Chapter 13
Colt
I was fully prepared to believe I’d died.
Not because there were angels, heavenly choirs, or any of the other things people always seem to describe after near-death experiences, but because no living human being should wake up feeling like they’ve been hit by a truck, reversed over by the same truck just to make sure the job was done properly, and then politely rolled down a hill for good measure.
As it turns out, I am very much alive. Honestly, I’m not sure how I feel about that.
Every breath pulls at something in my chest that immediately files a formal complaint, my head pounds with the enthusiasm of a construction crew working overtime, and I’m reasonably confident somebody replaced every muscle in my body with rusted barbed wire while I was unconscious.
I leave my eyes closed for another moment, partly because opening them feels like unnecessary effort and partly because there’s still a tiny, optimistic part of me hoping this is all one incredibly elaborate nightmare brought on by questionable Romanian alcohol.
Unfortunately, the pain refuses to disappear.
Well… That’s disappointing.
With all the determination of a man making the worst decision of his morning, I slowly force my eyes open.
The ceiling above me certainly isn’t the one from my hotel, and it’s definitely not a hospital either, which is immediately reassuring because hospitals have an annoying habit of asking where it hurts, and I simply don’t have enough fingers to point at every location.
Dark wooden beams stretch overhead, sunlight spills lazily through tall windows somewhere to my right, and the entire room smells faintly of cedar, herbs, and a fireplace that’s been burning long enough to make the place feel lived in instead of abandoned.
I don’t move anything except my head.
That turns out to be painful enough.
Slowly, I glance around the room, trying to figure out where the hell I ended up, because unless the Romanian healthcare system has undergone a truly fascinating redesign, hospitals generally don’t come with stone walls, towering bookshelves, antique furniture, and enough dried plants hanging from the ceiling to open the world’s oldest herbal tea shop.
Then yesterday comes crashing back.
The hunters.
The clearing.
The gunshot.
Pixie.
The last thing I remember is watching everything disappear into darkness. Which raises a fairly important question. Where the hell is the homicidal forest witch?
“Good morning, little man.”
The voice is warm enough to make me freeze.
“I was beginning to think you intended to sleep through the entire day.”
I turn toward the sound as carefully as my body allows, already regretting the decision before I’ve even finished moving my head.
Pixie stands in the doorway with a steaming cup balanced between her hands, looking entirely too pleased to find me conscious.
And unless the blood loss has finally reached my brain… she almost looks relieved.
“Morning, Pixie.”
The greeting slips out before I have the chance to stop it. A heartbeat later, the memory of spending quality time hanging upside down from one of her trees comes rushing back with remarkable clarity.
“…Sorry.”
Her eyebrow arches ever so slightly.
“I don’t actually know your name, and I’d rather avoid offending you again.”
For a moment, she just watches me.
“Amara Baciu.”
I can’t help smiling. “Same as the forest’s name, right?”
“The forest took mine,” she corrects.
“That somehow sounds even creepier.”
Silence settles between us for a moment before I look back at her.
“What happened after I passed out?”
“The remaining two hunters will trouble no one ever again. You intervened in a fight against four armed men despite being hopelessly outnumbered.”
“I’ve done dumber things.”
“I do not doubt it.” The corner of her mouth twitches. “…Nevertheless.” Her voice softens just enough for me to notice. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For saving my life.”
I hold her gaze for a second before shrugging as much as my ribs will allow. “You’re welcome. And… thank you for returning the favor.”
“Not quite.”
The warmth disappears from her expression, replaced by the calm composure I’d grown used to.
“You are alive. That is not the same thing as healed.”
A knot forms somewhere in my stomach.
“…Define ‘not healed.’”
“The bullet is still inside you.”
She delivers it as a simple fact, no different than stating the sun had set.
“I chose to wait until you regained enough strength before removing it.”
Well… That explains why breathing still feels like a terrible hobby.
Amara disappears into the kitchen without another word, leaving me alone with the increasingly unpleasant realization that whatever she has planned for me apparently involves sharp objects.
I really should’ve stayed unconscious.
She returns a moment later carrying an old, dark green bottle whose faded label surrendered to time centuries ago. Two crystal glasses rest on a small wooden tray beside it.
Without a word, she sets the tray upon the table.
The cork comes free with a quiet pop before she pours the wine. It is so dark it looks almost black until the morning light catches the rim of the glass.
She offers one to me.
“Drink.”
I take the glass but don’t bring it to my lips.
“You’re either rewarding me… or you’re about to do something I’ll regret.”
“The latter.”
“…Well.” I glance at the wine. “At least you’re honest.”
“You will appreciate it in a few moments.”
“…Should I ask why?”
“You may.”
“I have a feeling I’m not going to like the answer.”
“You will not.”
She sets the bottle aside before unfolding a clean cloth across the table. One by one, she places several metal instruments upon it with the calm precision of someone laying out cutlery for dinner.
“The hunter neglected to reclaim what he left behind.”
It takes me a second. Then my eyes slowly drift toward my chest.
“…That’s a sentence I would’ve preferred hearing after lunch.”
“I have no intention of waiting that long.”
Fair enough.
I empty the glass in several long swallows before handing it back to her.
The wine is unlike anything I’ve ever tasted. Rich, warm, with spices I can’t identify, and strong enough to spread heat through my entire body almost immediately.
Amara walks around the sofa and, with surprising care, she folds the blanket away from my body.
My gaze immediately drops to my chest.
Well… That’s new. The wound is covered by a thick layer of dark green paste that smells of crushed herbs, damp earth and pine. It looks like someone emptied half the forest into a bowl, mixed it together, and decided modern medicine had become entirely overrated.
Then again… The woman kneeling beside me also made trees attack people yesterday. I’m beginning to suspect her qualifications extend well beyond whatever medical school usually requires.
She gently wipes the paste away with a damp cloth before arranging the forceps, fresh linen, and a small bowl filled with more of the strange mixture beside her knee.
“I require one thing from you.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask.”
“Remain still.”
“I’ll do my best.”
She finally looks up.
“I was not asking.”
Somehow… That sounds considerably more convincing.
Look at her already ordering me around.
She studies the wound for another moment before slipping the narrow blade into her hand. One precise movement is all it takes to reopen the path the bullet carved through my chest.
Pain detonates through my entire body, and every muscle locks.
“…Fuck.”
She continues working as though I haven’t spoken.
“I should prefer not to repair the damage twice.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know.”
The forceps disappear into the wound. Pressure builds somewhere beneath my ribs. Not sharp. Not burning. Just… Wrong. It feels like somebody has reached inside my chest and forgotten human beings generally object to that sort of thing.
Sweat gathers along my forehead, and I grip the edge of the sofa until my fingers ache.
“…I don’t suppose centuries of practice have made this part hurt less?”
“They have.” She adjusts the forceps ever so slightly. “For me.”
A strained laugh escapes before immediately turning into a groan. “I walked right into that one.”
“You have demonstrated a remarkable talent for doing precisely that.”
The forceps press deeper, as pain tears through me hard enough to blur the room around the edges.
“…Christ…”
“You faced four armed men yesterday without hesitation.” Her voice remains perfectly calm. “I find it curious that this is the ordeal you consider unbearable.”
“I wasn’t lying on a sofa while someone rummaged around inside my chest yesterday.”
“I concede the circumstances are different.”
A quiet clink echoes through the room.
“There.”
One slow pull, and everything inside my chest feels as though it’s being dragged along with it. My breath catches. The room spins. Then—a blood-covered bullet lands in the metal tray with a soft clink. She studies it for a brief moment before setting the forceps aside.
“It is done.”
I let my head fall back against the cushion and stare at the ceiling for several long seconds.
“…Next time,” I say between slow breaths, “I’m voting for the hospital.”
“Next time,” she replies as she reaches for the bowl of herbs once more, “stay away from this forest.”
She gathers a small amount of the cool green mixture onto her fingertips before looking at me.
“…And away from me.”
“I’m sorry.” I say as I meet her eyes.
She says nothing.
“I should’ve listened.”
“You should have.”
“I wasn’t talking about the forest.”
For the first time since I woke up, something softens in her expression. Barely. Enough that I’m no longer entirely certain I imagined it.
She lowers her gaze and begins spreading the herbal paste around the wound. The cool sensation is a welcome relief after everything she’d just put me through.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You already are.”
“…Can I ask you for another glass?”
She pauses.
“I believe you’ve had enough.”
“I’ve also just had a bullet removed without anesthesia.”
A quiet sigh escapes her.
“It is a poor argument.”
“…But still an argument.”