Page 2 of Just Right (The Beasts of Blackmoor #3)

MAGIC

I t’s early autumn, but you wouldn’t be able to tell from the trees.

Each one is full, the leaves in varying shades of greens instead of yellows and reds and oranges like they were just beginning to change over back home.

That’s the best part of living in New Jersey and commuting into the city to go to work.

I experience all the seasons, even if I prefer spending most of my time indoors.

I’m realizing just how much of a homebody I am as I take my first few steps into the woods.

I can’t tell you the last time I willingly spent time outdoors, and here I am: ready to spend twenty-one days there.

It’s like I’ve signed up for my very own version of Survivor, and now it’s up to me to figure out what to eat, where to sleep, and how I’m going to protect myself.

I severely underestimated just how daunting it would be.

Once I’d signed the contract, Sandy eased some of my concerns.

The berries and fruits in the forest are edible.

The water in the rivers and streams are safe to drink so long as the water is running and clear.

And, most importantly, previous visitors—some whose contract stipulated they had to stay longer than my three weeks, others who decided to stay …

like Charlotte maybe —have built shelters.

If I find one and can claim it, it could be mine.

That’s my plan. Considering all I have is this black slip of a dress that Sandra and Gunnar gave me before they walked me out to the woods, plus a pair of black heels that make walking a bitch, squatting in some pre-built shelter is the best I can hope for for now.

My contract made it clear. I have to spend three full weeks inside of Blackmoor. On day twenty-two, I can leave and know I’ve earned my prize: five grand, a plane ticket home, and, supposedly, a wish . Leave a moment sooner and I’ll be lucky if I can have the luggage I left behind at the hostel.

The dress is cut short, barely reaching my knees. I thought it was a joke when they offered stockings only for them to be fishnets. It’s about seventy degrees fahrenheit now, mid-day, and I’m comfortable. With the temperature dropping down to near fifty overnight, I won’t be.

So. Right.

Shelter.

It’s been about two hours already that I’ve walked aimlessly around the woods, searching.

As I go, the trees seem to lean toward me, the light shifting, throwing shadows everywhere.

Time seems to slow. To drag . I don’t have my phone or a watch, so I don’t know how much has really passed, and I only hope I’ll be able to find some way to keep track of my days.

I’d like to think I’m following a path. There’s a small gap in front of me, narrowing and widening as it sees fit, but though it could be leading me somewhere, I go because the idea of stepping off of it twists my stomach.

Somewhere over my head, a bird calls. A raven, maybe, because the caw is distinct enough to send shivers down my spine. Off to my right, something large yet unseen rustles in the distance. The trees whisper as a slight breeze dances through their branches, shaking their leaves.

Once or twice, I get the feeling that I’m being watched. Being followed.

Being stalked.

The forest isn’t empty, I think, swallowing back my nerves. It’s not empty, but it is waiting.

For me?

I really hope not.

I believe in magic, but I don’t want to accept that monsters are real.

So far, I haven’t laid eyes on another creature.

I’ve heard them, yes, but not even a stray chipmunk has scampered across my path, let alone some red-eyed demon haunting the dark forest. I try to convince myself that my biggest threat is tripping over my heels and breaking an ankle.

Monsters? No, that was just the villagers poking fun at the ignorant American who thought it would be a good idea to cross the world and talk of magic and wishes and lost friends.

When I’m not ambushed by a werewolf or a yeti, I almost want to snort.

Sandy and Gunnar’s final warnings to keep clear of the monsters who would have their way with me given the chance seem all the more over the top as a few more frustrating hours pass and I’m still alone.

In fact, the loneliness is probably the worst part of this.

By myself, I can’t tell if I’m just walking to my doom, destined to get lost in the woods and sacrifice it all, just like I promised I would when I signed that contract.

The loneliness, and the fact that—apart from two shiny red apples that I plucked from a tree—I haven’t found anything else to break up the ominous forest. No water.

No shelter. I rubbed the apples on the short skirt of my dress, ate one, then saved the other for when I got peckish an hour later.

With both apples gone, I regret not grabbing more since that’s the only fruit tree I’ve found.

I’m still on the same path when the most unexpected thing happens.

Bees.

I get chased by bees.

I didn’t even realize how strange it was that, in a forest of this size, I didn’t notice any insects, either, until one bee buzzes right past my ear.

Out of instinct, I swat at it, and that might be what sets off the others.

At least twenty angry bees swarm around my head, and though I’m not allergic to their stings like Charlotte is, that doesn’t mean that I want to be stung.

So I ran. Without even caring where I was going, I flapped my hands around my head, trying to knock the bees away with minimal damage. I do get stung at least once, maybe twice, but as I fly through a much narrower gap between the trees, the rest of the swarm gives up.

I’m panting. I lost one heel in my flight, kicking off the other before I overbalanced and landed in the dirt. Now I’m in my stockinged feet, my hair is a wild mess of curls bouncing around my shoulders, and my skirt rode up so high, I feel like my ass is on display.

Grabbing the hem, I shimmy it down so that I’m covered. Once again, I remember the strange warning about the monsters. About how Gunnar specifically said that they’ll do whatever they want if they find you… and that, if you’re right for the forest, you’ll let them.

I thought he meant that, if some large predator scented me in the trees, I shouldn’t fight back.

Maybe play dead or act defenseless and they won’t attack.

But add that to the skimpy dress I have on, plus the cup load of pills they made me swallow this morning, and I’m beginning to wonder if that’s what he could’ve meant.

After all, the village seemed to be looking for women petitioners.

Blondes specifically, almost as though the beasts of Blackmoor might have a preference.

A preference for what, I wonder. Did blondes taste juicier?

Or when Sandy said that the monsters in the woods might want to eat me, she didn’t quite mean as dinner ?

Good going, Goldie. That’s something I should’ve thought about before.

Because if I basically signed up to be trafficked to the mythical monsters that call the dark forest home…

yeah. That might explain why the village goes to great lengths to vet anyone allowed into their woods.

Because the prize is priceless—and because it has to take a desperate sort of woman who might be willing to fuck a monster in order to get that prize.

And, okay, maybe I’m a little delirious from thirst and hours of disoriented walking before being chased by a swarm of bees if I’m even thinking about having sex with some kind of beast. I’m at the point that breaking my recent year-long celibacy streak with Bigfoot might be a small price to pay to find Charlotte.

That’s besties for you. I’ll sleep with a monster for you, Red, because I know she’d do the same for me.

Right now, though?

I just want to sleep .

The temperature has started to dip. My nipples are pebbling against the thin material of my dress; my bra doesn’t do much to hide how visibly chilly I am.

Goosebumps cover my bare arms. My feet ache, and the couple of beestings I suffered are throbbing as I begin to admit that I might be spending my first night outside, sleeping fitfully beneath a tree.

Just a little longer, I tell myself. My gut says that, this deep into the woods, there must be some sort of shelter I can make do with. If not a pre-made structure, then a lean-to, or a tent, or maybe even a cave. As long as it’s monster-free, I could totally do a cave at this moment…

I’m not sure what catches my attention first. The vague scent of something sweet in the air, or a hint of soft grey smoke peeking out through the gaps in the leaves.

It’s off to my right, and before I think better of it, I veer in that direction.

Fire, I think. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, and I’m wishing I had a coat right about now. Anything to warm up.

As I draw closer, the sickly sweet aroma is overpowered by something stronger. Something musky . Like it belongs to a wild animal, but when I tiptoe in my stockinged feet, expecting to find one of those caves I thought about, maybe a ring of fire, I’m stunned by what I do find .

It’s a cabin. A two-story wooden cabin with a narrow chimney that’s emitting a whisper of smoke, as though the fire inside is dying.

The windows are awash with orange light, bright against the dusky darkness of the woods.

It’s definitely lived-in, and thankfully human-sized, though that doesn’t really mean anything in Blackmoor.

They said there were longtime residents apart from the monsters that call the woods home. Is this one of them?

And, more importantly, do they have a room they can spare?