distance and not stopping until I am close enough that she must tip her head back to meet my eye. Her scent envelopes me, the floral perfume, the edge of fear, but there is something else there now.
“Nor any monster,” she adds.
I lean in, close my eyes, and inhale, drinking in that new scent. Again, something unsettling furls in my belly. I exhale, my breath stirring the loose hairs peering out from her hood. “Then why do you tremble?”
Her eyelids flutter closed, and I hear it—a tiny gasp that could have been cannon fire for how loud it ricochets in my ears.
I cannot move fast enough, cannot dart away, though every inch of my being demands I do so. My leg is too injured, and I am caught by that sound. The furling in my gut curls over itself, my belly swooping in a way that has me swaying closer. My only thought is to nuzzle against her throat and earn another of those gasps. To bury myself in that scent.
Her chin lifts, baring more of her throat to me. She does not move beyond this, does not open her eyes, but shows me her tender stretch of throat as though she had heard my innermost desires.
The invitation strikes me, and any lingering humanity vanishes. I am a creature of base needs, driven by want and animalistic desire. For years, I have fought this part of myself, training the instincts out through sheer determination and will. Protect the villagers, defend the wood. Do not ravish young women in too-tight bodices and scarlet cloaks in the middle of a forest glade. Earn their trust by being trustworthy , dutiful, and steadfast. Yet, in the baring of a throat, she has shattered through all of my carefully constructed defenses.
I draw closer, raising my hand until the soft down of her throat rests against my palm. Saliva pools on my tongue, and I dip my head, inches away from breathing as deeply of her as I wish.
Her lips part, a sweet sigh escaping, and the lindworm spares me from making a dire mistake.
The beast thrashes to consciousness, flipping over in the grass and spitting its anger. I jolt upright, grabbing the girl’s arm and sweeping her behind me as though she were less than a curtain of ivy in my way.
Instead of attacking, the lindworm glares at me, spits twice, and twists around, tail whipping angrily in the air as it runs for the trees.
I wait until the woods are silent again, and the only sound I hear is my panicking breathing. When I turn, the girl is still there, still as stone, her eyes fixed on the gap in the trees where the lindworm disappeared.
“Let’s get you to the path,” I say. Her eyes twitch to mine, and she purses her lips in a frown but nods.
We walk silently and at my own pace. Every step is agony but brings me closer to the witch and her healing potions, so I grit my teeth and press on.
The path winks through the trees, a bright bronze slash of packed earth cutting like a scar through the trees. Without a word, I guide the girl to the edge and stop beside a barrier stone. “Go.”
She eyes the path, sucking on her teeth as she takes in the standing stone and its runes. When she does not move, I grip her by the upper arm and swing her forward. She stumbles, twisting around the standing stone and tripping over the smaller rocks lining the path. A frustrated grunt escapes her, and I do not wait to see which way she will turn.