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A monumental task, especially after the sudden, soft snore that seized up every muscle in Noel’s body. He forced out a sigh and closed his eyes, the gentle patter of rain against the windows caressing the edge of his mind and pulling him into the depths of sleep.
* * *
Noel’s motorcycle was gone when he stood in front of the obelisk this time, staring into the smooth, black surface of that hulking monument with his macharomancer mark carved into one of its six faceted sides. No game wardens. No other prey. Just him, the obelisk, and the stars. He stepped forward and placed his hand on the smooth stone, slick to the touch as he dragged his fingers past the first corner in his clockwise walk to the other five sides. Triangle struck through the top: austromancy. Upside down triangle stuck through the bottom: lithomancy. Tilted line with a circle instead of his arrow: sciomancy. Normal triangle: halomancy.
He paused at the final facet, staring at the hemomancy symbol there, where his thumb traced the grooves like it might snag his skin and pool with his blood. After all, that’s all this ritual wanted, right?
Blood.
Death.
Sacrifice.
Everything that’d poured into the ground over the years after the rise of the fair folk and their wild magic. Wild magic that seeped into people’s bones, turning them into nothing more than subjects on the other side of a veil, incapable of refusing to bend to the will of their vengeful masters.
No-el.
He whipped around in search of the eerie, sing-song tune floating through the clearing. His hand fell away from the obelisk, reaching for the dagger in his boot, but no hilt stuck out for him to grasp.
No-e-l, it sang again, drawing out the L with a teasing giggle teetering on a cackle.
His hackles rose, despite feeling rooted to the spot. When he forced himself to take a step toward it, his legs moved like they were weighed down with bags of sand. His father’s stern warning of never running after something without a weapon to channel his magic into stopped him again.
“What do you want?” he called, hoping the faux-courage in his voice carried past the trees and into the dark.
Seconds wore on without answer, save the pounding of his pulse in his ears.
We would like to propose a trade.
Noel would’ve scoffed if he wasn’t so terrified that his heart was about to burst from his chest. “Trade what?”
Give us the hemomancer, and you can walk free at the end of the Hunt.
His fingers turned to ice, spreading through his arms and pushing straight to the bone. So this was how they determined who would live. He hadn’t missed the convenient omission of what sort of state he’d be in once he walked free.
After all, there was always one “survivor” that the fair folk so graciously returned, even though they’d shattered their mind beyond repair.
Noel’s hands curled into fists. “Fuck off.” He wasn’t stupid enough to hand them both over to the wardens and hope for the best. “You’re scared we’ll find a way out, aren’t you?”
Raucous laughter welled up from the creature—or creatures—amusement layered in a dizzying chorus of clashing voices. Then it fell into a deep, husky tone that made Noel shrink back. Go ahead and try, little boy. Sooner or later, we will have what we want.
* * *
Noel’s eyes flew open to the thumping of rain against the window, sounding in time with his heart. The mattress complained as he pushed himself up and paused when it continued to tremble. He glanced over to Grey, curled up and shivering where he’d left him. Noel slid off the bed and untucked his side of the comforter to drape it over his shaking form in a cocoon. The trembling lessened after a minute, and Noel perched on the end of the bed, rubbing his face.
Give us the hemomancer.
His eyes drifted back to Grey’s bundled body again.
You don’t trust me.
Noel folded in on himself, his stomach twisting from the line he was riding. He should’ve agreed the second Grey suggested anything because, honestly, what did they have to lose? The fair folk were already taking over for the Calling, trying to pit him against the person he saved in the midst of the chaos.
Because he knew he wouldn’t survive the Hunt. The only way he’d manage is if he’d make a deal—he was almost certain. The fair folk knew how to pry into his mind and poke until they got a reaction. They always had, especially when he’d encountered them as a child.
Pixies had lured him into the woods near his home when he was eight, the light tugging at his clothes growing more aggressive the further he journeyed inside. They’d led him onto winding paths with the promise of adventure and treasure until he was lost and afraid. And yet, they still tried to force him toward the faerie portal somewhere deeper within.
Noel had clapped his hands over his ears and huddled in the dirt with his eyes squeezed shut and knees drawn to his chest, where he waited for the pixies to abandon him. They didn’t—not until his father found him, scooped him up, and carried him home. His mother had fussed over every little cut and bruise, tears shimmering in her eyes. It wasn’t until later that he discovered she’d been terrified that her Noel was still in the woods while she cleaned up her new changeling, never to see her real son again.
