Chapter 2 - Lara
The bark is rough enough that I can feel every ridge pressing into my back through my coat, and that’s how I know I haven’t moved in a really long time.
My right leg is tucked under me and has gone numb; my left leg is still stretched out in front of me, and I can see my twisted ankle has turned a deep purple.
Every time I try to shift my weight, the sharp pain reminds me that I’m running out of time.
I know I need to move, so I count to a hundred before peering around the massive trunk.
The forest feels wrong, far too quiet and still.
It’s not the normal early morning calm where the smallest things aren’t awake yet, and the big things are still too sleepy to hunt.
This feels like the kind of quiet that only happens when something truly dangerous is out there and the rest of the forest is too scared to make a noise.
I don’t even know how long I’ve been here, but it must be two or three hours, and whatever is big and bad enough to scare a whole forest into submission must still be close.
I close my eyes and listen.
All I hear is the wind and the silence. No breaking twigs, or movement from further up the slope, no one approaching from the stream below.
The smart thing would be to rest my ankle longer and make sure it’s strong enough, but the truth is, I can’t.
I’m out of time. My water bottle has been empty since last night, and I haven’t eaten in nearly two days.
I hoped for some rain last night to refill it, but no such luck.
The cold has worked its way into my bones, and with no fuel to fight it, I know it’s starting to affect my coordination.
That’s probably why I fell and twisted my damn ankle.
If I stay here much longer, I know I won’t be able to get back up at all.
I tighten the laces on my boot and grimace as I push up onto my good leg first. It’s not graceful, but it holds.
A wave of dizziness hits me as I put my bad leg down, and I grip the trunk and hold until it passes.
The ankle isn’t broken. I’ve run that theory several times, and I’m convinced it’s just a sprain. A bad sprain, but it should hold.
I start moving, gingerly at first, but I know I’ll have to push on faster than this.
You don’t move normally when you’re being followed.
My father taught me that from a young age.
He explained how dangerous the forest could be long before I really understood that we lived so close to the monsters.
He explained that you shouldn’t move in a straight line, avoid walking on dry ground, and not leave footprints in the wet soil.
You have to mix up your pace because predators learn rhythms—especially shifters.
As humans, we don’t have their strength, so we have to outsmart them; give them nothing to lock onto.
Zigzag the terrain, change direction often, walk on the gravel if passing the stream; cold water can kill your scent briefly, and the stones won’t leave a print.
I haven’t dared go near the stream yet because that’s where I saw them yesterday; they’re following it, and they know I’ll need water eventually.
I’ve been sticking to the higher ground and masking my footsteps in the deep needles under the pines.
I also made a mash of wild garlic and mud that I’ve coated my boots with because my dad taught me when I was young—it doesn’t completely kill my scent, but it masks it just enough. And I’ll take just enough today.
I pause, leaning against the cool moss covering a fallen tree, and flex my painful ankle.
I think about the city, wishing I were back there, which feels ridiculous because I’ve always disliked visiting.
But being in the city and loading up on supplies three weeks ago was the last time my life felt normal.
That trip to the city is what got me into this mess.
I was totally out of supplies and couldn’t put it off any longer.
I’ve done that drive a hundred times in my dad’s old truck growing up; usually sat in the passenger seat while he counted the gas money out loud and complained about the price of everything we bought.
This time, I was halfway home. Alone now.
I was on the long, quiet stretch where the road climbs higher into the hills when something burst out of the trees and hit the front of the truck so hard that the airbag I doubted even still worked hit me square in the face.
I don’t remember what happened next; I just remember waking up on the dirt floor.
I try to shake off the thought; it’s not going to do me any good right now.
How I got into this mess is far less important than how I’m going to get out of it.
I escaped the shifters; that’s what matters, and I’m not going to get caught again.
I glance around. The trees are thinning as the slope drops, so I adjust my direction again and make sure the dirt under my boots is still obscuring my footprints.
The sun is about an hour off the horizon now, and I need to do at least another couple of miles before I find somewhere to bed down for the night.
There are hunting huts throughout these hills, a network for humans who need to hide from the monsters—if I can make it to one of those, I’ll be able to rest properly.
But I’m deep in the mountains, and they are few and far between.
I’ve got another day of pushing west before I run out of mountain terrain.
I’ll have to drop down to the farmland and the open roads that run toward the city.
There’s no way around it, of course, not if that’s where I want to go.
I can’t go home, as much as I want to; I could lead the shifters straight to my door.
No, I need to head back to the city. I can draw the last of my dad’s savings out of the bank, find some transport, and aim to be back home by the end of the week.
The city is the one place shifters don’t operate with impunity.
Too many humans, too many other shifters, too much magic.
I know a lot of humans live there for that very reason, but it’s not for me. The cabin is all I’ve ever known. My neighbors and the small community. The city could never be for me. But I also can’t risk leading these shifters home. So I push on west.
The ground levels off after about half a mile, and the trees look older, sparser too, with hardly any undergrowth.
I don’t like it. I’m far too open here. I can see anything that might be coming, but they can sure as hell see me too.
I move through as fast as my ankle can carry me, my eyes constantly flicking up and down the slope.
I can’t relax even slightly until I’m able to move back into a denser section.
My ankle burns, and I pause by a large fern covered in water to drink some straight off one of the leaves. It’s not much, but better than nothing. I seem to think about the shifter camp whenever I stop; I think it’s my mind's way of keeping me going because I know I can’t risk getting caught again.
What struck me as strange when I woke up there on that dirt floor was that the shifters in these parts live in towns, not makeshift camps.
Maybe this was a hunting patrol, but the setup seemed long-term—several outbuildings and a communal fire pit.
I was in a bare-bones room, just the dirt floor, a couple of chairs, and a camping bed that didn’t look strong enough to hold anyone's weight.
The door had a heavy chain that dragged whenever someone opened it.
The first night, they simply threw some food and water in, and I wasn’t sure what they wanted with me. But the next day, I heard the sound of men laughing outside, and by the time three big shifters walked in, I knew exactly what they intended to do to me.
I screamed. Screamed for help I knew wouldn’t be coming, and out of fear.
I covered my face and only looked up when I heard a heavy thud.
The men were down on their knees as if doubled over.
The one closest was clearly trying to fight it, his face twisted in rage as he reached for me, but seemingly couldn’t move.
I could see his muscles flexing and the strain in his jaw.
I froze, and it seemed to unlock them, so I shouted at him to stay back… and again, he couldn’t move.
They left but came back later, more of them.
But the same thing happened again—I just kept screaming at them to get back, and they did.
They didn’t want to, but something was forcing them back; if they fought it, they collapsed in pain.
After that, they locked the door and just pushed food and water through the hatch once a day.
No one said anything to me, but the camp was small, and I listened as they sat by the fire pit at night.
What is she?
I can’t even shift near her.
Let’s get that witch back up here. She’ll do anything if the price is right.
Maybe we can use her…
I knew I couldn’t wait to find out what the witch was going to do or how they thought they could use me, so I started looking for ways to escape.
My chance came by complete chance a few days later.
One of the younger shifters, no more than a boy really, brought me some food but didn’t put it through the hatch.
He opened the heavy door instead and slid it inside.
At the same time, someone called him angrily, telling him to hurry up, and he slammed the door, but I didn’t hear the chain click into place.
I waited until dark to test the theory, but when I did, I was right: the door slid open silently, and I opened it just enough to slip out, then closed it.
I don’t think I breathed for an hour, expecting them to be on me any second, but as I started to put some space between me and the camp, I started to think I might actually be able to do this. It was the next day that I realized they had caught my scent, and the chase was on.
I have no idea if screaming at them will work again.
I don’t even know why it worked at the camp.
I wasn’t trying to do anything; it just happened.
I can barely believe it even worked, so I can’t count on it.
The only thing I can rely on is the skills my father taught me and luck, because evading shifters on the hunt for another night will be a miracle.
The light is starting to go now, and I can hear howling in the distance.
My eyes fall on a huge fallen pine on the slope with the roots ripped straight out of the ground; the underside is hollow enough to crawl into, and packed with years of leaves and other debris.
Praying nothing else is hiding in there, I crawl inside, emptying my pockets of the sweaty wild garlic and herbs I’ve picked up along the way so I can cover myself in them under all the leaves.
I pull my coat tightly around me and pull the hood up, burying myself as deeply as I can under all the debris so that my heat trace stays close to my body instead of rising.
I keep my hunting knife in my hand as the light fades to black.
Counting my breath, out for six and in for four, to steady my heartbeat, keeping me warm and stopping me from panicking. If I panic, I’m dead.
Hours into the night, I hear something bigger than a fox moving on the slope below me, and I have to count my breaths more carefully to stop my heart racing.
I hold my breath, hoping it’s nothing, but when I hear the twigs break and the sound of branches rustling, I know it’s nothing.
I grip the knife more tightly, but whatever it is moves away.
I don’t sleep, not really. I can’t, but my body takes what it can.
And while I doze, I think about my father.
Not how I found him, but the porch in summer.
I think about how he always left the door open because he loved the sound of the forest in summer.
The way he sat me down on the porch steps when I was just eight years old and started teaching me how to evade the shifters, how to beat them at their own game.
There were no good wolves in his world, and he was determined they’d never hurt us.
He’d live his whole life in these parts, and his teachings had kept us safe all that time—right up until something he didn’t see coming took him from me.
I force my eyes open again because I know if I start crying now, my heart rate will go up, and it will be like a flare to my hunters.
The night is still again, but the cold is becoming unmanageable. My ankle hurts more than ever, and I’ve no doubt it will be worse again tomorrow, stiff and not healing as it should. I’m hungry and not drinking enough. In short, I’m running out of time.
I want to head straight for the city, but I won’t make it like this. I need to find one of those huts; they have supplies and witch's cloaking magic. Once activated, it should last for hours, giving me a chance to refuel and rest properly.
I fight the tears of frustration as I rest my head against the wood, feeling my options dwindling.
I don’t move until first light, and the forest seems to hold its breath.