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I push into a hard sprint, punishing my flesh for being so weak. The silver glimmer of the lake streaks by to my left. Colorful wooden rowboats dot the shore, turned upside down, the weathered paint flaking from their hulls.
Maybe Mack is right. I need to somehow get that boy out of my system without doing the deed, if that’s even possible.
Is it? Oh, boy . . . I can think of several ways . . . several creative, wonderful ways . . .
Groaning, I drag myself from my lurid fantasy and focus on the burn in my lungs, my thighs as I push harder than ever before.
Zen. Find your zen.
It’s here. Somewhere.
I drag my focus to the imposing forest beyond. The giant, gnarled trees stretch to the horizon, their branches weighted down with hand-sized reddish-violet and pewter leaves that appear nearly gold in the breaking dawn.
Dawn. The Fae won’t drag their lazy butts from bed for another six hours, but shadows will be up soon. Deciding to trade the beauty of the lake for the solitude of the trees, I break for the forest. The soft thud of thick grass beneath my shoes becomes the dull swish of rotting leaves.
If there’s zen anywhere to be found, surely it’s inside an ancient, magical Fae forest?
I’m nearly five songs deep into the woods when I spy the glint of iron through the trees. A gamey scent rides along the breeze, mingling with the dank smells of moldy undergrowth, rich soil, and mushrooms.
That smell—
It takes my mind a second to identify what the scent is, but my body reacts instinctively. My loose muscles tighten painfully, cramps threatening in my calves, and sweat slicks my palms.
Any scrap of zen I might have found is ripped cruelly away.
Professor Balefire’s menagerie. I’d nearly forgotten the outdoor cages from the enormous housing facility the school uses in the warmer seasons stretches into the woods. In the Mythological Creatures class yesterday, the teacher said the most dangerous of the beasts were housed deep in the forest.
Something about being near the forest calms them. When housed too close to the campus, the mortal scents drive the predatory animals into a frenzy.
Mortal scents. I glance over my very mortal body, dripping with sweat. My gaze falls on the painted red signs that line the path.
Danger. Wild creatures. Do not enter. Turn back.
I hit pause on The Wailing Shadows and frown. When did those get there?
A screech erupts from the other side of the cage.
My throat spasms shut.
I stumble back, nearly tripping on a tree root the size of my arm. Another beastly snarl rumbles so loudly that the iron cage trembles, followed by the unmistakable sound of sniffing. Something hard and sharp swipes across the enclosure, like talons scraping over metal.
Calm down. It can’t reach you.
There are fences. Lovely iron fences imbued with spells to keep them in and me safe. Smoothing my damp palms down the side of my shirt, I pivot and break into a soft, controlled jog.
Predators are attracted to running things, right? I should probably walk.
I think of Chatty-Cat, who surprise-assassinates my ankles every morning when I’m half asleep, his inner psychopath awakened by my jerky movement as I half hop half stumble to the toilet. But when his adorable murder mittens bat my feet, the worst that happens is I trip, loose a barrage of curse words, and owe penance to the swear jar.
Whatever lurks behind that fence promises a much bloodier end.
Walk. You should definitely walk. But fear overrides my good sense, and I find myself slamming through branches as I hurtle down the path. Mud and leaves fly in my wake. I’m mid-leaping over a moss-covered log when I hear what sounds like the squeaking of a metal gate.
My heart punches into my throat. Screw my life. My brain tries to rationalize what I heard. There are gates that open to the forest, but they’re to let the nice, cute, less murderous creatures roam.
The fluffy ones, Summer. Fluffy.
But the piercing cry that splits the morning air isn’t fluffy, nor is it behind the cage.
