Chapter 9
Colt
Pixie steps out from between the trees without the slightest trace of urgency, moving with the same impossible calm she’d worn while threatening to bury me alive less than ten minutes ago.
Her copper hair spills over one shoulder as she crosses the clearing, her long white dress untouched by the branches clawing at everyone else.
Five armed men.
One witch.
For some reason… I’m not worried about the witch.
One of the men shouts something in Romanian and raises his rifle. She doesn’t even bother looking at him. Her hand rises in one slow, almost bored motion and the ground explodes.
Roots burst through the forest floor beneath the man’s boots, throwing him off balance before wrapping around his legs, his waist, then his chest. His rifle disappears into the leaves as the roots drag him onto his back and pin him there with terrifying force.
He fights. But the forest doesn’t care.
Every attempt to break free only makes the roots tighten harder until one coils around his throat while another twists around his wrist with a sharp crack that echoes through the forest.
The screaming stops almost instantly, as the roots tighten one final time. Then they pull.
I don’t actually see what happens beneath the wall of vines. Judging by the amount of blood suddenly soaking into the ground… I don’t need to.
Nobody moves. Even the other hunters stare for half a heartbeat. The witch slowly lowers her hand, her expression never changing.
“Remind me never to piss her off again,” I whisper under my breath.
Then something changes. The oldest man in the group doesn’t look at his dead companion. He looks at her. Almost… Expectantly.
His hand disappears into the leather satchel hanging from his belt, and for a moment I can’t tell what he’s reaching for.
When it finally emerges again, he’s holding something no bigger than his palm, wrapped in faded black cloth and tied together with a strip of cracked leather that looks older than every man standing in this clearing combined.
He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t hesitate. He simply throws it.
The bundle cuts through the air in a perfect arc before striking her square in the chest. I expect it to bounce off and disappear into the leaves like any other object would, but instead it clings to the fabric of her dress as though it has grown roots of its own.
The leather binding snaps. The cloth unfolds against her chest, revealing a flat iron talisman covered in symbols I don’t recognize, each line carved so deeply into the metal that they almost seem to pulse beneath the rust coating its surface.
Her eyes drop to it. The confidence that hadn’t left her face since she stepped into the clearing flickers for the first time. She raises one hand toward the hunters again, her expression hardening as though she’s about to finish what she started.
But nothing happens. Not a single root tears through the earth. Not one branch bends. The forest, which only moments ago had moved as though it were another extension of her body, falls unnaturally still.
She tries again, this time with both hands. The ground beneath her feet trembles ever so slightly before settling back into silence, and the realization slowly spreads across her face as whatever invisible thread connected her to the forest simply… isn’t there anymore.
The oldest hunter throws his head back and laughs. The sound is quickly joined by the others until the entire clearing echoes with mocking voices.
“Care-i treaba, p?pu???” he calls, unable to hide the satisfaction in his voice. “Nu mai ai puteri?”
She doesn’t react to the laughter. She keeps staring at the iron talisman attached to her dress before finally lifting her gaze to the old man, and for the first time since I’ve met her, I hear something in her voice that I didn’t think was possible—fear.
“Ce e asta?” she demands, her eyes narrowing. “Ce mi-ai f?cut?”
The laughter dies down as the four remaining hunters begin moving again, no longer with the caution they’d shown only moments ago but with the confidence of men convinced the monster standing in front of them has finally become just another woman.
One approaches from her left. Another from her right. Neither of them rushes. They simply close the distance until they’re within arm’s reach before each grabs one of her arms, gloved hands tightening around her wrists as though expecting her to fight.
She does. I see it in the tension running through her shoulders as she tries to pull free. Nothing happens. No branches descend from above. The forest remains as silent as a grave.
The third man strolls forward with an ugly grin spreading across his face, looking less like someone hunting a centuries-old witch and more like a drunk asshole who just found a woman he thinks can’t fight back anymore.
He stops directly in front of her.
She glares at him with enough hatred to strip the bark from the surrounding trees, but he only smiles wider. His gloved hand reaches up and grabs her jaw, his fingers digging into her cheeks hard enough to force her lips into a mock pout before squeezing her face between his thumb and forefinger.
She jerks against the men holding her, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he slowly runs his thumb across her lower lip before leaning in and dragging his tongue over it with deliberate, revolting satisfaction.
Something inside me snaps.
You fucking piece of shit.
The fourth hunter circles behind her, close enough that I lose sight of him behind the white fabric of her dress, and I don’t need to understand a single word of Romanian to know exactly what they’re thinking.
My grip tightens around the knife until the handle bites into my palm.
A minute ago, I was perfectly happy to let five strangers and an immortal forest witch sort out their own problems.
Now… Now four idiots I’ve never met have decided that grabbing, restraining, and putting their filthy hands on the woman who buried me alive somehow sounded like a good idea.
The sheer fucking audacity of it makes my jaw clench.
Congratulations, gentlemen. You just volunteered.