Page 413 of Flirting with Darkness

As if I could keep this creature at bay by not seeing it.

Acid burns at the back of my throat, and I think I might be sick.

“You don’t belong here, girl,” it says. The voice is unlike anything I’ve ever heard. Some combination of human and animal vocal folds rattle in the night like dry leaves and rotten earth.

It knows I’m here, and as much as I’d like to, I can’t remain silent and pretend otherwise. I take a shuddering breath and lower my hands from my mouth. “I’m not here by my choice or doing.”

“Mmm. Yes. Is that why you wear the seal of our king?”

It’s tumbling out of my mouth before I know why. “I’m not in the habit of answering questions.”

Scraping, gasping noises come from it, and to my horror, I think it’s laughing. “At least you’re not completely ignorant of our ways, then. Allow me to give you some advice, little human.”

I stay silent, eyes remaining firmly shut.

“Stay on the path. I’m the least of your worries.”

And it’s gone. I don’t see it leave so much as sense its oppressive presence dissolving.

The moment it’s gone completely, I tear myself out of the bush and speed back to the path.

7

It’s a feat easier said than done.

I have no notion of direction here. The sky offers no familiar star as a guide, and each tree is identical to the one before and the one before that.

When every shadow blackens, growing wider, taller until it seems I’m only walking in shadows, I tuck my arms around myself, squinting into the darkness.

But even my sharper vision is no help.

My chest tightens, allowing only shallow sips of air as I inch forward in complete blackness.

Before I can put my hands out in front of me and feel my way forward, the toe of my boot hitches on a jagged bit of stone or a root poking through the earth. I stumble forward, not to the ground or against a tree, but into a thick bramble bush. It latches on to every bit of exposed skin—face, neck, and hands.

I cry out. I can’t help it as the barbed and poison-tipped thorns sink in deep.

The instant the sound leaves me, the wind stills.

All the usual sounds of woods at night—cicadas, bats, frogs—go deadly silent.

Dread thickens the air in my lungs, and my skin prickles not just with fear but also…

Awareness.

Something is watching me. Sweat pools along my hairline and down the small of my back.

Its gaze is almost palpable on my skin, but I can’t lie there and allow it to keep staring. Heart in my throat, I twist myself around enough that I can face whatever’s come to get me. I refuse to be eaten or skinned or whatever this awful place has in store for me while face-down in a thicket.

The barbed thistles rip across my skin, but I clench my jaw shut around the pain as warm blood collects on my cheeks and the back of my hands and neck.

A fitting offering for this hellish woods.

The moment I’m able, I scan the area. Thorns twist in my hair each time I move my head, and though the cloak of darkness recedes, I see no threats. Nothing that would make my skin crawl the way it is.

But even more unsettling is the sound. An unnatural, dry croaking surrounds me. I suck in a shaky breath, trying to pinpoint where the noise is coming from, and freeze in my barbed cage the moment I do. Because while the air is perfectly still, the sound comes from the trees. Creaking and moaning as their limbs bend in every direction like broken bones in the stagnant air.

The dull, woody moans ring through me like a death knell.

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