Page 55 of Sharpen Your Claws

19

Nicholas

NicholasheldWilliam’shand,then his feet fell out from under him. Light and noise overwhelmed his senses. Worlds beyond worlds passed before his eyes, sights of green seas, orange skies, and fields of ash. Then, through it all, the tug of home, of Faerie.

They hadn’t strayed far from the path. He imagined himself in the sunflower field with William by his side. They bathed in sunlight, slept atop the petals between the stalks, bathing in the other’s warmth. Then he couldn’t see, blinded by a bright light, and he crashed against a hard surface. His limbs ached, but he clutched William’s hand, warm, twitching, alive. A thin coat of sweat coated his body. He tasted the saltiness of it on his lips.

“William,” he rasped. “Are you injured?”

No one answered.

Coughing, he rolled onto his knees. His vision returned in splotches; the world interrupted by brief intervals of black. Between that black were spots of gold, William’s hair, then his flushed cheeks. He ran his knuckles along William’s temples. Those spring eyes fluttered open. William leaned against him, chest rising and falling sporadically, then slowly.

“What happened?” William whispered while licking his lips.

“The scar took us on an unexpected adventure.” And he hadn’t discovered where that adventure led them yet.

They laid bunched up like dirty laundry in the corner. Branches hung low, their leaves a pale blue and bark an off gray. They stained the ground so beautifully, perfectly still that time itself felt unfurled around them. The woods made no sound, no birds sang, or breeze whispered through the branches. It was as if the forest had died eons ago and what stood had frozen on its last dying breath. Worry settled, followed by fear upon realizing where they had landed, the only place they could be.

“The Lost Woods,” he whispered, and the woods echoed them. He kept a hand on William, fearful the ground may swallow them if only to preserve its silence. Then he pushed aside grass and leaves to find no stones. Fear coiled in his gut. “We’re not on the path.”

“Your tone says that doesn’t bode well for us,” said William, still catching his breath.

“It does not. Once you lose your way, The Lost Woods take you forever, if you are lucky.”

“And if you’re unlucky?”

He whispered so the woods may not hear the words. “You feed The One Who Waits.”

The forest trembled as if it were a living being, its heart racing at the name of its master.

“What’s that?” William asked, sounding as fearful as he should be.

“A sleepless entity. One that rules these woods, always has. Even my father doesn’t dare tread off the path, rarely dares to take it, in fact.”

Nicholas certainly never had and never planned to. Mortals feared monsters in the closet or under the bed. Fae feared the entities so ancient they lost their true names, forgotten even to themselves. Laurent saw the first mountains formed, but these creations were before them, had become them, became the land itself and did what they wanted according to rules none knew save them.

The Lost Woods weaved itself through Faerie. Only one path had ever been laid. Dozens of tales explained why or who had done so. Some tales claimed The One Who Waits laid the path itself to lure fae through the woods, letting them believe they could escape. Then it would trick them off the path for an easy meal. Others believed the first fae battled The One Who Waits and locked it away in the woods, leaving a path to find their way and defend against the entity, should it ever try to escape.

He didn’t care about either. He cared about getting them out of there alive, no matter the cost. None had ever done so. He knew of a few fools who dared the forest in stupid attempts to prove themselves. They never returned, and some used the forest as a burial ground. If a fae got on the wrong side of another, it wasn’t entirely unusual for them to be thrown into the forest, where they would disappear forever.

However, between the terror, he sensed something else. Faerie felt wrong. He couldn’t explain why other than calling the thought a gut feeling. A scent carried in the air of decay, brought in by a silent breeze.

“Then I suggest we get a move on. I imagine the longer we’re here, the more likely we are to run into this creature.” William rose, thus releasing his hand. William inspected their surroundings that were nothing more than tall trees and a ground covered in leaves.

“Yes, we should do that.” He chose not to mention the stories. They had to attempt an escape. He would rip the trees from their roots and battle The One Who Waits if it meant sparing William.

He reached for William’s hand again, the silver one. William stuck his hand in his pocket.

“We must stick together. The forest will not treat us kindly,” he explained. He didn’t trust the gnawing feeling at the bottom of his gut, either. The Lost Woods had an eerie atmosphere, but there was something else there that he couldn’t decipher.

William shambled to his opposite side and held his hand. He kept any comments to himself. William so hated that silver arm and he wasn’t sure how to change that, or if he ever could.

“We should keep speaking to a minimum as well. It likely knows we’re here, but just in case,” he added, and William nodded.

Hand in hand, they set off in search of the path or an escape, whichever would reveal itself first. Leaves crunched beneath William’s boots. He flinched at every noise. The crunching echoed, swirling around them, hissing through the trees. William tiptoed, doing little to help.

“Get on my back,” Nicholas offered and kneeled. “No arguing. We must be quiet.”

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