Page 14 of Consumed (Shot in the Dark)
THE WILD HUNT
T orchlight flickered in the biting chill of the winter air.
Desmond’s arm strained as he held his torch aloft, desperate to shed illumination on the snow-dusted branches.
As a youth, Desmond had spent many summers in the Limerick woods, taking turns hiding between the trees and mocking battles with wooden swords, pretending himself a mighty warrior.
He’d always considered himself at home in these sacred places where nature outnumbered man.
But these woods loomed around their riding party with a quiet that seemed too encompassing.
“You hear that?” he asked, glancing at the riders on his left.
The others had hunted under Druid Chereth for many years more than he, their faces flinty and marred by scars.
Desmond already bore a weak left shoulder from the banshee they’d eliminated from Donegal Castle grounds last month.
He knew his days were numbered toward a warrior’s death—all of them were.
“I hear nothing,” one replied gruffly .
Desmond nodded, his brow furrowing as he shifted in his saddle. “Exactly. It’s wrong , somehow. Like the forest is—”
He bit off the words as though he might summon his very suspicion.
Like the forest is watching us back.
There were no birds. No movement in the undergrowth. Nothing. Only the lonely howl of the winter wind. The longer Desmond listened, the more he swore he heard whispering with every gust between crooked branches.
He stole a look at their leader, who rode at the back of the group. Druid Chereth was enveloped in a heavy black cloak with a draped hood that concealed the scarring across his right cheek. Even he looked on guard, slowing his black mare to a cautious amble.
The chill in the air burrowed deeper than winter. There was something ancient here, something that made it very clear they were unwanted.
A crack sounded—small and sharp, just ahead.
Desmond barely had time to clutch at the reins before his horse let loose a fearful whinny and reared violently.
He was thrown, hitting the frozen earth with a thud that knocked the wind out of him.
His torch rolled from his hand, extinguished with a hiss as it landed on the frosted leaves.
Two other riders dismounted to help him, one calming the startled horse and leading it back into line with the others.
“You alright, lad?”
“I’m fine,” Desmond grunted, pushing himself onto his side. He swept his tawny hair back out of his eyes, scanning the ground.
Something small glittered in the underbrush, nearly invisible in the flickering shadows cast by the dozen torches.
On hands and knees, he crawled closer, straightening his fur-lined cloak so as not to impede his movements.
It was a diamond—or a striking gem, at least. No bigger than the size of a grain of barley, hewn in a delicate, tapered shape.
Another glint in the dirt—yet another gem, nearly tucked under the roots of an oak tree. Desmond frowned at the peculiarity, looking for more. Was it a trail, leading somewhere?
He reached for the beckon of those iridescent facets. When he let his gaze rest heavily enough on them, he swore he could hear music, like a distant chime.
“Don’t touch it!”
The growled command made Desmond reel back. Druid Chereth dismounted his horse in a movement strikingly swift for someone of his age. His hood billowed and fell as he strode toward the younger hunter, weaving between the hunting party.
He knelt, shoving Desmond back so he could get a closer look. He cursed loudly, bristling a response from many to raise their spears.
“What is it?” Desmond asked.
Chereth combed a hand through his ragged silver beard. “It’s a token of death from a spirit. Rare, but not to be overlooked.” He fixed Desmond with such a grave look that he felt his dinner turn in his stomach. “If you accept it, they’ll come for you. The forest will claim you for itself.”
“That thing can kill you?” Desmond asked, incredulous. It was such a delicate little trinket.
Chereth’s eyes darkened. “Worse than death, lad. The soul will be chained for eternity—a precipice between life and death, where even Brigid above can’t help you.”
Desmond’s face paled, but he gave a grim nod of understanding. And even still, a part of him wanted that stone.
“Iron for such spirits?” he asked.
Druid Chereth grunted, nodding as he unsheathed the iron sword at his hip. It was a custom piece, slightly curved and engraved with protective runes along its blade.
“Over here!” Another shout came a few meters away.
Desmond followed the hunters who’d dismounted, finding a clearing that seemed ravaged by the gods themselves.
It looked as though some beast had tunneled out from beneath the earth, with tree roots exposed and suspended like dying snakes.
Between the jagged roots, a carpet of green grass peppered with flowers sprawled across the earth—an impossible oasis of snowdrops and roses amid the barren landscape.
Desmond loosed an awed breath—he couldn’t help it.
It was as beautiful as it was terrifying.
Most of the cursed creatures he’d encountered thus far were purely the latter.
One of the hunters was crouched at the base of the tree, prodding the end of his spear into the loosened soil. Desmond became aware of the odd, yellowed color of the objects protruding.
“There are remains here,” the hunter announced. “Looks to be four bodies—maybe more. I can’t tell how deep it goes.”
“The craftsman?” Chereth asked.
Desmond’s mind raced to connect to the letter they had received two days ago, scrawled in hurried strokes across the parchment. There was a grim sort of way Chereth said it, as though he had suspected along the journey they might not be quick enough to prevent his entanglement with the beast.
“You think the monster got to him?” Desmond asked, hoping he wasn’t pushing his luck. Oftentimes, newbloods weren’t supposed to speak to Druid Chereth unless spoken to.
Chereth gave him an odd look, the corners of his mouth upturned in a grim smile. “Did you not find it curious that the man was able to provide such detail in his haste? Right down to the very glade we were to investigate.”
He gestured around them, at the carnage tattering the forest ground.
Desmond’s blood chilled. “He was entangled with the beast,” he said quietly.
“You’d be surprised how often these things occur. If this is the creature I think it to be, even more so. They’re sirens of the forest. Beautiful as they are devastating.”
Desmond looked toward the others, still sifting through the remains. He couldn’t stop thinking of the urgency of the note, demanding their aid at any cost.
“Is it—”
“No, I doubt it’s our man. These are decades old,” the other hunter said, analyzing the jawless skull in his hand. “But we will keep a wary eye.”
Desmond plunged into the clearing, his boots sinking in against the strange grass.
His stomach had grown stronger in his time hunting, but…
Sweet Brigid, this was a nightmare incarnate.
He brushed his hand over the ancient oak, gazing upward.
A faint hum of energy pulsed through the air.
I am alive, it seemed to say. I feel you. I know you.
He paused, feeling something damp on his palm. Warm.
Desmond held his hand toward the nearest torch. Others leaned in, murmuring as they caught sight of the crimson smeared across his hand.
“It’s fresh,” Desmond croaked, fumbling for his blade. “We can’t have missed them by much.”
He locked eyes with a few of the others—their hardened stares turning to the dark silhouettes of the forest as they braced for battle.
The silence was gnawing. Mocking them.
“You four, follow the blood,” Chereth said, gesturing in Desmond’s direction. He took the torch from the older hunter beside him, a resolute clench to his jaw as he tread carefully over the tangle of roots and blossoms.
“The rest of us?” one of the riders called. “Shall we form a perimeter?”
Chereth took a long silence, staring up at the branches above as though he could understand some sinister truth in the frost-coated wood.
Then, he held the torch to the base of the tree, patiently waiting for the flames to catch.
The fire crackled, smoke carrying a distinct smell as it crept up toward the heavens.
“The rest of us, arm yourselves. We’ll burn the bitch out of hiding.”