Page 73 of Hunted in the Shadows
Sylvia
Breathe. Just breathe.
The back window of the motel room led directly to the woods stretching behind the building. I ventured deep enough among the trees to hide the motel from sight.
I could almost pretend that there were no humans for miles and miles.
I inhaled deeply, shakily, as though the fresh scent of cornflower and thyme might heal me from the inside. Peace washed through me with each brush against greenery, clean air filling my lungs. Every forest was sacred. Even this one, with its heavy air, held tranquility like a communal prayer.
My satchel, brimming with the fresh herbs I had foraged, bumped against my hip as I flitted about to keep busy. I carefully arranged cornflower petals in a runic pattern upon a branch—a private offering for the stars to gaze upon. Such formal gifts were typically reserved for Solstice celebrations with the entire village, but a near-death experience felt like a worthy enough occasion.
Wings aching, I was tempted to have a seat on the branch, but perfect stillness would bring me no comfort. The remnants of magic exhaustion and my brush with iron continued to throb through my body and soul. My heart lay in pieces, desperate for commiseration.
Yet, my first instinct was to flee when I awoke in the motel room an hour ago.
I had scrambled off the pillow and sprang into the air, expecting to find myself back in that awful fighting arena with a throng of hunters jeering at me.
But there was only Jon, his expression rising with relief—only to fall again when I flew right past him. He said something—perhaps an apology or a question—but I didn’t listen. I stammered an excuse that I was low on rosewater and needed to forage. Even when he offered to put salve on the iron wound I couldn’t heal, I fled without another word.
He didn’t give chase.
My reasonable excuse was that I couldn’t bear to be inside. Couldn’t bear to be confined within a structure so damnhuman.
The whole, cruel truth was too tangled in brambles for me to touch. Facing near death at his hands had finally made me realize it.
Ilovedhim, and it was too late to save myself from the ache that would come with it. I loved him, and I wanted to howl at the sky for the entire world to hear.
I love him, I love him, I love him.
But what did it matter, if fate seemed determined to keep us apart? We were constantly pushed to the brink, nearly destroying each other as we fought across the tethers that separated us. Love wasn’t always beautiful. It was fucking poison when you couldn’t have what you wanted.
I didn’t even know if he felt the same way. From where I stood, all of our assertions to not get attached felt flimsy. But perhaps he was stronger than me.
One of the petals in my offering was askew. In my haste to fix it, I crumpled its delicate texture. I gritted my teeth, tempted to sweep the entire pattern away in a fury.
Stars, could I not do this one simple thing right?
The tears I’d muscled down threatened to resurface again, but I set the damaged petal back into the arrangement. I supposed that was fitting—one twisted piece in an otherwise perfect collection.
The stars see perfection differently than we do, my love. Mother’s voice was calm and certain in my memory.
An ache burrowed through my chest. Embarrassment flashed through me in the same instant. How many times had I brought up my family, my old home, or lost friends in the past months? Each restaurant the hunters introduced me to had me rambling about Mother’s cooking and the Elysian kitchens. Each new animal was an excuse to note down every detail for Hazel.
I’d quelled my pathetically redundant mentions in recent weeks, but that didn’t mean that the memories haunted me any less. I didn’t stop thinking of Mother and Hazel with any amount of space between us. I thought of them every minute.
When I was with the hunters, sometimes that gaping hole in my heart felt less cavernous. Now, it felt bottomless and vast. Unfillable. I just wanted to see my family right now. Just for a moment.
My gaze drifted to the forest floor below me. Before I knew it, I was gliding down to land at the foot of the oak tree. I pushed aside dead leaves, my fingers moving for the soil packed beneath. I could have traced the symbol blindly. My fingers plunged into the soil, my heels burning as I crouched, moving hurriedly—forming the spectral rune.
After stealing a glance around the woods, confirming my solitude from humans and safety from birds of prey, I laid down on the ground and whispered the spell.
I blinked in the dazzling familiar periwinkle. I breathed deeply—not that there wasairhere exactly. No breeze. No earthy scent of the forest. I flexed my hands in front of me, noticing the ache from my strenuous fight absent now. The iron woundmarring my shoulder was gone—my skin held no blemishes here, other than the traitor mark I couldn’t see.
Home.
The single word gave shape to the rudderless magic in my blood. I didn’t care that the nomadic journals warned against it—I willed my memories to resurrect around me. Smoky images of willow fronds danced through the luminous void first, then whirling earthen walls. It was dizzying, like I was flying without spreading my wings.
Home.
