Chapter 2
Colt
Forty minutes into my ride, and I come to the conclusion that Mike is a pussy.
There is no ancient witch trying to murder me, I have not lost several hours, nobody has dragged me into a cursed hole in the ground, and unless the trees are planning something considerably more impressive than standing around looking wet and miserable, Hoia Baciu is turning out to be one of the better decisions I have made recently.
Admittedly, the standard is not particularly high.
The trail widens ahead, opening into a stretch of churned mud where rain has carved shallow channels through the ground. A steep bank rises on the far side, broken by exposed roots and a fallen branch thick enough to ruin someone’s evening if they hit it with more enthusiasm than talent.
Luckily, I have plenty of both.
I slow as I pass, studying the incline, the landing, the mud and the space between the trees before turning the bike around.
The camera mounted to my helmet beeps when I press the button, and I ride back far enough to give myself room.
Mike convinced me to buy the thing after I broke my collarbone in Spain and spent an hour insisting a man had driven into me. The footage later showed his car was parked and I had ridden over the bonnet while attempting to clear a concrete divider.
I still think he could have parked somewhere else.
I accelerate, the rear tire biting into the mud as I stand on the pegs and let the bike climb the bank. Just before the slope levels out, I compress the suspension and lift the front wheel, sending both tires clear of the ground as the familiar rush builds in my chest.
I turn the bars, kick the rear end sideways and hold the whip long enough to make the landing worth recording, then bring the bike back beneath me before the wheels meet the ground.
Clean. Not difficult, but clean.
I circle back and do it again. The second time, I push the bike farther sideways, and the third time I land directly into a controlled slide, keeping the throttle open while the rear tire carves a half circle through the mud before the bike straightens beneath me.
Mike should have come. He would have watched the footage three times, found one thing wrong with my body position and then spent the rest of the evening pretending he was not impressed.
I leave the clearing before I start inventing increasingly stupid ways to use the same bank, because that is how people end up with metal plates in places that make airport security awkward.
For the next hour, nothing tries to eat me.
I find a steep climb between the trees and make it up on the first attempt, then ride back down because the route I chose was boring and I refuse to let a Romanian forest believe I came all this way for a polite hill.
The second line is narrower, cut through with slick roots and wet leaves, and halfway up I lift the front wheel over a fallen trunk before shifting my weight forward quickly enough to stop the bike tipping back.
The rear wheel breaks traction, so I ease off the throttle instead of forcing it, letting it hook up before driving the bike up the bank.
At the top, I stop and look down.
“That was better.”
Nobody congratulates me.
Rude forest.
By the time darkness settles properly, my arms ache pleasantly beneath my jacket and sweat has collected at the back of my neck despite the cold.
My headlight cuts through the trees while I follow whatever looks interesting, and I stop pretending to know which direction I am traveling about thirty minutes after entering.
Mike knows where I am. More accurately, Mike knows where I was when I sent him my location, but if I do not return by morning, he will probably find someone stupid enough to come looking for me.
He will not come himself. I know this because Mike once refused to enter my hotel room after I told him I had found a spider in the bathroom. The spider was dead, because I had killed it, and he still made me bring his jacket into the corridor like the corpse might have been waiting for revenge.
The trail narrows until branches scrape against my shoulders. I slow, standing slightly on the pegs while the bike moves beneath me, and duck under a low branch without losing momentum.
That is when my headlight goes out. Darkness swallows the trail so completely that I kill the throttle and brake immediately, putting one boot down as the bike stops.
“Well, that feels unnecessary.”
The engine idles beneath me. I tap the switch, turn the bike off, wait a few seconds, then start it again.
The headlight returns. For approximately three seconds. Then it dies.
“Don’t be dramatic. That’s my job.”
The display near my handlebars is black, and the camera does not respond when I press the button either, which is either bad timing or the forest has decided to become a mechanic with abandonment issues.
I pull my phone from my jacket and switch on the torch, the beam spilling over the trail. My bike’s headlight suddenly flares back to life. I frown, watching the display illuminate before the camera chirps awake.
“Right.”
I switch off the phone torch, and everything dies again.
A soft female laugh slips between the trees, gentle enough to sound inviting, wrong enough to make my skin tighten.
I slowly turn my head, but I don’t see anything.
For several seconds, I sit there in total darkness while the engine rumbles beneath me, and then I smile because Mike is going to be unbearable if I survive this and insufferable if I don’t.
The woman laughs again, closer this time, and my headlight flashes on so suddenly that I almost jump.
The trail in front of me is gone. I do not mean hidden by fog or swallowed by shadow. I mean gone. A wall of trees stands less than two meters from my front wheel, their trunks packed so tightly together that I could not fit my hand between them.
I look behind me.
More trees.
I definitely rode here. There was definitely a trail beneath my wheels less than a minute ago, unless I have developed the kind of memory problem usually reserved for men who say their exes were all crazy.
I look down.
Mud.
My tire marks end directly beneath the bike.
“Huh.”
For the first time tonight, Mike might have a point, which is annoying because he will somehow make that my fault.
I open the map, and the arrow marking my position spins slowly in a circle, apparently as committed to the evening as I am.
My phone has no signal, but three messages from Mike sit beneath the location I sent earlier.
TURN AROUND.
COLT WILDER! I AM SERIOUS MAN!
I type a reply.
You were right. The trees ate me.
It does not send.
I add a kiss.
Still nothing.
“Even the forest doesn’t like you.” I murmur to myself, completely amused by the situation as I put the phone away.
A narrow gap appears between two trees to my left. I stare at it for a moment, because I am almost certain it was not there before and I would like the forest to know I noticed its lazy stage work.
“Subtle.”
I turn the bike and ride through it anyway.
The forest changes after that. One second, I am riding through mud and fog, and the next, snow crunches beneath my bike.
I brake so hard the rear wheel lifts before I shift my weight and put it down again.
White covers everything. The trees. The ground. My gloves. Even my breath fogs the inside of my helmet.
“What the fuck?”
I put my boot down, and snow sinks around it while cold seeps through the leather quickly enough to make me question every choice that has led me to having all ten toes.
I reach toward a branch and drag my glove across it.
Snow falls onto my arm. Real fucking snow.
A wolf howls somewhere behind me. Another answers ahead. Then another.
I look up and suddenly the snow is gone. Mud covers my boot, water drips from the branch beneath my hand, and the air smells like wet leaves instead of winter.
I stare at the branch for a moment, then laugh.
“Okay. That was good.”
The wolves stop. Apparently, she does not appreciate feedback unless it comes with screaming.
I continue.
Five minutes later, I smell petrol strongly enough that I stop immediately, kill the engine and get off the bike. Liquid pours from beneath the frame, spreading through the mud in a dark, shiny trail.
“Absolutely not. I just filled you.”
I crouch beside the bike, already irritated at the idea of explaining to Mike that the cursed forest did not kill me but my own fuel line tried.
I pull off one glove and reach down. Dry. I touch the ground again, but there’s nothing. The smell is gone.
“Well… you’re kind of a dick.”
Something whispers directly beside my helmet.
“Colt.”
I turn so fast my boot slips in the mud.
Nobody is there.
My name moves through the forest again, this time from somewhere ahead, soft enough to sound like it belongs in someone’s mouth instead of between a hundred wet trees.
I should probably be worried about the fact that something in Hoia Baciu knows my name. Instead, I am curious about her accent.
I get back on the bike.
“Do it again.”
Silence.
“Come on.”
Nothing.
“Now you’re shy? That’s disappointing. I thought we had something.”
A branch cracks behind me, and I turn just in time to catch the silhouette of a woman between the trees.
Long red hair frames impossibly pale skin as every tree around her bends sideways, not swaying with the wind but bowing toward the ground as though something enormous has pressed a hand over the forest.
I blink, and everything is upright again. The woman is gone, leaving nothing but empty forest where she’d been standing.
I stare at the empty space.
“That is going to look fucking brilliant on camera.”
A lone beep cuts through the silence. I unclip the camera from my helmet and stare at the black screen.
Dead.
Right.
I clip it back where it belongs.
“Petty and insecure. Dangerous combination.”
A woman’s laugh follows me as I start the bike and pull away. The trail widens beneath my tires, inviting more speed, so I twist the throttle without thinking. That’s when something moves beside me.