Chapter 8
Colt
I remain exactly where she left me, staring at the gap between the trees where she’d vanished as though glaring hard enough might convince an immortal forest witch to come back and apologize.
She doesn’t. Why would she?
The forest grows quiet, as though trying to convince me it hadn’t spent the last few minutes attempting to bury me alive with the enthusiasm of someone disposing of an inconvenient body.
I let out a slow breath, only to wince when my ribs protest the movement.
My heartbeat is still pounding against my chest, and no matter how many times I remind myself that I’m standing on solid ground again, I can’t quite shake the memory of the earth giving way beneath my feet.
For one very unpleasant moment, I genuinely believed I was about to become part of the landscape.
“…Right,” I mutter. “Let’s never do that again.”
I look down at myself and immediately regret it.
My jeans are covered in dirt. My jacket is covered in dirt. I’m fairly certain there’s dirt in places the human body was never designed to store dirt.
I brush it from my jacket, which somehow only succeeds in moving it around. Judging by the handful of leaves sticking out of my sleeve, the forest has apparently decided I should take a souvenir home.
I pull a twig out of my hair, then another, followed by a small clump of moss that I stare at for a moment before sighing.
“I’m going to be finding this shit in my clothes until Christmas.”
I flick the last clump of moss onto the ground and turn toward my motorcycle, already mentally adding “almost buried alive by an immortal witch” to the ever-growing list of things I probably shouldn’t mention at family dinners.
A gunshot echoes through the forest.
I stop and listen.
A second follows a few moments later.
Different timing.
Same direction.
Automatically, my head turns toward the sound before I even realize I’m doing it. Years of doing very questionable work for very questionable people have a way of rewiring your brain. Gunfire isn’t something I run from. It’s something I count.
Two shots.
Same caliber.
No return fire.
Interesting.
I glance toward my bike.
Then back toward the trees.
“Well… that can’t be good.”
I change direction without giving it another thought and head for the motorcycle. She waits exactly where I left her, looking painfully out of place among centuries-old trees and whatever supernatural bullshit I’ve apparently decided to make my problem.
“Good girl.” I murmur, patting the fuel tank.
I crouch beside my backpack and pull the zipper open. Everything is exactly where I left it.
The Glock comes out first. I eject the magazine, count the rounds out of habit, slide it back into place, and ease the slide back just enough to confirm there’s already one in the chamber. Ready.
I hold it there for a moment.
“Nah.”
A grin tugs at the corner of my mouth as I slip it back into the backpack.
“I’ve had enough foreplay for one day. Time to get properly fucked up.”
My fingers find the first army knife. Then the second.
Now we’re talking.
I slide one into the sheath on my left hip and tuck the other inside my jacket, where I can draw it in a heartbeat. The familiar weight settles something inside me.
I zip the backpack closed and shove it farther beneath the low branches beside the bike, hidden well enough that nobody’s likely to stumble across it unless they know exactly where to look.
“Stay.” I pat the seat once before turning toward the sound of the gunfire.
“Let’s go see who’s making all that noise.”
The forest grows quieter with every step, not because the birds have stopped singing, but because they’ve already flown. That alone tells me more than the gunshots did.
Another crack echoes through the trees, closer this time, and I stop beside a thick tree trunk before lowering into a crouch and letting my eyes travel through the undergrowth instead of searching straight ahead.
Most people look for a person. I look for whatever gives them away first. A boot between the roots. A sleeve brushing against bark. The brief edge of a rifle barrel catching what little light manages to reach the ground.
Voices drift through the trees.
Men.
At least four, judging by the different tones cutting over one another, although a fifth voice joins them a moment later from somewhere farther to the left. Fast, aggressive Romanian men, which means I understand absolutely nothing beyond the fact that nobody sounds particularly happy to be here.
One of them laughs while another answers with a string of words that contains pula at least twice.
Finally, something familiar.
I move closer, placing each step where the moss is thickest and avoiding the dry branches scattered beneath the leaves. The voices sharpen as the distance between us disappears, but the language remains useless until one word carries clearly through the rest.
“Vr?jitoarea.”
I stop. I don’t need Mihai standing beside me to translate that one.
The witch.
They’re looking for her. Well, that’s inconvenient.
I close the remaining distance slowly until the trees thin enough to reveal five men spread across a small clearing, each of them dressed in dark tactical gear and carrying enough weaponry to make it obvious they didn’t wander into Hoia Baciu looking for a scenic hike.
Four rifles.
One shotgun.
A radio clipped to the vest of the man standing closest to the center.
They came prepared.
One of them crouches beside a symbol carved into the trunk of an old tree while another spits near the roots and says something that makes the rest laugh.
A third raises his rifle and fires into the forest without warning.
I watch the recoil kick through his shoulder and almost feel offended on behalf of anyone who ever taught him how to handle a weapon. Too much noise. Too much talking. Too much confidence from men who haven’t noticed they’re no longer alone.
I study them for several more seconds, cataloging positions, distances, weapons, and the quickest route between each body in case this becomes my problem.
Then one of them straightens and shouts toward the trees.
“Am g?sit-o!”
Every head turns in the same direction.
Including mine.