Krah glide through the bruised murk, squawking their wake-up call as I plunge my dagger deep into the boar’s stomach. The spill of thick blood coats my hands and steams the icy air, and I drag the blade down, carving a grisly seam, stabbing the weapon into the felled log I’m using as a table.
The atmosphere is smoky from the blazing campfire centered within a noose of charred rocks, bridled with a makeshift spit I built using a few thick branches.
A gentle breeze whistles through the trees, bringing forth more hints of that musky, feral odor that makes my hackles rise.
But there’s something else, too.
I pause, elbow deep in gore, smelling the air ... picking up on a fresh array ofotherscents; one masculine, one feminine, one new and sweet and—
“Fuck.”
I hadn’t counted on anyone being out this late. Not all the way up here.
This clearing is a thoroughfare—the moss, the grass, the trees all marked with a mottling of scents. It’s the main reason I chose this spot.
Forest dwellers come to clean their kill in the brook that cuts through the middle, or to cook their meat to avoid drawing unwanted attention to their homes or villages. But most know better than to be out this close to sundown, and whoeverthosepeople are—the owners of the three fresh scents being shoved toward me—they’ll want to be far away when I start cooking this beast.
I grip hold of warm, wet organs and rip them free, lumping them on the ground next to me with a heavy splat.
The flies descend like they’re starving.
I can’t begrudge them that, not when I know the pull of true, unrelenting hunger.
A few minutes later, a male threads through a veil of leafy vines. He’s tall, dark haired and broad shouldered—his hand darting out the moment his gaze lands on me, preventing a petite woman from fully emerging through the same fall of foliage.
I watch them from beneath the rim of my hood, hand wrapped around the boar’s still-warm heart.
The female is pretty with shoulder-length hair, a dusting of freckles on her cheeks, and slanted eyes that look familiar. A squirming bundle is strapped close to her chest, shielded by one of her soil-stained hands.
Neither of them moves as I rip the heart free and toss it to the ground, then push my hood back.
The man lets out a startled sound and falls to his knees, dropping his wooden bucket. The woman lowers much slower; a cautious curtsy, likely to avoid disrupting her young.
“Master,” the man blurts, voice strained. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t instantly recognize you.”
I study them, noting their lack of weapons other than a small blade hanging from the male’s belt.
A low rumble agitates the back of my throat, threatening to spill.
“Are ... are you just passing through?” he asks, pine-green eyes meeting mine. They widen, his gaze flying to the carnage littering the ground next to me.
“I was,” I respond, tone low and even. The last thing any of us need is for them to panic. “Do you have a bunker?”
He frowns, the woman raising her other hand to her squirming bundle.
“Ahh, we do ...” He gestures to the bucket tipped on its side, spilling white, tumor-like lumps over the ground. “We use it to store the truffles.” His eyes flick to my kill, back again. “Do you ... do you require use of it? To store your kill? That’s a lot of meat for one man.”
“No,” I mumble, yanking my bloody dagger from the log and tossing it through the air. It plunges hilt-deep into the ground at the man’s feet. “Take the blade. Go straight there and don’t come out until sunup.”
They both pale, and the wide-eyed woman falls back a step.
“Of course,” the man says with a brisk nod.
They collect the truffles with frantic, trembling hands, retrieve the dagger, and then the couple darts off, leaving nothing but the stark scent of fear.
I finally let my growl spill, giving it weight, making sure it ripples through the forest. It’s a possessive sound that finds berth in the trees and the shrubs and the very ground I’m standing on.
I toss some offal closer to the tree line and in the bubbling brook, then smear my face, chest, and neck with the blood of my kill. Impaling the carcass with a wet, sturdy branch, I suspend it over the flames, then sit on the red-slicked log, pull up my hood, and wait.
