Page 75 of Welcome to Blackbird Hollow
“Wyatt Hayessss,” the nymphs murmur in unison. “You’ve brought the enemy to our door. We shall grant you a boon.”
Alice’s eyes light up, but Mrs. Cheng shakes her head, waggling her pointer finger at Them as dry leaves rustle around her feet, greening up in the presence of the forest Fey. “No boons.”
Soriya Cheng, a voice says as the biggest of the hounds steps forward, its jaw dripping with venom. It’s got a missing eye. The one from before. What are the Wild Hunt’s hellhounds doing here, with the Hunt already gone, being ridden like godsdamn horses by a half-dozen tree-nymphs?Go home, child.
I glance down at Mrs. Cheng, who grumbles, “I didn’t even get to shoot a dirty little Sector goofball.”
Another time, perhaps, the hound replies, its horrible voice almost affectionate. It tracks that Mrs. Cheng would have befriended an alpha hound.Rest well, dear one.
“Yeah, yeah, you too.” Mrs. Cheng shrugs as she pats my arm. She hands me her bazooka. “Put it back where it belongs when you’re done and lock up.”
“For heaven’s sake,” Not-Cookie snarls. “Is this what Blackbird Hollow’s best amounts to?”
Alice—my little shit starter—growls like a full-blown werewolf, shoots the agent aiming wrong in the leg with salt, and in a second, the nymphs are down off the hounds’ backs. The forest looms closer than it should, the trees taller suddenly. The air goes cold, the ice machine stops humming, the lights in the alley wink out.
The agents start to shoot, and I throw the bazooka at Alice. “Kill Not-Cookie.” She frowns for half a second. “It’ll be a blessing for her.”
Alice lifts the gun, and for an instant, Not-Cookie seems to understand just what a miscalculation she’s made. Hedgeriders aren’t at war with Them; we’re straddling the line between our worlds. Sector’s always confused us with Hunters. That’s the problem with letting incompetents run things.
The nymphs laugh, gleefully. “Kill her if you can, Alice Blythe,” They sing. “We’ll bring her back and suck her dry, feed her blood to our roots, her entrails to the wind.”
“Gross,” Alice whispers, then shrugs. “But y’know? Sure. Feed her entrails to the wind or whatever.”
One of the nymphs steps forward, touching Alice’s bazooka. Foxglove springs out of it. “Poison, just like you,” the creature whispers, admiration shining in her eyes. “I wager you taste like datura with a hint of salt.”
The nymph’s eyes slide to mine as the remaining agents begin to realize just how fucked they are. The hounds are closing in on them, and Their rancid breath must be pouring down their necks. The mist’s thicker than ever as the nymph that rendered Mrs. Cheng’s bazooka useless asks, “What does she taste like, Wyatt Hayes?”
I lower my gun and slide an arm around Alice’s waist. “She tastes like she’smine.”
Alice’s fingers dig into my arm as the nymph’s lip curls slightly. Not-Cookie uses the moment to her advantage, drawing an enormous bowie knife from a sheath beneath her jacket. She shoves it through the nymph’s abdomen, and all hell breaks loose.
The hellhounds pounce. The Sector agents open fire, and I start picking them off. Not-Cookie lunges for Alice, still trying to take her rather than running. And then half a dozen moreagents swarm out of the alley, dressed in expensive tactical gear, helmets, and automatic rifles.
I shove Alice back toward the lilac bush. “Get inside.”
“Not a fucking chance,” she shouts back.
And then she shoots that bazooka, her eyes locked with the injured nymph’s. They both nod, as though they’ve agreed upon something. To my amazement, instead of bullets, red honey locust thorns fly out of the bazooka, long and sharp as the dickens. The injured nymph throws her hands out, as though guiding the thorns, straight into three of the original agents’ eyes. They fall immediately, and the nymph snarls, leaving Alice and me behind to jump into the fray.
I cover Alice, kneecapping as many of the tactical agents as I can. It’s the place where their armor’s weak. As they stumble, the hounds and the nymphs take them. The trees are too close now, obscuring the moon. It’s hard to see.
But Alice and I are the only ones affected by the darkness. The tactical agents wear night vision helmets, and Fey creatures see just as well in the dark as They do in the light. The red and green of Their eyes flash in the near-pitch darkness.
I reach for Alice, but she’s right behind me, tucking herself into my side. The two of us shoot into the dark, and I think we’re probably making some headway when she screams. She’s there one second, and the next, she’s gone, the bazooka falling to the ground.
The scent of petrichor fills my nose. “What would you give for forest Sight?” a nymph sings in my ear. It’s not the one Not-Cookie stabbed, but another, this one younger.
Her voice is terrible, the song of dying years and wolf winters. Long fingers wrap around my arm, keeping me from struggling. I smell pine sap and leaf mold. Petrichor and the wintergreen of willow bark.
She has me pressed against her, but instead of feeling the soft curves of a voluptuous body, I feel the hard bark of a tree. We haven’t come across nymphs too often—They usually keep to themselves. You don’t bother the trees, you don’t meet wood nymphs. It’s simple, and I don’t fuck with trees that aren’t already fallen.
“I’d give just about anything right now,” I whisper, “but I think you said a little somethin’ about a boon.”
“So we did.” She laughs, then shoves her fingers into my back, slicing through skin, muscle, and down to bone like a hot knife through butter. I scream, but she’s as good as her word. To be Fey-touched is to feel pain, and I’ll carry the wound for the rest of my life, but even as her power burns through me, I know it’s doing some good, along with the harm.
As her Fey-fingers touch my spine, I see with the eyes of the forest. It’s not just night-vision; it’s something more. Something bigger. Like I’m every tree, every mushroom, everything in the godsdamn circle of life. And it is all so beautiful, all so precious, I want to cry.
And there’s my girl, being dragged off thrashing by Not-Cookie-Grandma.
