Eislen relaxed into her, surprised at how soft Octavia was beneath them. Pressed back to chest with the vampire, easy touches soothing them, they could feel the pull of sleep tugging at the edges of their mind. “Rest,” Octavia whispered. “I’ll keep watch.”
Eislen sat down at a corner table and waited and tried not to remember the taste of Octavia’s lips.
Six
Gregory raced forward, Roderick on his heels. Tracking the scent was much easier with a werewolf leading the charge, but Roderick could feel the air thicken around them.
Something vile and horrific awaited their approach. The magic stank of sulfur and old blood and made him feel like he was trying to breathe underwater.
Branches reached for them as they ran, snapping out to whip against their bare cheeks, to snag their collars and cuffs. Roots rose from the ground, swollen with damp and rot, looking to trip them, to trap them.
Only the old forests acted thusly, and only once corrupted.
There’s more here than what even Luther is capable of, Roderick thought as they ran. Something is very, very wrong.
Quick as a flash, Gregory shot out a hand, stopping Roderick in his tracks. “Wait.” The growl in Gregory’s voice set Roderick’s hair on end, but he did as instructed. Gregory sniffed the air again, gaze sharpening as he pointed east and said, “Bodies. Death. It’s not good.”
And it was not.
Beyond the tree line several hundred yards was a small clearing. It was now a charnel house, a horrific tableau dedicated to gristle and bone. As the bare branches scraped and creaked in the bone chilling wind, the bodies strung in them creaked and moaned as well. The stench of death and gore floated on the air and Roderick gasped against it, pulling up his scarf in hopes of blocking some of it out.
“Holy shit,” Gregory whispered as he stared up at the three bodies. There was little on them to be recognized outside of human, not with so much flesh missing. “Three heads,” he said softly, pointing them out to Roderick. “How many hunters were missing from Veldersmith?”
Roderick swallowed hard. “I’ve fear that’s them.”
“That wasn’t done by no vampire.” Gregory stepped closer to where a leg and part of an arm lay in the vee of a low branch. “Never met one that ripped its meal apart quite like that.”
And Roderick had to agree. Something else about the entire scene didn’t make sense. “Why leave them?” he asked aloud, staring up and mentally counting to ensure every arm, leg, and torso was accounted for. “If the point was to hunt for food, there’d be little left. Vampires drain their victims then stash the bodies. Luther is vicious, but this is beyond him.” He turned back to Gregory and found the big man pulling one of the arms from a tree. His gorge rose but he grimaced, swallowing hard.
“Please tell me you’re doing that for a reason.”
“Gotta get ‘em down, Ranger,” Gregory said, seemingly unbothered by the gore staining his gloves. “They deserve a proper burial.”
Roderick closed his eyes and breathed hard through his nose. “Yes, well….it’ll be of a greater benefit to all of us if we can get everything out of the trees and bring them back so I can examine them closely. After we check the scene here, of course.” He slipped his hand inside his coat and held out a flask to Gregory. “A little fortification before we start such ugly business?”
Warmed by several healthy sips of bourbon, Gregory began to pluck body parts from the trees while Roderick walked a perimeter around the clearing, working outside to in. He sketched the rough layout of the tableau before Gregory began his bloody ascent, and then began looking for any clues. Two things struck him instantly as odd: there was very little blood on the ground, outside of a few errant drops that made no discernible pattern, and the hunters had been stripped of their possessions but not their organs.
“What does that mean?” Gregory asked as he pulled the last head down, pushing shut its eyelids before setting it aside.
Roderick tapped his pencil on his bottom lip. “Missing organs or parts would mean a creature. There are plenty of otherworldly things that enjoy the taste of human hearts or livers, even eyes.” He scrunched up his face in disgust and then shook himself. “But taking the hunters’ possessions and leaving the organs is so strange. It speaks of intelligence, even a personality.”
Roderick had suspicions, of course, but in a place as ancient as this, he didn’t wish to voice them aloud lest they call forth the very thing that had committed such an atrocity. And he still needed to examine the bodies before coming to any solid conclusions. He looked down to his page where he’d started to sketch the rough edge of a black-feathered wing; deciding even that was temping Fate’s hand, he ripped the page out and stuffed it in a pocket.
Best not to air even the thought of black wings amidst the trees and blood-splattered ground.
“This is the last,” Gregory said, setting down a foot. “You sure you….want all this?”
He nodded. “I’m trained in anatomy and have studied my fair share of wounds and trauma.” Roderick grimaced, hating to give voice to such an unseemly thought. “How should we…” and gestured at the bodies.
“Oh, yeah.” Gregory made a shooing motion with his hands. “Might want to stand back. They tend to come in quick.”
Before Roderick could ask, Gregory threw his head back and howled. Fucking howled, like a dog at the moonless sky making his presence known. Except this was no dog. This was a Clan pack leader and he bristled with raw power. Roderick watched the thick tendons of Gregory’s neck strain against the unnatural sound pouring from his throat. It was fascinating and terrifying in equal measure, and Roderick was transfixed.
He’d seen werecreatures of all manner, happily called many his friends. But Gregory was old power, the thrumming of generations of were blood in his veins. Part of Roderick’s mind told him to run, to hide, to get as far away as possible from a creature of such immense, catastrophic strength. But he knew - beyond all sense, beyond all training - that he was one of the few beings in the forest that didn’t have anything to fear from Gregory O’Malley.
Wind whipped by him, stirring up snow and mud and suddenly there were three more people in the clearing. One was a whippet lean young man with pale skin, untamed curly blond hair, and dark eyes. Beside him was a taller, broad-shouldered man in his thirties or so, olive skinned and blue eyed with dark, thick hair drawn back from an aristocratic face. The last was a woman, pixie small and totally bald, with the keenest eyes he’d ever seen. She took one look at him and, like a bird, cocked her head in curiosity.
And then he spotted the feathers on her wrists.
Before he could say anything, Gregory was giving them the quick and dirty of the situation, ending it with, “Gotta get the bodies back for the Ranger.”
“Cart,” the woman said, nodding to the blond-haired man. He grinned swiftly and took off at blinding speed.
“Nat, Vic, help the Ranger. I’m going to follow the scent.”
“I should go with you,” Roderick protested, already stepping forward to fall in line with Gregory.
“Too dangerous,” he said not unkindly. “No offense, Mr. Arman, but I won’t willingly lead you into danger. Octavia would kill me.”
That rattled around in his mind. From everything he’d seen, Octavia Wilder was a generous, thoughtful leader everyone respected. And it was clear she and Gregory had a close relationship. But the way he spoke of her now was more than just friendship. Something firm and true stood tall in his words; something like loyalty. Respect.
Perhaps he needed to give Wilderwood’s vampire another thought.
***
Octavia didn’t know where to look first. That was Eislen sitting at a table at The Drake’s Rest. That was the tall, proud, line of their back and shoulders through a dark blue coat worn at the elbows. Their dark hair shimmered in the light, but while the braids were familiar, it wasn’t quite the same. The streaks of white were new, as if someone had stolen all the color from parts o
f their hair and secreted it away, never to return. She remembered wrapping those braids around her fingers, their ends tickling the thin skin of her wrists. She remembered pulling them to her with those braids until their mouths crashed together and she dropped their braids to grab for other parts of them.
And then they turned their head to look at Octavia with those impossibly dark eyes, lips parted just so. Octavia wanted to cry, wanted to rush to them and put her fingers in their hair. She wanted to touch them so badly it hurt. But she balled her fists against her thighs and stood, rigid and speechless.
“Octavia.”
It was unfair. So fucking unfair that they sat there after two years gone and said her name like that. Said her name at all.
She was weak.
That was the only explanation for how her stomach clenched in anger and desire and relief. It was all bound up together, a tangled knot of yarn lodged in her gut; not easily displaced and not easily tamed.
On unsteady legs she walked forward, all at once nervous and unsure as she was outright furious. The only thing to do was to slide onto the bench opposite them and wait. She may have played this out dozens of times in her head, but being this close to Eislen again was rattling her cage in a way that left her speechless.
Eislen wasn’t looking directly at her, and it gave Octavia the chance to observe them more closely. There were a few new scars, a few more lines around the eyes. The piercings in their ears were also new; the Eislen she’d known went unadorned save for a single silver band on their left index finger. The ring was still there but was accompanied by others. Octavia could feel their magic whispering in her mind, gossamer tendrils of fae power that sparked and tingled.
“Where were you?”
Eislen blinked, then met her gaze. “The Faelands.”
She’d known the answer before they said it. Could see the truth of it in that fathomless gaze, in the lines on their face. They still left her reeling with their beauty and leonine grace, but Eislen had been just shy of thirty when they met and had looked far younger. Now they bore that age with a heaviness that bordered on exhaustion. She desperately wanted to help them lift whatever burdened them.
But she was still fucking angry.
“You had a way back,” she said, tone going softer than she intended. “Did the Rangers not seek you out?”
They shook their head. “I heard from no one on this side the entire time.” They reached into their collar and pulled out the green crystal she’d given them. “When I got there, it had gone dark. Dead. It only returned to its original color after I stumbled through a portal yesterday.”
Octavia’s anger was building to a crescendo, but not at Eislen. The Rangers had told her, explicitly, that they were sending scouts to find them. And when they’d returned empty handed the line had been “disappeared without a trace”. Octavia had wavered between a keen, biting sense of abandonment and the hope that they would return. But two years passed and nothing she did - no amount of money, magic, or time - found one shred of Eislen’s trail. The portal they’d used to access the Fae courts, as an official Ranger Envoy, was gone and portals could only be opened from this side with explicit permission from a Fae ruler.
“I tried to find you,” she said softly, looking down at the scarred tabletop. “But nothing I did worked. And the Rangers promised me they’d look.” Her nails bit into the wood, tiny splinters shredding under her strength.
Eislen’s hand was there. Not touching hers but near. “They never came. Or if they did, the Queen’s scouts turned them back. Either way, I was left there.”
To die. It was unsaid but they both knew how dangerous the Faelands were outside the courts. And even the courts, glittering and golden, had their shadow knives and games of deception. One wrong move, one ill-placed word, and you would be left for the hounds.
“I tried to contact you,” Eislen said quietly, dropping their gaze as their words mirrored her own. “I did everything I could think of and then some to reach you. But the barriers were too strong. I even appealed to the Huntress for help, and she couldn’t get past the barriers between our worlds.” They shook their head. “If one of the Fae gods can’t break through….something is very wrong.”
Octavia’s brow furrowed. There was a gnawing pit of unease growing in her stomach, one fueled by sudden suspicion, bleeding the anger from her. Is it truly Eislen who sits before me, or a doppler? Am I being haunted by something wearing their face? “How did you get back?”
Eislen shrugged, disbelief marring their fine features. “The Huntress gave me this to use to track barrier activity.” They reached into a pocket and pulled out a bright yellow crystal with two copper rods, like insect antennae, sticking out of the top. “I was following its vibrations and then -” They gave a short, sharp laugh. “I was essentially shat out of a portal right near where I’d entered two years ago.”
That sound, that was Eislen’s laugh as sure as the sun rose every morning. It pinged off Octavia’s heart, renewing the ache she’d buried when they didn’t come back. She looked away, chewing on her bottom lip. “I thought you were dead. Or gone.”
“That I’d abandoned you,” Eislen said just as softly. “I would never.”
“But we argued -”
“We did.” They dipped their head, looked at her through dark lashes. “But I thought we’d make up on my return and I spent two years looking for a way back.” They stood, movement smooth and graceful, and came to kneel by Octavia’s side. But they still didn’t touch her. “I’m here. I’m real. I promise.”
I need to know. I need to be sure it’s really them. Octavia held a hand out and Eislen grasped it, the move quick and sure. They were warm under her palm, steady and solid. Octavia could feel the scar near their thumb joint, the very one she’d traced hundreds of times with fingertips and tongue and teeth.
To their credit, they seemed to understand Octavia’s need for confirmation. Please be Bel. Please be the person I’ve waited for. Their eyes met, and Eislen sucked in a breath just as Octavia pierced their wrist with her fangs.
Seven
Roderick heaved a sigh when the sign for The Drake’s Rest came into view. He was in desperate need of food and a bath before starting the utterly dreadful work of examining the bodies of the three hunters. It may have seemed pointless to bathe when he’d be wrist deep in gore soon enough, but he needed time to think, and the space in which to do it.
That, and a mug or three of ale and a bowl of stew sounded about perfect in the moment.
The inn was quiet, but a fire blazed inside and he groaned at the thought of taking off his damp coat and warming himself by its heat. He burst into the common room saying, “Mama Stockton, I do hope you’ve got a cauldron on -” just as another voice yelled at him to stop.
The only people in the common room were Octavia Wilder and another. The other person knelt before Octavia, who was seated on one of the low dining benches. Their long black braids brushed their waist as they leaned into Octavia’s touch, their eyes closed in bliss at the fangs sunk into their wrist. Octavia’s throat worked as she swallowed. They were both so wrapped up in each other that the sight made Roderick’s heart constrict painfully, even as his Ranger senses recoiled despite the clearly consensual act.
Quick as a snake, the person kneeling shot to their feet and a dagger was in their hand before Octavia stopped them. “No, Bel, don’t -”
And to add to the comedy of errors, a hand yanked Roderick back by his coat collar, and they stumbled backwards through the door. He brought his arm up to elbow the person in the face who grabbed him, but Octavia flung out a hand almost carelessly and Roderick found he couldn’t move.
Roderick was frozen in place, face to face with Bellemy Eislen, their features instantly recognizable even if their name hadn’t been at first. Their eyes widened and they quickly put their dagger away as Octavia released her hold on Roderick.
And then everyone began talking at once.
“Ranger Arman?”
>
“Holy shit, Eislen, you went missing! How -”
“Tomas, please head back outside. We’re fine here.”
“Yes, Miss Wilder.”
And that left the three of them to gape at each other. And then Octavia saw the blood on Eislen’s wrist. “Bel, come here.”
With a wary glance at the other Ranger, Eislen came back to Octavia, who seemed to pay no mind to Roderick’s presence as she licked the bites closed. “Is it me and not some trickster wearing my skin?” Eislen said softly, gripping Octavia’s hand.
“You always did have horrible comedic timing.” Octavia’s tone teased as she thumbed at Eislen’s pulse. “Yes, it’s you. Forgive my suspicions.”
Wilderwood Page 6