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“Provoking them is not in my plan, believe me.”
With careful precision, Silvan guided them to the highest concentration of Fenrir’s Rose, next to a rock formation with a constant water flow.
Romy was pretty sure St. Charles Parish had no known springs, so it was an odd sight. Silvan seemed equally baffled. After removing the scissors, she made quick work of snipping several plants. When she was up to ten, she leaned into him, revealing the contents of her bag. He held up all the fingers on one hand. Five more to go.
Four.
Three.
On the second to last one, a branka landed square on the one she’d snipped. His body dwarfed the petal underneath, but his shade still changed into a burnt sienna. Silvan glanced over his shoulder and mouthed, “Put it down slowly,” which she did. Carefully. So carefully. Confident the branka were undisturbed, they backed away and breathed easier as they started back down the hill.
“Good job, Romy. You did grea—” He stumbled on a loose rock, landing on his knees. “Fuck.” Silvan cursed the new rip in his jeans.
“Are you okay?” The flashlight shone on his leg, revealing a tiny cut not much bigger than a scratch. “I have a Band-Aid.”
“Nah, it’s fine. More pissed about my jeans than anything.”
She giggled and ran the tattered fabric through her fingers. “Oh, these jeans that already have ten thousand holes in them?”
“Yep,” he joined in. “Except the other holes areintentional.”
“Ohhhh, intentional holes. My bad.”
As they resumed their return journey, Silvan stopped them and turned an ear to the sky. “Do you hear that?”
“No? What am I listening for?”
“Buzzing.”
“Buzzing?” she echoed, closing her eyes to concentrate. Finally, she heard what he did, a high-pitched hum that rapidly escalated into a sizzling roar.
“Romy.” He cupped the sides of her face, his eyes solemn and full of fear. “Run.”
Simultaneously, they realized it would be easier to slide down the hill, but when they hit the bottom, they took off in a sprint.
“Fuck. Dammit. Shit.” Silvan grunted, then yelled, “Head for the woods, and don’t look behind you. Find some moss. They hate it.”
She didn’t have to look. They’d already caught up with them. To her left, she could see a branka the size of a housecat descend onto Silvan’s shoulders, but right before its stinger stabbed him, he flipped it onto its back and pierced it with a knife he pulled from his boot.
Romy located a sprawling live oak and hid beneath the tangled moss draping from its branches. She waved to show Silvan the way and didn’t breathe again until he was safely sheltered with her.
She wasn’t sure how long they waited, but it was long enough to slip a Band-Aid on his minuscule cut.
“I guess my blood drew them,” he mused.
“A drop? Little more than a pinprick.”
“Hey, great white sharks can detect a drop of blood miles away.” The remainder of the branka flew over them, oblivious to their location.
“That’s a myth, Jacques Cousteau,” she quipped. “It’s more like one drophalfa mile away.”
“Still better than me. Wolves can scent a large amount of blood for miles, but it has to be substantial.” Silvan stashed a handful of moss down his boots until they overflowed, then he passed some to Romy. “Start stuffing, princess.”
“What happened to the branka only attacking when provoked?”
He took in a deep breath and released a heavy sigh. “Hell if I know. It’s almost like they’ve mutated. Still look the same butdefinitelyare not the same, ya know? They’ve changed.”
Her mind drifted to a similar conversation she’d heard recently. Not entirely parallel but close enough that she could recall the corresponding words. Altered. Changed. Dr. Bryant had said Thora’s metabolic composition was altered. She’d completely changed.
