Page 131 of Hunted By Fae
There, the general stands with her second-in-command, reading the map, a map that Dare knows will show the exact perimeters of this unit’s borders, where their patrols and fires must start and end.
Dare has one such copy of his own unit’s map in the satchel Daxeel gave him. It’s his way back to his unit.
The general hasn’t noticed him yet.
But some fae, closer to the lane, sense him, sense an intruder, find a new scent in the layers of the air.
Gazes turn, speckled around the camp, frowns aim his way, and chins lift. Those two young ones at the last campfire reach for their weapons at their belts.
Still, Dare scans the unit, searching for the reason he was lured here.
More fae realise his presence.
The longer he stands here, the more his scent is noticeable, and the more of his brothers will realise his presence.
Dare moves best when he is swift, a spectre. But he stands in the mouth of the lane, sheathed in a darkness that each fae there can see through as clearly as a glass window, and—
There.
The answer.
Green eyes so sharp and cold that they are blades of frosted grass.
Dare locks onto that familiar face, a face sculpted from ice and marble—then his own face splits with a grin.
Samick.
Dare steps out of the lane and jumps the barrier to the main road separating them.
Brow pinched, Samick pushes up from the log he was slouched on. The crimson flames dance shadows along his leathers, wrapped around him like a second skin—but a striking contrast; that deep black hue against the marble pallor of his complexion.
A stroke of ice against the glows of campfires, Samick starts for Dare, the faint, curious furrow of his brow darkened by the shadows of the flames.
Samick does not return the smile.
TWENTY-EIGHT
BEE
The scrape of a parka over stone disturbs the silence.
I falter and throw a glare back at Emily.
The nightlight is quick to follow my direction, a gleam of red sweeping over Emily’s weary face.
But it wasn’t her who made the noise, it’s not her who stands that close to the wall.
I turn on Tesni.
And I hesitate.
Her pallor is sickly, like she might pass out any moment, and she can’t find the strength for words.
Slumped against the stone wall, she flurries her hand at me in a ‘wait-a-minute’ gesture, then fishes through the pockets of her parka.
I watch, grim, as she tugs out an inhaler and brings it to her mouth.
The patience I grip onto is a frayed thread, but for Tesni, it holds.
