Page 141 of Hunted By Fae
A sigh slumps my shoulders at the chore.
But she’s right.
Every thread is soaked, from my snowpants, two sizes too small, and so they are a little on the snug side, and the leggings beneath them, and the two pairs of socks between my numb feet and my boots.
If there was a mirror in sight, and I dared look at it, I know what I would find. Shuddering blue lips, damp hair, a runny upturned nose, and crimson freckled cheeks.
I look exactly as I feel—battered, bruised and freezing.
Emily tears off her jacket, but her muttered curses come out in never-ending strings as she fumbles with the sleeves. She throws a look at Bee, one of dread and wrinkled lips deflated over time without fillers, and it almost looks as though she smoked a pack a day with that pucker. But her eyes are filled with the same worry written all over me.
Even if we change clothes, are we going to die of frostbite or hypothermia?
We can’t just keep walking. We need to find a place to stop and warm ourselves.
Bee ignores that look from Em—but she will listen to me.
“We need to stop.” My voice is small, so tired. The defeat is kneading into me, much too soon.
“What?” Bee’s whisper comes through the faint light between us, a strong of nightlights and a faint torch, chased by the crinkling sound of snowpants. “You need a rest?”
My grim look lifts to her as I tug off my boots. “We need to at least get warm.”
I don’t know what superpowers she might have with her fae blood, or if it’s entirely true that she is human to her biological core, but through the cold chattering of her teeth, she stands stronger than me and Emily.
Hesitation has her.
Her mouth thins, lips rubbing together, as she fights off the violence of the trembles. “By the time we find shelter and clear it—”
“It’s not a request,” I tell her, firm. “If we go on like this, we will get sick. Real fucking sick.”
That hesitates her.
The unspoken result.
We will die.
She shrugs off her jacket. It thumps to the icy ground. “We’ll find a place further out.”
That’s too far.
By the looks of our icy surroundings, we’re still very much in this town—and I don’t even know which town that is.
We’ve gone too off-track.
I need to check the map.
But first, warm and dry clothes.
Shrouded in the mists of my breaths, I’m peeling off the sopping gloves from my trembling fingers.
It’s a symphony of wet clothes hitting the icy ground. The slap of Emily’s tights, the tumble of Bee’s boot, the thump of my thermal-wear. Between the slaps and thuds of our undressing, and the screech of the bag zippers, our choppy breaths shudder through the still air.
I strip down to nothing. Even my underwear is discarded on the ice, soaked down to the individual threads.
Unlike Emily, who’s quick to scramble into whatever she can find in her bag, I take the moment to run myself over with baby wipes.
It’s not a thorough clean, but the thought of the water we waded through being left stagnant for so long, it doesn’t leave me with a clean, fresh feeling—and the urge to wipe as much of it away as possible takes root.
