Page 123 of Lore of the Wicked Wood
Just as he knew Everinne was familiar with those same stories, the ones intended to frighten and heed with caution. Yet she showed no signs of trepidation when she stepped away from him, warnings and vigilance meant nothing to her. She didn’t fear the darkness because part of it lived within her. When the woods shuddered and yawned, stretching open in a deceitful welcome, Everinne walked right in.
But Atlas knew better.
He snared her by the hand, wincing when he realized her fingers were like ice. Interlocking their fingers together, he pulled her in close to his side. If they died in the wicked wood, it would be because some nightmarish creature attacked them and not from the temperature. Freezing to death wasn’t exactly a noble way to die, and Atlas had long ago decided that upon his final sunset, he wouldn’t go down without a fight.
So, he remained aware, his gaze darting from the carved trunks of the trees to the taunting branches to the impenetrable darkness that seemed to stare back at him.
He allowed Everinne to guide him, their boots crunching against the snow in perfect cadence together as they trekked deeper into the forest.
“Where are we going?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
Her shoulder brushed his and she tilted her head back, skimming the overhang of trees so dense, the snow could no longer fall through the thick branches.
“There’s a hut just within the forest. Zoryana took me there after…” She squeezed his hand. “After Callum.”
Just hearing her say that fucking hunter’s name caused Atlas’s blood to heat and boil. They never found out why he set his mark on Everinne, but that bastard human had tried to end her life. And in some sick, twisted way, Atlas supposed he’d succeeded. Everinne lashed out, she’d shattered Callum’s mind, killed him, and in doing so, she’d become bound and trapped by her own magic. She saw herself as a monster. In death, Callum had filled her with doubt, sent her headfirst into a spiral of self-loathing and degradation. It was an absolute mindfuck, and she’d never fully recovered.
Atlas almost wished Everinne had kept him alive, that way he could have the privilege of killing Callum himself.
They continued on, passing ancient trees carved with whorls and runes, their roots buried deep beneath the solid ground, a source of archaic magic. Without the noise of their boots sinking into the snow, Atlas fixated on the lack of sound.
The blustery wind from before had fallen silent. The branches no longer trembled, and the forest held its undying breath.
It was nearly impossible to see anything, the pitch of night was suddenly thick like spilled ink, but he could just make out the outline of low-lying branches in the fading moonlight. Banking clouds continued to creep across the midnight sky and when they devoured the haze of the moon, the forest would be at its darkest.
Atlas steeled his nerve. He’d faced worse threats. “Do you think we’ll find Zoryana there?”
“I’m hoping so.” Everinne shivered, leaning into him as they walked. “It’s a safe house.”
Safe was not quite the word he would use. Not when they were being stalked by the wicked wood.
A scuffling noise echoed in his ears, a gnashing, a scrape of a sound between the space of their beating hearts and even breathing.
“Ever…” Atlas warned, but she stopped the moment he spoke her name.
“Gods, no.” There was a twinge in her tone, a flicker of fear.
Atlas spun, prepared to face some unknown terror, and instead he found her staring at a rundown hut with a crumbling stone chimney. The thatched roof looked as though it was ready to cave in at any moment. Most of the windows had been broken, only jagged pieces of glass remained in the sills. Where the front door should have been, there was a gaping hole, and scattered about the stoop and forest floor were destroyed pieces of hardwood, remnants of what should’ve been the door. It appeared to have been ripped clean off the hinges, which meant whatever remained within the hut would only be in worse shape.
Everinne charged up uneven steps, determination firing her steps, but Atlas was faster. He grabbed her by the waist, plucked her off the derelict stoop, and planted her firmly on the ground behind him.
“You.” He pointed a finger in her face. “Arenotgoing in there. Not without me.”
She knocked his hand away. “Zoryana is my friend. If?—”
“Exactly,” he fired back, snaring her wrist before she could smack at him again. “Ifanything, then I will be the one to see it first. We don’t know what’s in there.”
He leaned in close, their breath misting and mingling, and stared into those turquoise pools of wonder where gold crested the surface. If there was one thing he would never get over, it was her eyes, the way they swam with a thousand emotions. Atlas pressed his mouth to the corner of her lips. “Let me go first, Wildheart. Let me do this for you.”
She gave him the barest of imperceptible nods and then he was climbing the front stoop, cursing himself for not bringing a fucking sword, or at the very least, a dagger.
Atlas breached the entryway, blocking the entirety of it with his frame in case he needed to shield Everinne from anything. At first glance, he was grateful there were no bodies or blood, but there were definitely signs of a struggle.
What little furnishings remained were overturned, resembling chunks of wood for kindling as opposed to actual furniture. Curls of the oak flooring were lifted into ribbons, as though large claws had shredded the aged hardwood completely. Embers from a dying fire were scattered across the ground, their fading glow the only remnants of light. Stone walls were smeared with scorch marks shaped into unreadable symbols and even the iron stoker used for the hearth had been mauled and warped. The stench of ash and brimstone lingered in the air of the ravaged hut, the telltale reek of demonic magic.
His gut clenched, and bile burned the back of his throat.
There was only one person who could be responsible for this kind of wreckage.
