Page 204 of Evil Hearts

“Is that all you have to say?” Her voice shakes, and the sound drags my gaze back to her face, taking in the full vision faster than my mind can decipher what I’m seeing. Blown-out pupils, eyes beyond wide. Her lips tremble, and she grips the front of her cloak as I take her in, unable to hide how her fingers shake.

“What,” I clip the word on my teeth, “is it I am expected to say?”

“A ‘thank you’ would suffice.” She stamps a foot, and I cannot help the laugh that barks out of me.

“A ‘thank you’? For what?” Pushing against my knee, I gain my feet, favoring the injured leg. It will heal in time. I have herbs and salves stored in the shelter near my platform, and the witch of the wood is not too far from where we are now. The sun is high enough in the trees that I know she will be awake and ready to attend to those who come in search of aid. “For leaving the path? For whistling and drawing attention to yourself? For not heeding my words that there aremonstersin these woods?”

She huffs and tucks her chin, nostrils flaring as more glorious pink rises in her cheeks. “For saving your life!”

“You saved nothing.” I limp past her, sniffing and immediately regretting it. Orange blossom fills my head, soured by the dank stench of fear. I ignore the sudden urge to stop and soothe her, heading for the opposite end of the glade instead. “I had it under control.”

“You are bleeding from half a dozen wounds in your leg.”

“They will heal.”

“The scent of your blood will call all of these so-called ‘monsters,’” she fires at my back. “They will know you are injured and weak. Who will protect the villagers then?”

“I will visit the witch.” At her sharp intake of breath, I grab a thin aspen, taking the weight off my injured leg as I glance back. She stands only paces away, again having moved more silently than I thought her capable. The hood of her cloak has been drawn up to cover her hair, and she has wrapped the rest of the garish wool around her like a shawl. “You look scared, little hood. Is it of the monsters or the witch?”

“I am not scared of any witch.”

“Is that so?” I am moving before I can think better of it, limping across the meager distance and not stopping until I am close enough that she must tip her head back to meet my eye. Her scent envelopes me, the floral perfume, the edge of fear, but there is something else there now.

“Nor any monster,” she adds.

I lean in, close my eyes, and inhale, drinking in that new scent. Again, something unsettling furls in my belly. I exhale, my breath stirring the loose hairs peering out from her hood. “Then why do you tremble?”

Her eyelids flutter closed, and I hear it—a tiny gasp that could have been cannon fire for how loud it ricochets in my ears.

I cannot move fast enough, cannot dart away, though every inch of my being demands I do so. My leg is too injured, and I am caught by that sound. The furling in my gut curls over itself, my belly swooping in a way that has me swaying closer. My only thought is to nuzzle against her throat and earn another of those gasps. To bury myself in that scent.

Her chin lifts, baring more of her throat to me. She does not move beyond this, does not open her eyes, but shows me her tender stretch of throat as though she had heard my innermost desires.

The invitation strikes me, and any lingering humanity vanishes. I am a creature of base needs, driven by want and animalistic desire. For years, I have fought this part of myself, training the instincts out through sheer determination and will. Protect the villagers, defend the wood. Do not ravish young women in too-tight bodices and scarlet cloaks in the middle of a forest glade. Earn their trust by beingtrustworthy, dutiful, and steadfast. Yet, in the baring of a throat, she has shattered through all of my carefully constructed defenses.

I draw closer, raising my hand until the soft down of her throat rests against my palm. Saliva pools on my tongue, and I dip my head, inches away from breathing as deeply of her as I wish.

Her lips part, a sweet sigh escaping, and the lindworm spares me from making a dire mistake.

The beast thrashes to consciousness, flipping over in the grass and spitting its anger. I jolt upright, grabbing the girl’s arm and sweeping her behind me as though she were less than a curtain of ivy in my way.

Instead of attacking, the lindworm glares at me, spits twice, and twists around, tail whipping angrily in the air as it runs for the trees.

I wait until the woods are silent again, and the only sound I hear is my panicking breathing. When I turn, the girl is still there, still as stone, her eyes fixed on the gap in the trees where the lindworm disappeared.

“Let’s get you to the path,” I say. Her eyes twitch to mine, and she purses her lips in a frown but nods.

We walk silently and at my own pace. Every step is agony but brings me closer to the witch and her healing potions, so I grit my teeth and press on.

The path winks through the trees, a bright bronze slash of packed earth cutting like a scar through the trees. Without aword, I guide the girl to the edge and stop beside a barrier stone. “Go.”

She eyes the path, sucking on her teeth as she takes in the standing stone and its runes. When she does not move, I grip her by the upper arm and swing her forward. She stumbles, twisting around the standing stone and tripping over the smaller rocks lining the path. A frustrated grunt escapes her, and I do not wait to see which way she will turn.

THREE

As with everytime I grace her threshold, the witch takes one look at me and turns to her shelves, grabbing the potion I require and handing it to me with a roll of linen.

“Cleaned and covered,” she advises with a jerk of her chin toward her well. I do as instructed, accepting her offer of a crutch before limping back to my post.

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