"Werewolves?"
He didn't look back at her as he walked into the woods, still carrying her violin. "Yup. You don't think all that howling is from ordinary wolves, do you?"
She sighed, looked down at her performance dress shoes and tights, then took the first step after him. The snow swallowed her foot, immediately melting where it met the top of her foot and soaking her tights with a cold dampness.
"You're not telling me you believe in werewolves," she said.
This time her rescuer did stop, turning to meet her gaze.
"Why wouldn't I?" he responded. "I'm a vampire."
Monica blinked. Was he for real? "You're a vampire? Do you honestly expect me to believe this?"
He shrugged. "Whether you believe it isn't important until we're to safety."
The wolves grew closer. The howls grew louder, and if Monica listened carefully, she thought she could hear the rattling of chains.
How this guy saw anything in the woods, she wasn't sure. It was a small blessing that the trees had provided a layer of coverage for the snow, so her feet didn't sink as far as she followed him through the darkness, but she was distinctly aware of how much more quickly he could trek through even with his larger frame and her musical instrument than she could. She didn't hear him collide with a tree or branch even once.
Though that might have been because she felt like she did with every other step.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
The question she wanted to ask was, "How long are we going to be walking?" The guy didn't seem to be worn out or even uncomfortable the few times she caught a glance of him, and it seemed to her like he was prepared to walk forever.
She wasn't, not given the way her toes were going numb, but she didn't dare say as much. A shitty plan someone came up with was better than her entire lack of plan had been going.
She coughed, her chest painfully clenching with the action. Was this the worst day of her life? Probably not yet, but it probably would be at this rate.
"Not that much further," he said vaguely, though louder than she expected.
Her forehead slammed into his hand with a solid thump, and she took a step back, shaking her head and trying to blink her eyes back into focus. It didn't work.
"You were about to get a concussion on a tree," he told her with a touch of amusement in his tone.
She stuck a hand out, and her arm wasn't even fully extended before her fingertips grazed the roughness of bark.
"You've saved me twice now, Mr. Vampire."
He chuckled. "You could just call me Ethan," he said. "Though I like 'Mr. Vampire.' Maybe I'll start signing papers that way. Come on, now, we really need to get moving. They're getting closer."
"Why are you going to all this effort if you're a vampire, though?" Monica hadn't moved. She thought her body was maybe frozen in place; her muscles tensed up, her face and ears were numb, and she was so tired now she thought she might have fallen halfway asleep already.
"It's the solstice," Ethan told her. "The Wild Hunt rides forth; if they're able to get a wanderer, the spell will be complete and the curse will be broken."
"I'm not a wanderer. My car just broke down."
He shook his head. "All will make sense in time. But there's a reason there have been no other cars on the road since you crossed the bridge. Your crash wasn't a coincidence. And the howls are getting louder because you're the one they're tracking, and they're getting close."
The howls weren't all that was getting closer; the sound of rattling chains was, too, and this sent chills up Monica's spine. She took another deep breath of air that burned the back of her throat, then moved around the tree to follow.
Maybe he was full of shit. He was, in fact, almost definitely full of it, but she was even more out of options now, since she definitely didn't want to spend tonight alone in the woods and there was no way she was going to make it back to the road even if she'd tried.
Everything was quiet. Too quiet. She realized other than their movements—and her panting—she hadn't heard other animals or insects. This, too, she did her best to write off to the coldness of the night, but hadn't she spent time on her back porch on similar nights growing up?
She had. She distinctly remembered her mother scolding her the first few times before giving up and telling her to "at least wear a jacket so you don't catch pneumonia."
Of course, it hadn't been the same volume as during summer when the nocturnal animals scurried around and the crickets chirped loudly enough to wake her in her bedroom, but it hadn't been silent of life.
It got lighter as they walked. At first, Monica just noticed that the darkness became different levels of dark, that she could make out vague shapes in front of her. Small blessings; this at least helped her stop running into things. Soon, enough light came through that she could tell what those shapes were, which was more than enough for her to gain ground quickly, even if she didn't think she had ever been as nimble as the man in front of her.
They finally came to a cottage in the woods looking like something straight out of a fairy tale picture book; it was small, with wooden supports and a thatched roof and space for a garden in seasons when the entire thing wasn't layered with a foot of snow.
She imagined a grandmother figure emerging with cookies and a scolding for her lack of proper winter wear. But there was no smoke rising from the chimney, no gentle singing from the house, just howls and the rattling of chains that grew ever nearer.
"Hurry," Ethan said, scooping one hand behind her back to push her forward. In the moonlight she could see his jaw clench as he looked past her, back to the woods where they'd come from, readying for a confrontation.
Or, at least, that's the impression she got from him.
He was delusional. Had to be. Werewolves? Vampires? Curses? No. She had bad luck, but it couldn't be that bad. Right?
She didn't argue with him, though. It wasn't the time nor the place. So instead she rushed to the house, letting herself believe in things that didn't exist and fearing them, too.
She reached her hand into the layer of snow atop the doorknob to open it, and it didn't budge. Frozen or locked, she wasn't sure. It might have been both.
"It won't open," she said, wincing at the way her voice shook with fear when she spoke.
Ethan looked at her from where he stood across the field, then darted to her impossibly fast. Faster than she could blink. She stared at him open-mouthed, trying to put the pieces together, but he spared no time pushing past her and to the door. He turned it, or tried, and when it didn't budge, he made a fist with one hand and whacked it. The doorknob bent out of place, and the door swung open.
This time, he shoved her. Not hard, not like he was trying to harm her, but a simple action to speed up her entrance. She would have been offended if her heart had not already been beating in her chest and she hadn't begun to believe his words. She fell onto wooden floors, somehow warm against her skin, and he bounded in after her, shutting the door behind them and propping a wooden plank across it to reinforce it where he'd broken it.
"So we're safe now?" Monica asked, pushing herself up onto her knees.
"I wouldn't say you're safe," a female voice replied.
Monica blinked, looking up to find the speaker. A woman, perhaps in her mid-forties with long, curly, red hair sat in a rocking chair by the fire. She didn't rock, though; instead, she crossed her ankles and let her wrists drop from the arms of the chair, her eyes bright with amusement and the side of her mouth lifted into a smirk.
"Mistletoe," Ethan said, answering one of the many questions that'd popped into Monica's head. "I didn't expect to meet you here."
Her chest lifted as she inhaled, leaning back in a motion that tilted the chair. She let it fall forward and it rocked a few times before slowing to a halt.
"I know," she replied. "I didn't expect I'd be able to come. But we're all here now, and we absolutely cannot stay."
Ethan rolled his eyes. "And you have a bette
r plan?"
She lifted her eyebrows and smiled wider as she rose to her feet. "Of course," she said. She placed her hands on his shoulders and he shuddered, clearly uncomfortable. Then she walked away, moving to a corner to fetch an item Monica could not see from her place on the ground.
She hadn't dared to move, not until she'd figured out Mistletoe wasn't in cahoots with the ones after them. She'd finally pulled herself onto her feet when Mistletoe turned back, holding a massive rifle, then pumped it with a loud flourish.
"Silver bullets," she said. "Let's hunt The Hunt."
Ethan stared at her. "We can't take a human hunting werewolves," he said, looking from Mistletoe to Monica and back. "It's dangerous for us even without her, and she could be killed."
Mistletoe shrugged. "I'd rather her be shredded than the curse broken."
He raised an eyebrow, but didn't argue with her. Instead, he turned to Monica. "You'll have to forgive her," he said. "She lacks... tact."
At this, Mistletoe let out a loud bark of a laugh. "What he means is I haven't bothered trying to keep up with human standards of decorum. Superior species and all of that." She waved one hand dismissively, taking it off the gun to make her point. "We ready?"
Monica looked from one of them to the other, then crossed the room and sat in the chair. "Look. I don't believe werewolves exist. I'm tired to the point of falling over and my entire body hurts. I'm not going back outside. Not at night."
Mistletoe rolled her eyes. "Stop being so dramatic. You're not going to die. Probably."
"If you're so concerned about the werewolves using me to complete the ritual"—Monica could not believe what was coming out of her mouth—"then just kill me yourself. You have the gun right there and it's already loaded."
"Deal," Mistletoe said, raising the end of the rifle to aim it at her.
Monica sighed, closing her eyes and bracing for impact. Twenty-eight years old and a life of mediocrity had led her to an early death of being killed by.... what? Some people who thought they were vampires? Definitely not the way she intended for things to go.
"Mistletoe!" Ethan hissed.
Monica's eyes snapped open, her heart skipping a beat at the sound of his voice. He was pushing the gun aside, moving the barrel's trajectory safely away from Monica's face. Mistletoe smirked, lowering it.
"You're right," she said, "good thinking. We might as well feed. It's been, what? A week since we fed on a human?"
"We're not going to kill her, Mistle," he scolded.
Mistletoe pouted, sticking out the bottom of her lip dramatically and widening her eyes. "You never let me have any fun."
Ethan narrowed his brows. "I don't like you," he said. "I suppose you've forgotten this? Again?"
"You liked me once upon a time," she said, still pouting. "Perhaps you just need a little reminder? Maybe sometime tomorrow, after we've-"
He put up a hand. "Not now. You—Monica, are you okay?"
Monica blinked. Of course she wasn't okay. But someone knocked on the door before she had a chance to respond.
"Now look what you've done. You took too long to say yes to me and now they're here." Mistletoe lifted the barrel of the gun toward the door, taking aim at the visitor on the other side.
Monica raised an eyebrow, rocking the chair back and forth quickly. Letting her anxiety express itself through her feet, more or less, she realized. But she found just enough bravery for sass. "If they were here to kill us, do you really think they'd be knocking first?"
Mistletoe glared at her. Ethan let out a sound that was almost a laugh, as if he'd tried and failed to suppress it, then bounded to the door, opening it and moving out of the way of the gunshot in one smooth motion.
Mistletoe fired. Monica winced at the noise, shutting her eyes as the light and sound of the gun broke through the small room, and when she opened them, she nearly shut them again in shock.
In the doorway stood a figure, tall and dark and seemingly unaffected by the bullet entirely. Had Monica not known better, she would have assumed Mistletoe had somehow missed, but there was no way given the range.
Plus, Mistletoe muttered, "Fuck, not a werewolf."
Monica blinked, trying to process what she saw. A werewolf would have been easier to take in, she thought, and was on the verge of believing she'd gone mad. Maybe the sleep deprivation had gotten to her. Wouldn't be the first time.
It'd been years, though. Years since she'd seen things that weren't there. The medications had made it stop, had made her able to focus on her studies and her violin, but she'd stopped taking them. She thought she'd grown out of it. Maybe she was wrong.
It didn't matter now. Not really. She was experiencing it either way, right?
Whether she was imagining the seven foot tall creature covered in dark hair, on haunches like a goat's and with massive horns and glowing eyes, holding long chains that wrapped around his form with enough length for him to still wield them as a weapon or not, the result was the same: she screamed.
She let out a blood-curling, high-pitched, loud scream that in almost any other situation she would have been embarrassed by.
Despite her past shot apparently not doing anything, Mistletoe kept the gun pointed at the door. Why, Monica wasn't sure, but at this point it was mildly reassuring given what was unfolding before them.
What was less reassuring was Mistletoe's response to her scream: "If you do not shut up, I will turn this gun on you."
Monica gulped, biting down on her tongue and pulling her legs up onto the chair. It rocked back as she did so, then slightly forward before settling again.
The creature in the doorway pulled forward a lamp that glowed with a dim, yellow-orange light. Monica hadn't seen it light the thing, and she hid her face further with the confusion. Had she missed it? Had it had the lamp the entire time?
It lit up its face now, though, showing a boniness she wouldn't have noticed otherwise, a deer-like snout that had long ago lost any flesh it may have had. She imagined it grinning at her from the doorway, though its features were expressionless.
Instead, it looped the chain around the wrist on its other arm, freeing its long, clawed fingers to beckon past Mistletoe and toward Monica.
Her entire body shivered with fear, yet she felt an overwhelming desire to join it. She knew better. The thing wanted to kill her; she was sure of it. Yet she thought she might want that as she looked at it, like maybe she was meant to die, like there was a greater purpose behind it all. Behind the crash. Behind being found.
She was standing. When had that happened? She wasn't sure. She took a slow, steady step forward, toward her future and her end.
"Sit back down, Monica."
Ethan's voice floated to her, a balm that broke her out of her trance for a moment, but not well enough. She blinked at him, trying to understand the words he'd said. She couldn't.
He didn't want her to keep walking. That much was clear. She thought perhaps he didn't understand, and how could he? Her connection with the monster in the doorway was sacred, secret, even as she pursued it.
They would understand eventually, she hoped. Not that she would be around to see it.
"Forgive me," she said, instead, taking another step forward. She didn't feel connected with her feet, and it meant she had to walk slowly. It would be embarrassing to trip in front of this creature: In front of the guardian of, the leader of, The Hunt.
"She can't stop." Mistletoe's voice now floated through the air, like distant words delivered through a deep fog instead of from a few feet away.
Something slammed into her chest, pushing her back against the wall, and shocked her back into awareness.
Ethan.
His body pressed into Monica, a warm wall that prevented her from moving. Her attention snapped back to reality, her stomach flipping when she glimpsed the creature in the doorway she had nearly given herself over to. Her heart pounded and her hands reflexively circled around his neck.
He felt so good. Like, damn. If th
is had been happening in any other situation, it would have been what dreams were made of.
His voice was low and gruff in her ear. "Right now, you are mine, and you do as I say, or there will be hell to pay."
He didn't mean it the way it came out. She was pretty much certain of that. But, damn, there was a lurching in her body that hoped he meant it the way she took it, too.
"I didn't mean to-" she started, but his hand wrapped around her mouth and he stared at her.
"Do not move," he said instead, releasing his grip on her mouth, but not moving away.
She breathed in and out, her chest rising and falling against him, trying to remember what she was supposed to be doing. Other than not moving, which he was very clear about.
He seemed to be waiting on her to give her some kind of answer, though, so she blinked back up to him while trying to figure out and whispered, "Yes, sir."
He made a low, rumbly noise and his grip on her waist tightened for a moment before he released it. He turned to face the creature in the doorway himself, sliding the hand from her waist to her wrist.
She remembered, vaguely, something a psychology teacher had said about how the adrenaline rush of fear was connected to sexual arousal. Something about a survey taken on a bridge. She couldn't remember the details—given the situation, that she could remember even this much of the study was impressive—but she figured that had to be the only reason she sexualized the way his hand felt around her wrist.
If by some miracle she survived this, she was going to have to get back on Tinder. It was the only way.
"Give me the girl," the creature in the doorway said. The wind had picked up again—she saw the trees shaking behind it—but the wolves were getting closer too. She knew it.
Ethan shrugged. "No."
"Then I suppose I shall let my wolves dispose of you for me," the creature said.
"I have enough bullets to kill your whole pack," Mistletoe said. She hadn't moved an inch, as far as Monica could tell.
The creature laughed. "You assume you can fire fast enough. You assume the pack is what matters. No. Monica must join me. She is the portal between the living world and the dead, and she alone can break the curse."
Holidays Bite: A Limited Edition Collection of Holiday Vampire Tales Page 13