Page 87 of Lore of the Wicked Wood
Twenty-Seven
Everinne trekked east, toward the outskirts of Starysa, past the towering stone walls that protected the sprawling city’s border. The gate was pulled open, its bars lined close enough together to prevent anyone from slipping between them, the tops of them fortified with lethal spikes. Two massive wolf statues were positioned on either side of the gate, carved from dark gray granite with veins of gold. They looked ready to pounce on anyone who dared to enter. Guards patrolled the top of the wall, armed with bows and arrows, and other weapons that were hidden just out of sight behind the rough battlements. Four of them stood near the gate, so still she wasn’t even sure they were breathing. Their shiny armor of black and gold marked them as the kralv’s watch, and though they said nothing as she passed, she could feel the intensity of their gazes watching her every move.
It wasn’t often anyone used the gates, most made the port of the Ladova Bay their point of entry into the city. She would have to return before nightfall if she expected to get home without any trouble.
At least the weather was on her side.
For now, the skies were clear, but she kept her eyes on the eastern horizon where a bank of heavy clouds toiled just beyond the mountains’ highest peaks, carrying the promise of snow. The first snowfall in Starysa was considered a blessing by some ancient goddess whose name had long since been forgotten but was celebrated all the same by the lighting of a bonfire. Each year, the silver flames of faerie fire would burn until the Winter Solstice, then once the longest night finally arrived, the streets were filled with citizens dancing and drinking warm spiced wine until dawn. Already, the haunting evergreens of the Deszvila Forest seemed to beckon the impending frost. Those woods were full of impossibly thick trees whose branches stretched toward the sky like skeletal hands and were covered in coarse green and gold foliage. When snow fell, the branches hung low and heavy, blocking out any shred of sunlight, and delicately sharp icicles dangled from them like the open jaws of a winter monster.
Everinne dipped her chin, burying herself deeper into the warmth of her navy wool coat. Her sweater wasn’t nearly enough to keep out the biting chill of the promised winter, but at least this time she’d grabbed her fur-lined maroon leggings to ward off some of the cold. She’d forgotten gloves, so she stuffed her hands into the pockets of her coat, ignoring the wind as it stung her cheeks and slapped her hair in her face.
She veered off the path leading out of the city, her boots crunching against the still-frozen ground, and hesitated.
Trepidation pricked along the back of her neck and her hands, raw and chilled from the cold, grew damp. She squeezed them into tight fists, her chest heaving with shaky breaths. The last time she walked into the wicked wood, she’d been delusional and fractured with heartbreak, yet Zoryana had ensured her safety. This time, however, Everinne had only herself for company, and no guarantees.
But she knew Zoryana was in the woods, knew she was hiding in the secluded hut, where the wards and charms would protect her from the dangers of the Deszvila Forest and Starysa alike.
Everinne had to apologize. She couldn’t afford to lose her only friend.
The moment she stepped foot into the woods, the air shifted.
Ancient magic lived here, breathed here. The scent of white pine, ripe berries, and fresh earth surrounded her. Stories were told through the rustling of spindly leaves, memories of the forest’s timeworn power carved into the gnarled trunks with whorls and runes, each one older and more riveting than the last. Everinne knew the dangers of this place, she’d caught glimpses of the rarekrázstra, a reclusive fae bound to a singular tree, whose warm laughter lured the foolish deep into forest, where she ensnared them in her vines and forced them into unjust bargains. Everinne had heard the nightmarish stories of thebaukvist, or fleshflayers—terrifying beings who ripped the skin from their victims and then wore it as their own—and how they were compelled to kill because the evil of their souls slowly ate away at each new layer of flesh until there was nothing but rot and bones. Perhaps worse than all of that, though, was the way the Deszvila Forest never appeared threatening to her, as though it recognized her.
Like calls to like.
Of course a deadly forest would welcome the one who was touched by death.
Everinne sighed, and her breath puffed before her as she ventured deeper into the woods.
She hadn’t stepped foot in the forest in years, not since Zoryana brought her to the Coven of the Scarlet Moon to recover after Everinne killed Callum.
Callum.
Callum, with his kind brown eyes and plain brown hair, with his slightly crooked nose and alarmingly handsome smile.
The image of him had yet to fade from Everinne’s mind, despite the passing years.
She’d met Callum at the Grand Cru, they’d danced all night, and though she’d brought him back to her place, he was gone by the time she woke the following morning. It had been disappointing, of course, and while it wasn’t the first time a male had slipped from her bed before dawn, the insult still stung. She figured she’d never see him again.
But Callum kept appearing, at the market while she was shopping, at the harbor when she was admiring the ships from other lands, and Everinne had started to wonder if fate had finally played her hand. She’d fallen for him so hard and so fast, found herself drawn in by his easy demeanor and how he made her laugh, and for a few treasured moments in his arms, she didn’t feel like one of those monsters in the forest.
Until the night he tried to kill her.
Everinne could still remember his hateful words, the venomous loathing that spewed from his mouth. It was like he’d waited for the perfect timing, had been whittling away at her defenses in preparation to strike her down. She would never forget the feeling of his hand wrapped around her throat, squeezing with the intent to crush, to strangle as the weight of his body pinned her to her bed. Nor would she be able to erase the image of his blade glinting through the night, arcing overhead, aiming right for her heart.
She’d shattered his mind, destroyed him in a breath.
Her magic flowed from her in a torrent and slammed into him, all vengeance and fury. His back bowed, his head snapped back. Blood dripped from his eyes in tears of crimson, his mouth wrenched open in a soundless scream as his veins turned black, and she poured every last measure of violence, of hatredinto him, so the pain he felt was excruciating. So he contorted, withered, then died.
A deserving death, especially for him.
Everinne had never understood why Callum had taken so long to attack, why he’d kissed her and fucked her all while wanting to end her life. For some reason, he’d set his mark upon her, and she’d never found out why.
Oh well, she supposed it no longer mattered.
Callum was dead.
And Everinne had spent a month in the Deszvila Forest with Zoryana, protected by the sacred sanctuary of the Coven of the Scarlet Moon. There she stayed with the witches as she attempted to heal her broken heart, as she struggled to come to terms with what she’d done. Recovery had been long, as she had never truly been able to forget about that fateful night. The memories haunted her still, terrorizing her in the form of nightmares and wayward power.
