Page 1 of The Wild Hunt

Prologue

The drums pulse through the air, vibrating through every inch of my body, resonating deep within the ground beneath my feet. The rhythm is ancient and unfamiliar, yet it speaks directly to my soul. It’s more than just sound—it’s a force that nearly drowns out my own heartbeat. But then I realize my heart isn’t being drowned out; it’s syncing with the beat, thudding in perfect harmony until nothing else exists but the relentless melody. As the drums quicken, so does the thumping in my chest, my nerves becoming more frazzled with each passing minute.

Time ticks by, and the sound grows louder, more insistent, as if it is trying to speak to me. The streets of this little town are eerily empty, even as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows that seem to stretch endlessly.

I thought I was imagining the sound when I first heard it. It woke me in the middle of the night, just a faint, rhythmic pulse that clung to the edges of my dreams. It felt like a remnantof sleep rather than reality. I rolled over in the pillowy bed of the cottage, sinking back into slumber, dismissing the sound as nothing more than a figment of my imagination.

When I woke in the morning, I rationalized it away. Maybe the sound had come from a festival, some local celebration for the winter solstice. This town was steeped in tradition, after all. I figured the festivities would have occurred during the night, so I spent the day behind the cottage, trying to ignore the persistent drums that wove through the air like a distant heartbeat. I set up my easel and painted the forest behind the cottage, forcing myself to tune out the rhythmic beat.

But as the early evening light began to fade, curiosity got the better of me. I ventured out, determined to find this elusive festival and pinpoint what about it was calling out to me.

I walk the path through the trees, the leaves rustling with each step before I enter the village, the path changing to cobblestone streets beneath my feet as I search for signs of life, of celebration. But there’s nothing. No lights, no sounds of revelry, no people. Frowning, I turn in a slow circle, taking in the shuttered windows and closed doors. I can feel eyes on me, but when I look around, there’s no one.

The drums grow louder, reverberating in my skull. I press my fingers against my temples, trying to ease the headache that’s beginning to simmer just beneath the surface. The light is fading faster now, as if the sun is being swallowed by the horizon. I sigh, saddened that I won’t be witnessing a traditional solstice festival after all. Turning back toward the cottage, I can’t help but feel disappointed about spending the evening alone.

I barely take two steps before the sun disappears completely, plunging the town into sudden darkness so quickly I have to blink my eyes a few times to adjust to the black. And with the shadows of the night comes a stillness, as if the universe itself has paused to watch what’s about to happen.

The drums stop abruptly, like someone flipped a switch, making my eyes snap up, searching. The silence that follows is so profound, so complete, that it feels unnatural after hours of relentless rhythm. My ears ring, not used to the silence as my heart beats out of rhythm, trying to find what kept it steady but failing. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, feeling the tension drain from my body as my muscles finally relax when I believe I’m alone.

A cool breeze sweeps through the empty street, swirling around me, lifting the strands of my long red hair. Normally, I’d keep it tied back, but today the hair tie seemed too tight, worsening my headache. I stand there for a moment, just breathing in the cool air, savoring the quiet.

Just when I decide to head back to the house, I gasp as a bolt of electricity seems to go through me. And then, pain. It strikes like a bolt of lightning, sudden and fierce, leaving me breathless.

My chest and back are on fire, as if I’ve been doused in boiling water. I tear at the jacket I’d thrown over my dress, desperate to free myself from whatever is burning me. When the fabric finally falls, I choke on a sob. My skin is covered in a multitude of intricate lines and patterns, distracting me. The pain quickly dulls to a throb, but the sight of those strange markings sends a wave of terror through me.

What the hell is happening?

The silence around me is deafening, but then it isn’t. A howl slices through the night, low and menacing, sending a shiver down my spine. My head snaps up, trying to pinpoint the sound, but it’s impossible to tell where it’s coming from. Another howl joins the first, then another, until the night is filled with an eerie chorus. And then, from somewhere in the distance, the sound of a horse snorting echoes through the streets, followed by a low, sinister laugh. A laugh that seems to vibrate through my verysoul, much like the music from before. But instead of calling to me, this sound is one I know I don’t want to see the face of.

That’s when I run.

Chapter 1

Mac

5 days earlier

The plane ride is long and crowded, and my relief at finally touching down in Dublin is almost overwhelming. As I step off the tarmac and make my way through the bustling terminal, I can’t help but feel a mixture of excitement and trepidation. I’m finally here, in Ireland, a place I’ve only dreamed of visiting. The airport is a whirl of accents and hurried footsteps as travelers make their way through customs, collect their luggage, and disperse into the city beyond.

After what feels like an eternity, I find myself standing by the luggage carousel, watching the endless stream of bags circle around. Mine finally appears, a familiar dark red suitcase thathas seen better days, though it’s the first time it’s touched foreign soil. I grab it, the weight of it reassuring in my hand.

It’s stuffed not just with clothes, but with an art case of my painting supplies—brushes, art paper, and my pallet of watercolor paints. The case itself even converted to an easel. Everything I need to escape, even briefly, from the life I left at home in America.

I hoist my backpack higher on my shoulder to adjust to the weight before starting my adventure. People are all around, so I keep it close because it holds my valuables, including my digital and Instax cameras that I don’t want people bumping into.

Wheeling my luggage away from the carousel, the crowd around me finally begins to thin out. Most of the passengers have already collected their bags and disappeared into the bustling city, allowing me to breathe easier. I scan the area for the person who’s supposed to pick me up, my eyes darting from face to face.

Then, I spot it—a sign with "McKenna" scrawled across it in neat, if slightly crooked, letters. My heart skips a beat, and I make my way toward the woman holding it. She’s standing near the entrance, looking around with a nervous energy that I instantly connect with. As I get closer, I notice her attire—navy pants and a white shirt that were clearly chosen to look professional, though the fit is slightly off. The pants are a touch too long, and the shirt has a wrinkle or two that hasn't been ironed out.

What really catches my attention is the dusting of flour along the edges of her brown hair. It looks like she hastily wiped at her face before rushing out the door to pick me up. I can’t help but smile at the thought. She isn’t a professional or anything of the sort; she’s just a real person, like me, caught in the midst of life’s little messes.

I have always had a sixth sense about the people around me, some sort of internal warning system that tells me if a person is friend or foe. Well, most people. My abusive asshole of an ex was one of the exceptions. I never was able to get anything from him, which perplexed me, but also made me think maybe we were a good match. I was very wrong.

My special gift has saved me more times than I can count though, and helped draw me to others that I end up clicking with so well. I have a strong feeling this will be one of those people who will easily become a good friend.

Shoving that thought aside for later, I make my way to the woman.

"Bridget?" I ask hesitantly as I approach, my voice sounding foreign even to me in this new place.

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