Page 80 of Hunted By Fae

Though the buildings are buried in snow, it’s clear that a dark fae unit has already moved through one half of Kelowna.

On our left, buildings are gone, now rubble.

Snow dusts over the debris.

Half the city is gone.

It took us too long to get here. The city was meant to be untouched by the time we reached it.

Bee’s thoughts must mirror mine, since her boots dig into the ground and, hand on the rope, she tugs once, firm.

Stop.

Stillness washes over us.

Heads turn to face Bee in the darkness, a rustle of parkas and snowjackets, before Gary’s torchlight lands on her.

I blink at the reveal the rawness on her cold-burnt cheeks, the chapped lips that utter misty breaths. The rest of her is hidden in the drawn hood.

“I’ll scout the south of the city,” Bee decides, and with her being our fearless leader, there is no argument, not even as my face hardens. “Carlos, get everyone to the safehouse. Gary, you’re with me.”

The reluctance of meeting my hard stare comes in the way she looks anywhere but me.

I hate when we separate.

I hate it more that I know we must sometimes part.

I hate most of all that I can’t go with her.

That’s why she avoids my unflinching stare. If she meets it, she’ll do that thing she does, where she sighs and her face softens in a blend of plea and pity, and she’ll say what she always does.

‘You can’t keep up.’

I loathe most of all that it’s true.

The black plague has done some damage to my lungs. So no, I can’t keep up.

If Bee has to run, I can only match her pace for a short burst before my lungs are searing and my head is dizzy.

If Bee has to hide, the coughs might start—and betray us to any threat nearby.

I’m a liability out here.

So she goes with Gary, the gruff sort of man in his 50s, small town vibes. He’s not so bad.

No one in our group is ‘bad’.

We make sure to stalk people for a while, watch them, study them, before we invite them in.

Basic apocalyptic safety policy.

Carlos watches both Bee and Gary head down a road that forks off from this one. His jaw is tight, displeased, and he hesitates too long.

I tug the rope thrice.

Go.

In answer, he gives a scoff-huff hybrid before he turns his cheek to the torchlight bobbing deeper into the darkness down the other road.