Page 11 of Untethering Dark

Ah...as it should be.

Right shape, right texture, right taste.

The dough from her previous batches had been too moist and sugary—the texture supposed to be biscuit-like on the outside, soft on the inside. And when she tried baking them, the cookies bubbled, and the “foot,” the undermost part of the cookie that was supposed to rise, didn’t form. The imprints—forest fauna and plant motifs pressed on the dough with carved wooden molds—were less pronounced.

Mountain altitude made getting the finicky cookie right a bit tricky.

If she had any patience, she’d store the Springerle in a tightly sealed container for a couple weeks to let the flavor fully develop. Maybe that’s what she’d do with batch number five, now that she’d worked out the kinks...

But that was a project for another day. The arches of her feet hurt, her lower back ached, and she still had chores to tend to.

Removing the hare stew from heat, Astrid dipped in a wooden spoon and sampled a bite. Brothy, meaty, and tart, with just a hint of creaminess. Her stomach growled, but supper would also have to wait.

There was more firewood to gather before the sun went down.

Dropping an armload of logs, Astrid swiped at her brow with her coat sleeve, but the beading sweat had already frozen to her skin. The day she became a winter hag, and this chore became a luxury rather than a necessity, couldn’t come soon enough. Imperviousness to the cold would free up so much time.

Voices filtered through the trees, a group of hikers nearby.

Tourists flocked to der Schwarzwald from all over the world, millions each year, and while Astrid lived away from the marked trails, deep in the forest, sometimes they strayed near her home.

Like now.

Astrid ventured into the wood surrounding her property to gather small branches and twigs for kindling.

If she happened to run into the hikers, fine, she’d warn them, and maybe show them how to leave an offering. But unless Altes Geweih accepted granola bars and trail mix, this close to sundown, the point was as good as moot.

As she bent, shaking snow free from a fallen limb, a flash of movement caught her eye, something emerging from behind a tree. Jumping back, she almost dropped the branch. It was the only weapon she had, save from maybe magically inducing a mild case of frostbite.

Night hadn’t fallen.

The monster shouldn’t be on the prowl yet.

“Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Astrid sucked in a breath, willing her hammering heart to slow down, as her brain caught up with what her eyes saw.

It was no forest beast, but a lone man.

He was shorter, just under two meters, with a small, wiry build. An average sandy-haired, blue-eyed white man with a beard.

If he was a part of the hiking group, he’d wandered off. Those other voices now drifted behind her, back the way she came. She cut out, meaning to intercept them, but they must have cut in, coming closer to her cottage.

The lone man’s gaze zeroed in on hers, narrow and squinty.

While most of the backpackers she ran into over the years wore brand-name hiker chic, this man’s outerwear was understated but no less high quality. And he wore tactical gloves. The load on his back was smaller, too, but in a way thatdidn’t indicate unpreparedness, but expertise. Someone who knew what the true essentials were.

Strange.

Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. His long, unblinking stare continued, even as he brought a cigarette to his lips and cupped a hand in front to light.

“It’s not safe being out here this late,” Astrid said.

He drew in deep, then slowly exhaled smoke. “You’re out here.”

Waving a hand in front of her face, coughing, she turned away. “If you want to survive the night, leave out an offering for the creature who rules this forest.”

“What kind of offering?”

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