Page 145 of Hunted By Fae

I scramble to my feet, boots slipping and skidding, until I slam into the nose of the car.

I crane my neck.

Above, Bee is hacking and sawing at the net. It doesn’t so much as fray.

“It’s a trap,” I breathe the words as though they are weighted. “We need to go!”

“Fuck you,” Emily grunts, and with a glare at her, I realise she can’t raise her voice much more than that, not with her leg bent back and her knee digging into her chest.

“I’m sorry.” I turn my wide eyes on Bee. “But you know I’m right—we need to go.”

Bee throws a tight look down at me.

Her grey eyes glisten, her mouth twisted.

She knows I’m right.

She knows, and yet, she hesitates.

“No,” Emily’s plea comes out hoarse. “No—Bee? Bee? Don’t listen to her. Cut it!Cut the net!”

Bee lets her eyes shut, tight.

Hand still fisted in the net, she swallows, thick, then shakes her head. “It won’t work—it’s not like our ropes… I… I can’t get you out.”

Not like our ropes…

I throw a bewildered look at the net, the black ropes weaved together, fine and silky—and where she sawed the serrated knife, it is entirely smooth. Not a frayed thread in sight.

Bee draws back a step, the metal roof of the car bowing under the shifted weight.

A switch goes off in Emily.

She blinks and, suddenly, she’s thrashing in the net, a wild animal caught, and her shouts are screeches that will reach too far in the darkness.

The flashlight is trapped in the net with her, bobbing with her flailing panic, a gust of white light glaring over the road.

The noise cringes me to the bone.

I reach out for the hem of Bee’s trouser leg and tug, once but firm.

A sniffle comes from her before she tucks the knife away. And when she meets my gaze, there is bitterness in her quiet tears.

She jumps down onto the road and her snowboots smack down, firm, on the ice.

I reach out to steady her.

She keeps her cheek to me, the wobble of her mouth worsening with every shriek coming from the thrashing net above.

I don’t look.

I can’t bring myself to look.

Bee runs her hands down her face. She doesn’t meet my gaze as she twists, then leans over for the car—for the shotgun nudged up the side, clinging to the gap between the hood and the windshield.

Her fingertips graze the smooth metal—but before she can get a grip on it, a sudden hot sensation strikes my shoulder.

I stagger back a step.