Page 5 of The Wild Hunt

Maeve hands me the bag with a kind smile. "And if you ever need anything else, don’t hesitate to stop by. We’re here every day except Sundays. That’s when we all take a break, even the store. Oh, and also on Samhain, we’re closed too."

I frown slightly, the unfamiliar term catching me off guard. "Samhain?" I ask, the word rolling off my tongue awkwardly. I’m not sure if I’ve pronounced it right, and from the look on Maeve’s face, she seems to notice my confusion.

Maeve chuckles softly, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Ah, I forget sometimes that not everyone knows the old traditions. Samhain is October 31st—what you might call Halloween."

Liam, who has been listening from the side, chimes in, "It's a time when the veil between our world and the spirit world is thin. We are a superstitious lot around these parts.”

With a curious smile, I nod, absorbing the information. "I'll bear that in mind," I say, my tone light but respectful, sensing the importance of the tradition to them. With a final exchange ofsmiles, I thank them both again before stepping out of the cozy store and into the village square.

As I continue exploring Ennisvarra, the beauty of the stone cottages catches my eye. Many are adorned with vibrant flowers in window boxes and ivy climbing up their walls, creating a picturesque scene, one I yearn to photograph. Children play in the cobblestone streets, their laughter mingling with the soft hum of conversation from nearby mothers who gather in small groups. I can only assume they are sharing gossip from the way they glance in my direction and wave in greeting all at once.

I make my way past several intriguing shops—one that specializes in handmade crafts and another that looks like it might have a collection of vintage trinkets. Each storefront adds to the village's character, and I make a mental note to return and explore them more thoroughly.

As I stroll, Bridget waves to me from inside the bakery. She’s engaged in conversation with a young woman who must have helped look after the bakery while Bridget was at the airport. The smell of baked bread and sweet pastries wafts through the open door. I give Bridget a cheerful wave back, but continue on.

Turning the corner, I spot the pub. It’s already starting to get busy as the sun begins to set. Men are gathered outside, enjoying drinks and sharing jokes, their voices a cheerful backdrop to the scene. The scent of hearty food drifts out, tempting but not enough to make me feel hungry after my long flight. I decide to save my visit for another night when I’m more ready for a full meal and to soak in everything the quaint space has to offer.

With the evening drawing closer, I head back toward the path through the forest. The sky is beginning to blush with the colors of sunset, casting a warm, golden light over the village and I don’t want to miss the view from the cottage.

As I make my way back through the trees, the air feels charged with a subtle energy, almost like static electricity. The glimpsesof sky above offer a canvas of warm hues—golden oranges and soft pinks—that seem to intensify with each step and look so different from when I came through earlier. This is why I love to have my camera with me, taking pictures of the same place but at different times of the day can make all of the colors on my palate shift. What was once bright green and golden foliage now has hints of oranges surrounding it. The pictures help me stick to one specific time when I paint them, so that my colors don’t mix in a way that doesn’t do the scenery justice.

Reaching the edge of the forest, I emerge into the clearing where the cottage stands, its silhouette now framed by the fiery hues of the setting sun. The sea, visible from the cottage, reflects the sky’s warm colors, and the view is breathtaking. The golden light dances across the waves, turning them into a shimmering expanse of molten gold and deep blue.

I stand there, entranced by the slowly shifting colors, like magic has taken my paints and splashed them across the sky. This sight makes the travel worth it. This village with its cute cottage, beautiful cliffs, and enchanting forest is exactly what I needed.

Chapter 3

Cianán

Eternity is going to be boring.

Nothing holds my interest anymore. Not the court ladies with their delicate dances and veiled smiles, nor the endless entertainment the King puts on to amuse his fae subjects. The hunt, once my only escape, now offers little satisfaction, as the nearby villages have learned to hide before nightfall.

There is no prey left. And the world I once found so intriguing no longer captivates me.

With a sigh, I lean against my bedroom window, running my fingers along the branch of a tree that automatically reaches toward me. The forest below, deep and shadowed, breathes life into the quiet. The scent of earth and leaves, familiar and grounding, momentarily calms the restlessness inside me. Nature has always called to me, and I to it, as if we were destined to be one.

“Brooding again?” Lorcan’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.

I turn to him and, without thinking, drop to a knee in a practiced gesture of respect. His guards, stationed just beyond the door, know well not to enter without my explicit invitation. To do so would mean invoking my wrath, and no one does so intentionally. Well, besides maybe my dear friend.

“My King,” I say, a hint of mockery threading through the formal words. He knows I don’t mean it with the reverence it suggests.

Lorcan rolls his pale ice blue eyes as I look up at him, exasperation etched in his features while I grin in amusement.

“Get up,” he says, his voice carrying both authority and familiarity. “You know I don’t hold you to the same ceremony as the common fae and sidhe court nobles.”

As I rise to my feet, his gaze sharpens, scanning my face with an intensity that sets my skin ablaze. His waist-length white hair sways with his movement, almost crackling with unseen energy. There’s always a charge in the air when he’s near, like the calm before a storm that I desperately want to step into.

“Your mood is as black as night,” he observes, the corner of his mouth twitching with faint amusement. “You know you don’t need to keep doing this.”

I almost scoff, but catch myself before it escapes. “I am a Huntsman. It’s my duty.”

Lorcan steps beside me, his tall frame casting a long shadow in the dim light of my quarters. Outside, the clear sky betrays no signs of a storm, but as he looks out the window, lightning arcs across it.

“You became a Huntsman for me, Cianán,” he says softly. “But I gave up that hunt long ago. If she doesn’t want to be found, she won’t be.”

His words sink into the silence between us, and I dip my head in acknowledgment. My hand comes up absentmindedly to touch the pendant at my throat, the symbol of my position. He’sright, of course. I’ve spent years tracking his bonded, and she has left no trace since she fled the Faerie lands.

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