Page 89 of Hunted in the Shadows
No sooner had we caught up to Sylvia than she darted ahead again, leaving us to follow the hum of her wings. She navigated to where the water stretched open and deep, and the knobby mangroves dominated the horizon. Our muddy path connected to a dilapidated wooden walkway that jutted into the water. It might’ve once been a fishing dock, judging by the rotting nets tangled along its edge. The wood creaked under our every step, amplifying the eerie feeling that we were disturbing something.
At the end of the dock, Sylvia was finally rooted in place, hovering in midair just above eye level. She assessed the landscape with intense scrutiny, but I glimpsed awe buried beneath. The distant call of herons, lilies in bloom across the water, and mangroves with their arching roots—all of it was new to her. She had stopped gasping aloud at every unfamiliar terrain on our journey west, but amazement still seized her sometimes, even in the midst of a hunt. It had to be overwhelming—her world exploding in size in a matter of weeks.
I cleared my throat, hating to interrupt her wonder. “Any glamour?”
Her eyes narrowed at the tree line. “I thought it would feel like coming home to Elysia. There’s always been a faint buzzing near the glamour bounds. I was hoping it’d feel like a familiar blanket once we came closer, but…” She shook her head. “It’s strange here. Cloudy. It doesn’t sit well.” She folded her arms across her chest, expression darkening.
In the stillness, I fully took in our surroundings—and something odd caught my eye. The dock stretched sideways for several meters, gradually becoming more dilapidated before coming to an abrupt end.
A neat row of objects sat near the edge, looking out of place among the rotting boards.
“Hey—where did that come from?” I started toward the row, then slowed in confusion as the familiarity of the items sent a chill down my spine.
Behind me, Cliff cursed under his breath. “Is that… our stuff?”
The sight looked more akin to a vision from the spectral plane—or a horror movie. Mundane and hunting objects lined the edge of the dock in a perfect row, spaced equally apart from each other. Travel-sized toiletries, single bullets, spare flashlights, a couple of knives and—
“My necklace!” Sylvia cried. She swooped down to grab the snowflake charm before I could stop her.
“Stay back!” I ordered, thinking about how lucky she was that something hadn’t leaped up from the water to grab her.
“What the fuck is this?” Cliff demanded.
“They’re all from the Pontiac,” I murmured. We were at least a quarter mile from the wreck.
Shit. That thing we saw in the water must’ve gone through our stuff before the tow truck rolled up.
“Sylv?” I prompted, hoping she might have some Fae explanation for why our belongings would be arranged in this way—like something had gone out of its way to befucking creepy.
She brushed grime off the plastic gems of her necklace. Meeting my gaze, she shook her head slowly and held the snowflake out to me. “I can’t make any sense of it,” she admitted.
I pocketed her necklace for safekeeping, my expression shadowing as I scanned our surroundings—unsure of what I was looking for.
Cliff knelt beside me, reaching to fish something out of the water. It was small, no bigger than his hand.At first, I thought it was a branch or another one of our belongings, but when he angled it in the light, I glimpsed the brittle remains of vertebraeprotruding. I looked into the water below us again, finding there were at least ten more fish skeletons in various stages of decay bobbing against the dock.
“Nasty,” Cliff muttered, tossing the bone back into the water. “Guess this thing was hungry.”
Asplashsounded across the bayou.
Cliff snapped to his feet, hand flying to his gun while I instinctively did the same. We stood coiled with tension as the disturbed water rippled out—maybe forty feet away from the dock. Slowly, the ripples faded, leaving the swamp eerily quiet. The silence was broken only by the hum of insects and the slosh of water against the old wood beneath our feet.
Inhaling sharply, Sylvia darted between us and the water. Her wide eyes turned to meet mine. “Stars,” she gasped. “Move back!”
We didn’t question her, backpedaling from the edge of the dock with our weapons raised, searching for whatever threat had set her off.
The distance wasn’t enough to quell her. She pointed behind us, her voice pitching into panic. “Run,” she gasped. “Run, hurry!”
A soft melody crept into the air, silencing all else. Sylvia’s voice, the insects, the rustling leaves and lapping water. All gone. I froze, gun pointed stiffly ahead as the sad, soothing lullaby grew steadily in volume. My brow unknitted, a soft breath escaping me in a gust.
Pale hands gripped the edge of the dock. A woman with waves of red hair pulled herself up and sat on the last decaying board. She cocked her head, peering up at me with bright green eyes as her pink lips formed each gentle note.
As her tender gaze met mine, promising that this tune was specially made for me, I remembered one thing—there was no coming back from making eye contact with the siren.
Fuck.
My surroundings dissolved, falling out of focus—Sylvia, Cliff, the oppressive humidity. All my attention washers. As the woman continued to sing, my heart slowed into a calm rhythm. There was nothing to fear now that she had found me. Her ethereal beauty defied the grime of the swamp.
She beckoned me with a delicate hand, and I couldn’t work out why I was hesitant.
