Page 85 of Prey It By Ear

And I no longer believe the lies about me being those things, so I know they attack me out of fear.

Carefully, we advance as a team into the unknown with nothing but our wits and strength to keep us from being harmed.

There are worse ways to spend a Tuesday night, and I’m much happier doing this than wasting my time counting followers in my cult on social media.

The woods are old, so as we pick our way through, we hit a thicket of wild roses, the thorns gone brittle in the freeze. I make mental notes of every footprint we pass—foxes, canines, and several different prey animals that were probably accessing secret tunnels for the staff. There’s nothing fresh, though, so I don’t worry about it. We take our time, not because we’re scared, but because it’s smart. Everything that wants to kill us out here is patient or very swift. I’m both, and I know Rennie is too, but Aubrey relies on brute strength. He’ll take out a huge part of this place if he has to shift or unleash the fire to protect us.

That will entail days of paperwork, and I know none of us wants that in the slightest.

There’s a stutter every few feet—my foot catches on a root or someone’s shoe slides, followed by a low, furious snarl. We’re moving deeper into the trees toward the spot where Rennie and the crew found the weird cabin. There’s no actual path, only a strip of trampled grass and frost that isn’t tamped down enough to see without enhanced vision. The first warning that we’re getting close is the birds breaking from cover about a thousand yards ahead. None of us say anything, but I feel the tension ripple back through our group as the gargoyle continues moving us in the correct direction.

Suddenly, he stops, holding his hand up, and I bump into his elbow, muttering, “What⁠—?”

Rennie shakes his head at me. So I listen harder to see what is tweaking his radar. The woods are quiet, but not in the customary way. There are no frogs, no wind, not even the distant chirp of a bird. It’s a thick, suffocating silence, and my teeth ache from the pressure of it.

Aubrey crouches beside me, one palm down for stability and his claws extended but not threatening. “Something’s off,” he says in a low voice made for the dark. “I sense it, too.”

I nod because I know the birds’ panicked flight isn’t them running from us. They’re fleeing whatever is at the old cabin. None of them even look back, and it’s as if the center of the woods has been declared a no-go zone.

Apparently, we’re the only ones dumb or brave enough to ignore the signs.

We press on, moving in short bursts and always with a pause to listen. The frost is thicker here, and the ground is weirdly soft—spongy, like there’s something under it waiting to move. I check the sky. It’s open above, but the trees are packed tight around the next clearing. The moonlight should hit the leaves, but it’s as if someone turned down the exposure by hand. After ten minutes of this, we reach the outer ring. The trees here are birch and maple, with old pines just beyond. There’s the faintest scent of iron—blood, maybe, but I haven’t heard about any neck wounds. Underneath it all is a taste I recognize from dreams and several bad nights at various schools.

Circling the perimeter, we fan out just enough to see the cabin from all angles. It’s smaller than I expected, but it’s ringed by what looks like a collapsed stone wall. There are no obvious entrances besides the front, and the windows are covered completely. The whole place smells of old wood, mold, and underneath, that same metallic sweetness.

I’m not sure I want to know if that’s the Fae lady magic or vampire leftover, truthfully.

Rennie crouches at the edge of the trees, scanning for movement. Then, just past the far side of the hill, a branch snaps like a femur under pressure. We exchange silent looks, getting lower so we aren’t noticed by whatever this is if possible. That’s when I see a shadow moving against the cabin’s flank. It’s a blurry distortion that’s hard to parse, as if someone is painting with the color black and running out of pigment. Even so, it’s weirdly three-dimensional, but doesn’t track with the pattern of light through the trees. For a heartbeat, I think I see eyes, then they’re gone.

I don’t move; hell, I don’t even breathe, but neither does anyone else. The shadow just… exists, pressed to the side of the cabin without aggression, just a brutal confidence. Whatever it is, it knows we’re here, and it doesn’t care. It could be one of the vampires Rennie is certain about or something else, but it doesn’t seem to have a scent. I sniff again, shaking my head in frustration as it defies all natural laws.

Aubrey is in full freeze, every muscle in his body tight, his tail low and angled for leverage. My gargoyle is sneering at the cabin, not watching the same spot as me. I feel the weight of their anticipation, but they don’t seem as bothered by the shadow as I am, only by the occupants of the structure.

Is it possible they don’t even sense the fucking thing? Am I the only one who can see it?

I run the numbers in my head. If there’s a bunch of vamps in there as Rennie suspects, we can’t fight our way in and deal with this spooky thing. The only genuine option is to observe and report back when we get home. The shadow shifts, tracing the line of the cabin until it merges with the deep black at the corner. It lingers there, waiting, and I sense it wants us to see it but not to follow. It’s a warning, clear as any I’ve ever gotten.

I tip my chin toward the way we came, asking the winged men if they want to get out of here. Since nothing is stirring in the cabin that we can see, Aubrey moves first, never turning his back to the clearing. Rennie waits for me to follow, and I do so while keeping my eyes on the area where my secret watcher thing was. I don’t trust it, and since I can’t tell the guys about it without giving away our position, I need to be vigilant.

When we’re finally a safe distance away, I let a long, slow breath out. The pressure in my teeth fades and my ears feel less tense. I think we’re out of the range of whatever is in the cabin and the creepy shadow, which helps my heart ramp down as well. Together, we make our way back toward the edge of campus, the lights now just visible through the break in the trees.

The world returns to normal as we slip out of the trees. I feel the wind and hear the distant noise of a party two dorms away. But under it all, I feel the hum of energy from what we left behind. Whatever that was is separate from the fanged fuckers, and it’s probably working with them. That means it’s tattling on our presence as we speak. Tomorrow, we’re going to have to deal with that, and I have no idea how.

But for tonight, I know everyone I love is safe, and that’s enough—for now.

Every Little Thing She Does

Renard

Gardening is meditative for me, especially when nobody else is there to gawk at your dirt-caked hands or get nosy about what you’re planting. My mates think I tend to these beds because of class and because I like botany, which is true, but the real reason is what happens in my head when the world is still dark and the only sound is the scrape of trowel against flagstone.

At the moment, the annex courtyard is mine alone.

The sky is the color of cold soup, a wan nothingness that has not yet decided whether to be morning or just more of the same night. Our courtyard is not big—an open space with a small patio, a lot of grass, and enclosed by the annex and the library. My garden is a mix of old, tough perennials from before my time and new imports I’ve added with only the barest pretense of a landscaping plan. Fitz and Chess will sometimes linger at the back table if I’m out here, but right now, our home is empty. The younger tiger is walking our lapin to ballet, and everyone else is exercising or out doing things to start their day.

My hands are halfway to the wrists in the soil, turning into a root cluster that looks like the desiccated foot of a small pred. It isn’t—it’s just the skeleton of a failed tulip experiment; the bulb rotted from the inside out. I pitch it into the compost pile. The dirt here is too heavy for tulips, but the night-blooming herbs love it. There’s a metaphor in there, and I’d rather not chase it, so I let it go in favor of other thoughts.

Returning to my current row, I press a thick bulb into the hole with my thumb. As I do, my mind does what it does when I’m out here. It replays last night’s excursion in a loop, picking apart the details for what I missed. Our hunt, the passage the Raj wanted checked, the forest and its silence. I’ve been ruminating about the way the birds left a thousand yards before we got there, as if even nature knew it was a place that it should not venture forth to reclaim.