Chapter 4
Colt
Rule number one: don’t go back to the cursed forest.
Rule number two: if you ignore rule number one, you should at least eat breakfast before tempting whatever ancient evil lives there.
I can proudly say I’ve followed one of those rules.
The paper bag tucked safely inside my backpack holds two pretzels, a couple of pastries, and enough sugar to convince myself this is somehow a reasonable decision.
Whether they’re for me or the homicidal forest witch who spent three days trying to scare me to death is a question I’m choosing not to examine too closely.
The woman at the bakery glanced at the extra pastry, then at me, and smiled with the kind of confidence only elderly women seem capable of.
“Meeting someone?”
“Something like that.”
She nodded as though that answered every question she’d ever intended to ask, wished me a pleasant day, and sent me on my way with a look that suggested she’d already planned my future without consulting me first.
I have a feeling she’d be considerably less enthusiastic if she knew my mysterious breakfast companion had spent the better part of yesterday trying to convince me the forest wanted to eat me.
The motorcycle carries me along the same road I swore I’d never ride again, the trees of Hoia Baciu gradually rising ahead as morning sunlight filters through the branches.
Any reasonable person would have taken the lesson, packed a bag, and left Romania altogether.
I bought pastries instead.
In hindsight, there was probably a point somewhere between escaping the haunted forest alive and returning with baked goods for the homicidal witch where I should’ve stopped and asked myself whether I was making good decisions.
Unfortunately, self-preservation has never been one of my stronger personality traits.
The backpack bumps lightly against my shoulders as the motorcycle eats up another stretch of road, filling the air around me with the unmistakable smell of fresh bread every time I hit a pothole.
Now I’m hungry. This is exactly why buying peace offerings is dangerous. You start convincing yourself that maybe the witch doesn’t really need two pretzels.
One pretzel is still a thoughtful gesture. She’s magical. She can probably conjure another one.
I reach back and pat the backpack.
“Don’t listen to him,” I tell the pastries. “I made a commitment.”
The pastries remain remarkably supportive.
Romania looks unfairly beautiful in the morning.
Small villages drift past on either side of the road, old stone houses sitting beneath red roofs while fields roll across the hills in every shade of green imaginable.
Somewhere off in the distance, church bells ring faintly enough that I almost miss them beneath the engine.
It’s the sort of scenery that makes you forget you’re voluntarily riding toward the place locals refuse to enter after dark.
Actually… Most of them refuse to enter during the day too.
Smart people. I wonder what that’s like.
The trees of Hoia Baciu begin creeping over the horizon again, and I catch myself grinning before I can stop it.
“Yeah, yeah,” I sigh into my helmet. “I know how this looks.”
If Mike could see me right now, he’d probably drive out here himself just to hit me over the head with my own helmet before dragging me back to Cluj.
He’d call me every Romanian insult he knows. I’d deserve every single one of them. Still…
I can’t shake the feeling that yesterday ended too soon. Most people leave a terrifying supernatural encounter with lifelong trauma. I leave with questions.
Who is she?
How long has she been here?
Why she threw me out?
And, perhaps most importantly…
Will she appreciate a decent pretzel? Because if she doesn’t, I’m eating both of them. That second pastry, though… That one’s non-negotiable.
Even homicidal forest witches deserve dessert.
The first trees close around me almost immediately, swallowing the open road behind me until the morning light breaks into narrow strips across the trail and the forest becomes exactly what I remember, dark, quiet, and far too aware of my presence for a collection of trees.
I should probably ease my way in, show a little respect, maybe avoid announcing myself like a man with absolutely no survival instinct.
Instead, I twist the throttle.
The engine tears through the silence, loud enough to scatter birds from the branches and send the sound crashing deeper between the trees, where it rolls away in long echoes that feel suspiciously like the forest muttering about me behind my back.
“That’s right,” I call through the helmet as I ride farther in. “Your favorite problem is back.”
Nothing answers, which is rude considering how much effort she put into getting my attention the first time.
I rev the bike again, harder now, and the rear tire spits dirt across the trail while I glance between the trees for a flash of red hair, a pale face, or any sign that the woman who bent an entire forest around me has noticed I’ve returned.
She has noticed.
There is absolutely no chance she hasn’t.
I’m beginning to understand that ignoring me might be her preferred form of violence.
I keep riding anyway, because if she’s trying to make me wonder whether she’s watching, the joke’s on her.
I already know she is. After everything I saw yesterday, I’m fairly confident the moment my front wheel crossed whatever invisible line marks the edge of her kingdom, the entire forest collectively sighed and thought, Oh, for fuck’s sake. He’s back.
“Don’t worry,” I say, glancing lazily from one side of the trail to the other. “I’m just here to see if your personality improves after breakfast.”
The only response is the low growl of the engine beneath me, which is …disappointing.
After another minute or two, I roll into a small clearing where sunlight actually manages to punch through the canopy, then squeeze the brake and let the motorcycle coast to a stop.
The engine rumbles beneath me for another second before I kill it, and the silence that follows is so immediate it almost feels rehearsed.
No birds.
No insects.
No wind.
It’s the kind of silence that doesn’t belong in nature.
It’s waiting.
I swing my leg over the bike, pull off my helmet, and hook it over the handlebars before slipping the backpack from my shoulders.
“Alright, Pixie,” I call, turning in a slow circle as though she’s simply standing behind one of the trees refusing to answer the door. “I know you’re here, and I know you can hear me, so you can stop pretending you’re busy.”
Nothing.
I click my tongue.
“You spent three days haunting me. The least you could do is commit to the bit.”
Still nothing.
I crouch beside the backpack and pull out the paper bag, taking my time opening it just in case she’s dramatic enough to reveal herself the moment the smell reaches her.
“I brought peace offerings,” I announce. “Which, considering you tried to psychologically dismantle me yesterday, is objectively very generous of me.”
I reach inside and pull out one of the pretzels, holding it up like I’m presenting evidence in court.
“The bakery lady now believes I’m romantically involved with someone mysterious, so if you don’t show up, I’m going to look like a liar.”
Silence.
“I don’t enjoy disappointing old women.”
Another pause.
“Actually, that’s not true. I disappoint people all the time.”
I grin to myself before tearing off a piece of the pretzel and taking a bite.
“Mmm.”
I nod approvingly.
“That’s excellent.”
Another bite.
“You know, I bought enough for both of us, but I’m rapidly losing my willingness to share.”
The forest remains perfectly still.
Not a branch creaks.
Not a leaf stirs.
It feels less like being ignored and more like someone is standing inches behind me, smiling while they wait for me to say one stupid thing too many.
Naturally, I give them exactly that.
“I was hoping our second date would involve slightly less attempted murder.”
The words barely leave my mouth before something cold brushes across the back of my boot.
I glance down just in time to watch a thick root emerge from beneath the leaves and curl itself lazily around my ankle.
“…Well,” I murmur, looking toward the trees instead of the root. “Somebody woke up grumpy.”
A second root slips around my other ankle.
Then another.
They move with unsettling patience, winding higher around my boots as though they’re in no hurry whatsoever because they already know exactly how this ends.
I laugh under my breath.
“I knew the silent treatment wouldn’t last.”
The roots tighten. Not painfully. Just enough to answer me.
“There she is.”
The pressure vanishes so abruptly that I barely have time to register it before every root wrapped around my legs jerks in the opposite direction.
Hard.
My feet disappear from beneath me as though the forest has hooked a winch to my ankles. One second I’m standing there holding a pretzel, the next I’m airborne, my back slamming into the ground hard enough to force every ounce of air from my lungs.
“Jesus Chri—”
The words never make it out.
The roots don’t stop.
They drag me several feet across the forest floor, dead leaves and loose branches tearing beneath my jacket while my fingers claw uselessly at the dirt.
The paper bag tumbles from my hand, pastries scattering in every direction before one of the roots whips past and sends it flying into the undergrowth.
“Pixie!” I cough, half laughing despite the fact that I can barely breathe. “Bit aggressive for someone getting free breakfast, don’t you think?”
The answer comes as another savage pull.
My body skids over a thick root buried just beneath the leaves, throwing me upward before my head crashes into the exposed trunk of an old tree with a sickening crack.
White explodes across my vision.
Every sound disappears.
For a strange, suspended moment, I don’t feel the pain at all. There’s only the distant ringing inside my skull and the blurred outline of the canopy spinning slowly above me, the branches weaving together until they become impossible to separate from one another.
Well… that’s probably not ideal.
The thought barely finishes before the darkness surges in from the edges of my vision, swallowing the trees, the light, and finally the forest itself.
Then there is nothing.