Page 44 of When the Woods Go Silent

“You could do better,” he murmurs, and I frown. What the hell is his problem? I refuse to give him the attention he wants, instead doing a quick wave and taking off toward the bookshop without another word. He’s creepy, and I definitely owe Rose an apology for the whole double-date thing.

Rounding the corner away fromGoblin Market, I decide to detour through the woods on the way home. Their velvety blackness is always centering, and I need the soft sounds of the night animals and the rustling of the breeze to make me feel like myself again.

But the woods are silent when I enter between the trees.

It feels like all the animals have gone into hiding and are holding their collective breaths, and even the wind has paused to watch what might happen. Tingles of excitement run up my spine as I recognize how it felt to be a child in these woods - motionless and waiting between the motionless, quiet trees. Watching for the magic.

Braced for the power.

It’s theexactfeeling I’ve been chasing for so long, and finally, the fog clears from my brain. Is this the moment I’ve been waiting for? Will I see the fae woman tonight, after all these years?

It’s oddly much colder down here than on the rooftop, though, and the white puff of my breath is the only movement I see. The careful crunch of my boots on dry leaves is the only sound.

I flatten my palm against a tree trunk, and it seems to vibrate beneath my touch.

“I’m listening,” I whisper to the woods, forgetting all about the ending to my date. “Show me your magic.”

A leaf falls from somewhere above me, drifting down to brush softly against my fingers, and I bend to pick it up. Pocketing the soft new leaf, I make my way deeper, farther away from all things human.

“I’m listening,” I whisper again, hope nearly swallowing me whole as I hunt for the magic.

But the woods remain silent, and the trees don’t choose tonight to speak to me.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

ROSE

My thigh is aching more after the walk home.

Safely inside my bedroom behind several locked doors, I yank the curtains tightly closed against the blank darkness of the forest beyond. Suddenly feeling unbearably dirty, I rip off all my clothing and toss it onto the laundry pile. A hot bath will hopefully fix everything, letting me wash away all the ick of the night.

I dump in a bunch of Epsom bath salts because I think they help healing, and as the water rises, I sit on the edge of the tub, finally ready to examine the bite on my thigh.

Except.

It’s not there.

The blood is there. I scoop a handful of warm water onto my thigh and rinse it away, pink water dribbling onto the plush bathmat. Underneath is nothing but smooth, unbroken skin.

Not even a bruise, even though the skin is tender.

What the actual fuck?

My brain spirals back to the nights when I heard window glass breaking, yet never found any damage. When I impossibly cut my finger on a pristine pane of glass. And when the motion alarm woke me up, but every camera was blank.

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