Hunted By Fae (Hunted By Fae #1)

Chapter 1

ONE

BEE

The heat of this town is drier than the deserts beyond the ridges. It beats down on me and thickens the night air with a sort of suffocation I have only ever felt before with a Halloween mask pulled over my head.

My lungs are tight in my chest, scraping and clawing for a full, fresh breath, and the sweat that clams my skin isn’t exactly helping.

I need a break. An escape. Shade and a breeze.

The mere thought is a relief.

Flapping my hands, I give an enthusiastic no! to the Californian country guy trying to pull me into another swing around. Line dancing, they call it, this outdoor gathering of country folk in boots and hats, kicking about the dirt.

Tesni called it a honky tonk once.

That might be my favourite set of words.

“Country dance,” Tesni tried to correct herself with that bared-teeth look of hers, the look she gives when she’s so not in the mood for teasing, but it’s a honky tonk, and I am never changing my mind on that.

And at this in-the-desert-honky-tonk-outdoor-line-dancing-dirt-fest, I am sweating my ass off.

The guy gives up and delves into the crowd to find another dance partner, one who is probably better skilled at line dancing than I am.

I pinch the front of my t-shirt and tug it back and forth, wafting fresh air through the fabric.

The clamminess of my skin is quick to soothe.

But with the afternoon sun sweltering down on me from above and scorching this desert to total dehydration, I take a beat—and duck under the canvas roof of a popup bar.

The shade is an instant reprieve from the harsh sun—but the heat still swells around me.

Wish I was back in Canada already.

That was the plan.

London to Vancouver, then drive the campervan across Canada, change over for a car before heading down to New York—the state, not the city.

But Louise just had to go pick up precious Ruby from LAX when her flights got all muddled up, and I’m apparently an asshole for suggesting Ruby do something without Louise holding her hand through it, like catching a connecting flight and meeting us in North California.

So here we are.

Last minute trip down to L.A. in the Winnebago, picked up Ruby, now heading back to the border—and stopping off in little country towns on the way to make the detour worthwhile.

It’s not bad, actually.

But I don’t like to go off schedule.

I especially don’t like being trapped under the scorching sun, a heat that is only ever to be temporarily enjoyed, not lived in. A week of this is too much.

With a fistful of menus from the tall wooden table, I fan myself under the shade of the pop-up bar’s canvas roof. Hot air wafts in my face, and I fleetingly wish I’d brought the little handheld fan that Tesni bought me two towns back. Left it in the Winnebago back at camp.

“Get a drink or get out!”

I turn my dark, tired stare on the bearded man poking his head out of the beer-truck.

He leans over the edge of the counter, impatient. “Seats are for customers only!”

I don’t have the strength for a fight. Not after a long day and night in the Winnebago with Ramona, Louise, Ruby and Tesni, then a full day of line dancing out in the dirt with only beer to hydrate me.

My shoulders delate with a huff.

I cave in to the temptation.

Shade and beer.

What’s there to complain about?

The beer comes in a flimsy plastic cup that, if my grip tightens a bit too much, dents under the pressure.

I’m careful to angle the rim at my mouth, then sip and sip and sip, until it’s filled to a comfortable, safe level, and I can perch myself on a wooden stool, the sort of seat that is never good for lower back pain.

I scan the honky tonk. My mouth tugs at the term, the echo of a smile.

The fairy lights that zigzag from popup van to food truck aren’t turned on yet, not with the daylight swelling over the burnt earth, and there are more denim-and-boots combos than I can count.

But the joy of the day is written on the faces of those flinging themselves around in dance to the live music blasting from the band on the stage.

I look over to the row of portable toilets down the way, where a bedazzled pink-velvet hat bobs in a sea of leather and straw cowboy hats.

I recognise the obnoxious hat.

The very same one Louise picked up in town earlier this morning. Even from a distance, the hot pink clashes with her fiery red hair, dyed and cheap-looking, but unmistakable in a crowd.

She waits in line for the portable toilets.

I narrow my stare through the dancing heat waves and find that Ramona and Ruby are with her, sharing a cheap silvery flask of bourbon between them.

Ramona’s dark braids stick to her shoulders, clammed with sweat; Ruby’s golden tendrils are brushed out into something a bit on the shaggy side.

Tesni isn’t with them.

Something flickers in my chest, the fleeting touch of a cold panic.

I scan for her, flickering my gaze from face to face, searching for a faint dusting of soft freckles, pale peachy hair split into Dutch braids, and a simple getup of all black—a black t-shirt, black jeans, black boots.

Found her.

And her predictability tugs a smile onto my lips.

There, on the hood of a beat-up truck, old and rusted with chipped blue paint, Tesni is planted on the hood—with a guy between her legs.

His face is nuzzled into the crook of her neck, but Tess apparently couldn’t care less about him, as she never really does care much for me.

His softly murmured words, his hands grazing up the meat of her thighs to rest on her hips, it’s all background touch and sound to her.

Her face is angled to the radio perched on the edge of the hood.

Kind of rude for someone to bring along a radio to play while there’s a literal band up on the stage.

Tess fiddles with a dial, either turning the volume up to hear over the blaring band or finding a new station to listen to, because frankly, Tesni doesn’t give a damn about being rude.

The muscles in my shoulders are softer now that I know where she is.

I guzzle down the last of the beer before it gets too warm.

The flimsy plastic crinkles in my clammy grip before I aim for the bin on the brink of overfill.

I toss it and it lands with clatter.

My breath pins to my chest.

I watch the plastic cup swirl, as if ready to topple off the pile and hit the dirt.

But it doesn’t.

I spare my perfect aim a smirk before I throw the weight of my crossbody bag onto the tall bar table, then fish out a compact.

It’s cool to the touch, a cold metal on my palm, as I consider myself in the mini mirror. There’s a faint distortion to the reflection, like a camera zoomed in and warped.

The look I give myself is grim.

Sweat.

It is my ruin.

It sticks mousy strands of hair to my temples and jaw and neck; it gathers above my brow in a glisten; runs mascara under my eyes, a smudge that I’m quick to wipe at; and all traces of lipstick are gone.

I start on the pointless effort of fixing my ghastly appearance. I peel hairs from my face, one strand at a time, then tuck them behind my ears as though they will stay put, which of course they won’t.

I need a hair elastic, like now.

With a huff, I snap the compact shut and cram it back into the bag. Keys jangle, credit cards slide around, cash crinkles. I wrestle the zip shut—then cringe.

A heavy buzz carries overhead.

I turn my panicked gaze up at the buzz, a deep bass humming right above me—and I expect to see a couple of wasps hovering there.

That’s not what I find.

Dozens of flies, a hundred maybe, are huddled together—a drifting cloud of buzzing darkness.

No, not drifting.

There is direction, there is unity in them.

Flies, huddled, congregated—and all moving in the direction of the unofficial parking lot.

There’s either a freshly deceased corpse for them to feast on out that way, or flies have started to work in tandem.

I spare the dark cloud an odd look before I slip the bag off the table.

My gaze abandons the flies and rediscovers Tesni.

She’s right where I last saw her, on the hood of the pickup truck. Only, the guy between her legs has drawn back a step, no longer focused on kissing down her neck.

Both of them are just… staring at the radio, as if hypnotised.

I tug away from the table, boots scuffing over dead grass. My frown digs deeper into my face, turns my mouth down at the corners, as I watch Tesni flap her hand in the guy’s face, a shut the fuck up, then she turns the volume up on the radio.

At the next truck over, an older couple are inching closer to Tesni, to the radio, severe twists to their faces, frowns of concentration—or worry.

What the announcement is, I don’t know, but I recognise the slack look on Tesni’s face, the worry edging into her, then the nervous way she bites down on her bottom lip. Not a coy gesture, not cute, but that anxious thing she does, literally chews and rips at her own lip skin when things are bad.

I’ve seen her do it twice before. Just twice.

Those two times, shit got real. Literal housemate fights in the kitchen and that time Tesni brought a glass bottle down on a guy’s head.

Instinct has my insides running cold at the sight of it, Tess redirecting pain onto herself in an attempt to stop her impending explosion.

My grip tightens on the strap of my bag.

I take a side-step around the table, watching as more people draw closer to the hood of the truck—to the radio.

Now, a handful of people surround it.

Faces are furrowed, brows sweaty, hands flapping to shush those who dare speak over the warble of the announcement, and quizzical looks are exchanged.

The oddity of it is enough to draw in more attention, lure people closer to the hood of the pickup truck.

That chilled trepidation in my chest is spreading.

I make to push into the crowd, to leave the shade of the popup bar, but I manage only one step before a sudden shriek splits the air—but not human.

My heart slingshots.

I swerve my wild gaze up at the sky.

It’s not flies this time.

It’s not buzzing.

It’s… a plague of birds.