Page 120 of Hunted By Fae
But nothing is there.
Nothing more than the disturbed cloud of dust, the frosty chill of the winter air, and the pure darkness I have lived in too long.
No human can see in this darkness.
No light fae can see in this pure blackness.
And the only reason I can strain enough to see just an arm’s reach ahead of me is the pathetic band of nightlights I have bound to my wrist like a watch. This dusky red gleam, no better than a lantern in the dead of night, illuminates just enough that, as I turn my back on the shattered window and look to the bowling ball—
I see it for what it is.
Frozen, my lashes flutter before a guttural sound crawls up my throat, and whether it is a moan of horror or a retch that I can’t fight back, I don’t know.
All I know is that is no bowling ball that he hurled through the window.
I brought you a gift.
I lean closer to it and, hand trembling, reach out my nightlights to get a better look at the features… and I instantly wish I didn’t.
Horror widens my teary eyes.
But I can’t look away from it.
My gift.
A decapitated head.
It looks right back at me with bulging eyes, a shredded neck, a twisted, horrified expression forever frozen in time.
I recognise this face.
Carlos.
My apocalyptic fuckbuddy. My fall guy.
A walking, talking human—with my scent all over him.
In the horror that fills me, a bud of relief blooms in my lungs, and I breathe just that bit easier knowing that the body Dare threw at the brewery, and the head that came with it, is not Tesni.
But the relief doesn’t hang around, not once I drop my gaze to Carlos’s neck—and see that the flesh is torn, as though Dare used nothing but brute force to tear his head off.
And… did… did he jam something in there, into that bloody, meaty mess of a neck?
Something is poking out.
My brow pinches and I shift a bit closer to the frozen, decapitated head. Thank Mother it’s so cold that the flesh isn’t quick to decompose, and so the stench hasn’t come yet.
Still, it’s not a sight I’m used to, so my face wobbles as I inch closer to the torn neck—and the round, black metal ring that seems to be sticking out of it.
The neck itself looks like it went through a paper shredder. But there’s a round metal handle poking out of it.
I push my nightlights closer and, with a quick glance at the shattered window, check for Dare.
Still not there.
I don’t hear him out there, either.
That doesn’t soothe me.
