Page 53 of Faun Over Me

Rumors of a monster in the woods. The monster that had chased Cricket lingering at the camp, chasing Avery and destroying her cabin. Her signatures on the papers and that lavender and wintergreen scent clinging to the Georgia Man. Whatever he was going to do, it was happening tonight.

“Cricket, for the Gods’ sake,” Ramble cursed, their voice closer. Cricket glanced back, spotting their silhouette through the darkened trees, and she shouldered into a run. The first hoof-fall on her injured leg warbled up her thigh, her ankle protesting and hoof pinching. On a good day, on two good hooves, it would only take her an hour and a half to run the ridges between Green Bank and Elkwater. Two, if she kept to the well-trod deer trail; three, if she attempted the run in poor weather.

But injured, exhausted, and wound tighter than a banjo string? The weather might be clear, but the best Cricket could hope for was three.

The dinner would have just started and the Georgia Man wouldn’t attempt anything in daylight. All of the attacks had occurred at night when the camp was quiet, and the moon high overhead.

That’s not true.

She tripped over a root at the thought, hissing and spitting.

Because it wasn’t true. The monster had chased her at night during a storm and then again a few hours after dawn. She vividly recalled the pale orb of the moon, just visible in the sky as she cowered in a thorn bush.

She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists, fear driving her up a small hill and over a creek. All she had was the hope that the monster, the Georgia Man, would wait until full dark—until after dinner. But what if he didn’t?

What if she was already too late?

Fear pushed her on, adrenaline the only barrier between Cricket and the ache in her hoof as she chased the sunset over a lesser ridge, down into a ravine, and up again. Summiting Bald Knob and heading north along the ridge as the last of the day was swallowed by the trees and rolling hills.

The descent to Shavers Fork was harder than the climb. Full dark swallowed the Monongahela the moment the sun was out of sight, and she stumbled, her eyes unused to the deep, impenetrable black. Her ankle throbbed with every step, and her hoof felt as though someone had driven an iron spike into the pads, but she pressed on, following the creek at a pace no human could match.

The moon rose at her back, casting the woods in sultry blue light. As if on cue, an eager howl shattered the night.

Cricket grabbed the narrow trunk of a tree, jerking to a halt, her ears pricked, and every hair along her neck raised. She knew that howl, and she knew the terror of hearing it close at her back. She knew it over the sound of wild thunder and over ridgelines, and to hear it now meant only one thing: the monster had begun his hunt, and Cricket was too late.

22

Avery

The blood-red pinpricks of tail lights vanished behind a bend in the road, and Mac wilted against the porch, letting out a long, sustained sigh.

“What a sanctimonious bunch of—”

“Assholes,” Avery stated, earning a wry grin from Mac. “You’re not really thinking of working with them to find investors, are you?”

“No?” She cocked her head, brows screwed together. “Maybe?” She heaved off the porch rail and collapsed into a rocking chair, legs stretched out, her heels driving into the planks. “I want to expand, bring in a choir program, performing arts, the works, but we’re barely operating in the black as it is. The pianos need tuning, the concert hall needs new lights, the field is full of holes, half the bleachers collapsed in that storm, we only have two functional bullhorns,” she counted off on her fingers, frowned at all five, and dropped her hand with a slap against her thigh. “Cooky says we need a new walk-in, and the nurse’s office needs a new roof. We need the money.”

Avery propped her elbows on the railing, scanning the woods at the edge of the parking lot. A narrow gap in the trees, barely visible from their singular streetlamp, marked the start of a trail that serpentined behind the camp, connecting to the broader trail systems she and the campers frequently used and, eventually, to the Monongahela National Forest system.

“How much land does the camp own?” She tipped her head at the trees. “Could we sell any to fund repairs?”

“Nope.” The rocking chair creaked as Mac pushed her feet against the porch. “Elkwater owns the land outright. I tried to portion some of it off a few years ago to open an RV campground, but the National Park Service requires us to keep a perimeter of undeveloped woodland. Something about noise control.”

A howl rippled over the ridgelines, punctuating Mac’s words. Avery frowned in the direction of the sound. It came from far beyond the camp, but the mournful, haunting note was as clear as if it had been sung directly in her ear. Floorboards creaked at her back, and Mac stepped beside her.

“I’ll go check the field,” she said, eyes trained on the trees. “You good to do a cabin sweep?” Avery nodded and started down the stairs, halting as Mac brushed her shoulder. “Cabins, and then straight to the practice room. Lock the doors behind you, alright? And if you hear or see anything, you run straight back here.”

“I will.”

“I mean it, Avery. If you hear any sound or see any hint of anything suspicious, you’ll come back here. There’s a rifle in the closet in my room; the locker code is the last four digits of the camp phone. Shells are on the top shelf. Do you know how to fire a gun?”

Her stomach dropped, her tongue going dry at the implication of what Mac thought might be in the woods. She hadn’t told her about that moment in the kitchen with Troy; she hadn’t been able to find the words. How did you explain to your boss that a businessman trapped you in a kitchen and smelled you?

Still, she managed one tight dip of her chin. “I do.”

“Be quick.” Mac nodded, mouth a tight line. She squeezed Avery’s shoulder and released. Avery rushed down the stairs and was halfway to the main trail leading through the camp when Mac called out, “Hey, Avery?” The director descended the stairs, the tight strain to her expression softening. “About you and Cricket …”

“I’m sorry,” said Avery. A flush heated her neck and cheeks, and she ducked her head. “I know it’s probably inapprop—”

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