Page 58 of Hunted By Fae
Others.
I almost think the word… aliens.
But those pointed ears; hands resting on the hilts of daggers tucked into belts, hands that wear black nails like claws; those silent snarls, those wide and feral grins lined with teeth sharp enough to tear me apart, tear me to fucking pieces—
Others.
Otherworldly.
Not human, but not exactly aliens either. I’ve read enough books and heard enough old Welsh lore growing up…
I know what they are.
The word is a hum in my mind.
Fae.
An army of fae marching down the road.
But these fae don’t skewer us with their swords, strike us with their daggers, shoot us with their sleek black arrows. They just walk down the road, loads of them, male after male, the occasional female, but all bulked with muscle, or chiselled from stone.
Fae warriors.
My mind can echo that a thousand times, it’s not anywhere closer to sinking in—and I’m still here, planted on the ground, my hands trembling on the shotgun.
It’s chilling.
Just how much they look like us, but how little they resemble us, too.
Like us, but not.
Taller, broader, stronger, fiercer.
The difference between a tiger, a cougar, a lion—and a housecat. Feline, sure, but not at all the fucking same.
I feel every bit the housecat as I watch them pass, marching in absolute silence, bootsteps on asphalt, a whisper, a nothing.
The blackness clings to them, shrouds them, like they belong to it, and my torchlight dares edge into their shield of shadows.
The tears fall down my cheeks without a noise, without a moan or a whimper. My jaw is trembled shut.
I flinch as a hand touches mine.
The shotgun jerks in my grip.
If I had my finger on the trigger…
I would have shot one of them, or in the general direction of them. And that isn’t something I’m stupid enough to do.
Bee thinks the same. Her teary eyes glare into my soul. ‘Don’t shoot.’
I keep my wild, watery gaze on her.
Crouched beside me, she adds pressure to my hand. And she pushes down.
Lowering my shotgun.
Lowering the torchlight.
