Page 45 of When the Woods Go Silent

No. Absolutely not. This is not the same, and I didnotimagine that asshole biting me.

There’s blood, for fuck’s sake. Still, my hands start to shake, and my heart is pounding so hard that a hot bath suddenly sounds like a very bad idea. I might pass out and drown, and then where would we be? I shut the water off abruptly and dive naked under my covers, pulling them over my head like a frightened child.

My stomach still rolls with unexplained nausea. My thigh still smarts from an invisible wound. And I’m so, so confused.

It feels like I’m being gaslighted, except the only one responsible for it is me. I’m the one telling the story, and if I can’t trust my mind, what’s left?

I’ve worked too fucking hard in therapy to become my own unreliable narrator again.

Focusing on my breathing, I struggle to control the spiral of anxiety. Ruby is safe somewhere, and I’m not hurt. Confused, but not hurt. Things will make more sense in the morning. I repeat the positive thoughts again and again until the words feel like nonsense sounds, but I’m gradually calming. Keeping my head under the covers, I try to distract myself by scrolling social media for nearly an hour, tossing and turning without getting sleepy.

My mind is spinning slower now, but still spinning, and I wish I had a sleeping pill or something.

“This is ridiculous,” I finally mutter, wrapping myself in the blanket and padding out to the kitchen. I’ll make some chamomile tea at least. But the gifted bottle of pomegranate liqueur catches my eye, and I uncork the top to sniff the golden liquid. My stomach doesn’t rebel now, and I wonder if alcohol would be quicker than tea at this point.

Not bothering with a glass, I tip the bottle to my lips and try a few sips. It warms my insides and soothes me instantly, something settling in my core with a heavy, sensual weight. The nausea doesn’t return, so I take another swig, already feelingmore relaxed. So much better. Filling a glass with water, I head to my room, turning back at the last second to grab the liqueur.

Scrunching down under the covers again, I sip a little more, savoring the tart-sweet taste as I play a matching game on my phone. The combination finally lulls my thoughts, and eventually, my eyes grow heavy. Just as I reach out of my blanket cocoon to put my phone on charge, I hear the door of the shop open downstairs, and the beeping of someone resetting the alarm.

Ruby. She’s home. She’s safe. I’m not alone anymore, and that knowledge soothes the last bit of restless worry in my mind. Finally, my eyes slide closed, and I sink quickly into the blissful nothingness of deep sleep.

THE WOODS

The fire-haired girl is no longer at the window, watching us, unaware that we watch her back, tapping at the building to find its weakest places.

She came here as a wall, shutting us out completely. But she’s crumbling, bit by bit, as her awareness grows. More than many humans, she has chinks in her wall.

We would like to widen those chinks and draw her within our trunks, deeper and deepest.

Our vines crawl across the building beneath the silver moon, creeping up the walls made from our fallen kin, circling to find any entrance. We need to read the rings, and we would like to taste the girl. Something sings in her, a song we have long forgotten.

There. A place where glass does not quite meet wood. The tiniest vine wriggles inside, wrapping up and around the wood, loosening it. Widening the space for larger vines, larger still, until we can almost...

The glass splinters. Stabs.

Sap flows, but still we must find the rings. We must read the rings. The building is silent, and the girl still sleeps, so we press forward. What is a little sap lost, when we are about to remember everything?

Branches stretch to sweep the building, vines crawling pitter patter up the walls until we find the rings. Yes, but no. Not in boxes, safe where the old man kept them, but dangerously displayed for anyone to read. Does the girl have any idea what she’s done? What the Dark Mother could do with these rings?

We snatch the rings and spin them open one by one, faster and faster, shredding the knowledge as we consume it.

This magic is for the woods. Only the woods.

But this cloud-dark moon is busy, and before we are done reading, we must grow still to watch and listen. Not inside the building, but inside ourselves. Other creatures, unbelonging and unwelcome, roam between our trunks.

Time is short. Retreat. Retry. Gather and protect.

Weaving our vines around the rest of the rings, tight like an unfurled leaf, we pull them along the forest floor to hide at the heart. To bury among the roots and hide at the heart. To bury among the roots and keep the rings safe.

Then, now, we can turn again toward the unbelonging creatures. The cold, careless woman with white-blue skin sneaks through the caves, sewing her skeins of frost throughout the dirt. She weaves a network of ice that should have no place here. She must be watched. We press the rings tighter into the heart, hiding them deeper and deeper.

And there, closer to the human town, are men with ice in their blood and blood on their soles as they tramp through the moss and leaves, dragging metal and heavy bags of dead things. Our roots curl tighter around the rings, wrapping them andbinding them, binding them and wrapping them, away from the cold and the dead.

“This is the second time this week I’ve needed to hide a body,” says the golden-eyed one, and in the caves, we feel the cold one pause, listening to the freeze of their magic as though it sings to her.

“Like I said, accident. It won’t happen again.” The words from the other man are hard and cold, though he himself is not as cold as the other two. He has ice only in his heart, not his fingers. He is weaker, though he tries to hide the weakness.

“No, Arlo, it fucking won’t. Or you’ll be the one I bury next. You know we can’t afford any fucking attention right now, and if you can’t control the servers better, you’re no good to me.”

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