Page 46 of When the Woods Go Silent

The men stop in a soft place and begin to move the dirt, the metal cutting through our roots to make a space for the dead things. It’s no matter. Roots regrow. The rings are far from here, deep in the heart. Here, the insects will be happy with their new meals, and their food becomes ours with time.

“There’s something else,” the other man says as they finish, and we taste his fear as it seeps into the dirt around us all. He does not want to say the something else, but he will. He is not as strong as the icy one. He is the sapling struggling to grow as tall as the oak.

“Tor, there’s something weird about that Rose girl. She didn’t go under like they usually do.”

They stare at each other, anger crackling between them like lightning.

“She didn’t eat much at dinner. You probably bit her too soon, like the impatient fucker you are, and now she has a story to tell. This is exactly why we don’t mess with locals,” he hisses.

The weak one looks up, his eyes heavy on our branches, dragging them down like spears. “She ate enough. But I bit her,and she freaked out. Stood up and walked the hell out of the restaurant. It’s not normal.”

“There’s nothing weird about her. She just didn’t have enough gobbelin blood,” the man of ice says, handing the metal to the other like he’s trying to knock him down. “Stay away from her - and any other local. Or I’ll feed you to the fae myself. Now, take this shit back to the lodge and make sure you clean up the rest of the mess. I have other things to do.”

They fall silent as they separate, weakness leaving the woods and strength going deeper. If he’s looking for the woman, he won’t need to go far. She’s been listening, creeping and crawling through her ice webs, a spider drawing her trap closer. We don’t like her. Don’t want her here among our branches and roots.

But we do not have the strength or the knowledge yet to drive her away. For now, there is other work to be done. Our roots curl around the newly dead things, poking holes in the wrapping so the insects may feed. The dead things are humans, young ones. Cold, bloodless, like leaves in the dead of winter. But still, food enough for us all.

And wait. There, another disturbance at our ragged edges. Yes, this moon is indeed busy.

The building opens, and our vines unfurl, sliding down the sides, eager to meet the girl we covet. She chooses tonight to meet us, walking into the darkness without hesitation, her soft skin naked and pale in the moonlight, fire-red hair licked by the breeze.

Does she seek the rings already? We scramble to pull aside our rocks and twigs so she will not stumble, and the tender ends of new branches sweep across her skin, tasting, tasting. Waiting to see what she will do. What she might say to us or ask of us. We will do it, for her.

Yet. Something is not right.

She... sleeps.

Something is wrong and not right. The girl whose skin smells of rain-wet roses and midnight fog does not see where she walks. Does not hear when we whisper to her. Does not belong here. Not like this. Not like this.

Something is wrong.

We wrap our vines around her wrists, curling between her fingers and back again, tangling into her bright wild hair, working to slow her steps. She needs protection. But she pulls away gently, walking on, unseeing but intent. Blind and bound to some further destination.

And the ice. Oh, the ice. The ice is coming for her, freezing our roots and cracking apart our tender buds and snapping our slender branches as it speeds toward her in the darkness.

We need help if we are to help her. We are too weak. Something is wrong.

Such ice is not meant for such fire.

Where is the gentle man? The one who whispers the old language, who moves beneath our branches like an animal, soundless and seeing everything. He will know what to do. He will help us. We search our trunks, the pine needles trembling as the message is passed from tree to tree, seeking him. Searching him.

We will draw him to the girl. He will help her. He is strong. She does not belong here, with the midnight-haired woman of ice and greed.

She does not belong here, not yet. Not like this.

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