The Will and the Wilds(7)

“Oh. Yes. Thank you, Enna. The stone?”

Drawing my arm back, I let the dangling stone slip beneath my sleeve. I grit my teeth against a shiver. “Warm. I’ll return soon.”

He nods, and I escape.

Though the wildwood is a strong emerging ground for mystings, it is a beautiful place, and I know its border well. Despite the chill running up my arm, I clutch the Telling Stone in my aching hand, waiting for it to warn me of more otherworldly creatures. For now, there is only the gobler.

I trek into the wildwood, heading southeast, away from the town and, hopefully, from any of the townsfolk. First, because I theorize the less intelligent—and possibly more violent—mystings will not port into the wildwood so close to human civilization. Any mysting is a danger to a human, yes, but a group of armed humans is a danger to any mysting. The location may scare away a mysting who would kill me on sight, such as a grinler. Second, if I were seen conversing with mystings, my neighbors would ostracize my father and me for good, no matter how wanted our mushrooms are. There are some lines that simply cannot be crossed. Third, I do not wish to draw unwanted attention to any of the townsfolk—although this is a risk I willingly take, no one else should have to suffer for it.

I find a relatively flat, clear space between wild trees. After securing a stick, I carefully trace a circle in the dirt, stamping it out and starting again when the line doesn’t curve right. Within it, I draw the eight-pointed star. I trace over the lines, deepening them, before carefully pouring enough oil into the shallow trenches to fill the entire symbol. I will offer no blood to the monster realm, but I will trade them fire.

I work the flint and steel over an old seedpod until it catches, then light the summoning circle aflame. The smoke burns my sinuses, and I have to shut my eyes against the light. But the fire is short lived, and soon a smoldering star stares up at me, dark and angry and empty.

Pressing a hand to my chest to calm my heart, I step back as far as the witnessing trees will allow me and snatch up my basket. I draw my dagger immediately. The moment I see even a partial mysting that wants meat more than discussion, I’ll strike.

For a moment, I think my spell did not work, and I study the ashy lines to determine why. But as the tiny embers of grass and clover blacken, a glint of pale-blue light suffuses the marks. The chill in my Telling Stone deepens until it burns. Gasping, I pull my sleeve beneath my bracelet. The sensation of being watched by someone else sends a tingle across my scalp.

Twisting around, I see him leaning against the trunk of a great oak, a wicked grin bright beneath blazing, yellow eyes.





CHAPTER 3

Red salt will keep away rodyns, goblers, hepters, and any plant-eating mysting.





I stumble back until my heel breaks the ash of the summoning circle. My mind fails to categorize this mysting; had his likeness appeared in the pages of my grandmother’s journal, I’m sure I would have remembered. My mind takes notes even as I struggle not to panic. Another new discovery! I must memorize everything.

He is humanoid, with the face and body of a man, but his eyes are too bright, and I’ve never beheld a human man, woman, or child with anything resembling their fierce yellow color. He has a strong yet slender jaw and a sturdy nose and brow. Pale red hair hangs over his shoulder in a loose tail. A flowing, angular tunic, or perhaps a wrapped cloak, covers his shoulders, but exposes his left side and the subtle musculature beneath his peachy, too-human skin. Strange pants made of layered leather—not bovine leather—and studs cover his legs. He wears no shoes over feet that resemble the hooves of a horse, and a wicked tail writhes behind him, the asymmetrical, pointed end of which looks sharper than the dagger in my hand.

But what stands out the most about this creature is not the make of his clothes or the unnatural brilliance of his eyes. Not even the equine shape of his unshod feet. It is the great horn that protrudes from the center of his forehead, steep and pointing nearly skyward, made of bone or coral or . . . I cannot name its tightly spiraled substance, but it looks like the horn of fabled unicorns, straight and strong and ending in a deadly point. Though the mysting is of normal height for a man, his terrible horn must be three feet long, giving him the visage of a giant.

“Wh-What are you?” I manage, trying to find my wits, for I must strike the bargain, and I cannot appear cowardly.

The mysting raises a red-tinted eyebrow and glances over his shoulder. He tilts his head to the side, and I watch the menacing horn shift with him. “You can see me?” His voice is a man’s voice, with the slightest edge of a growl.

“Of course I can see you. I summoned you.” Possible invisibility. I’ll theorize later why my summoning has thwarted such a spell.

He laughs and sets his hands on his hips. “I only came to see who was foolish enough to build a summoning circle in the wildwood.” His grin fades, and he studies me anew—my chin-length hair, my mother’s blue eyes, my plain dress and shoes. “You should not be able to see me.”

I twist my wrist to hide my bracelet. “Well, I do, and I wish to strike a deal.”

He smirks. His canines are slightly pronounced, and the tip of one touches his lower lip. “And what benefit could interest me in making deals with mortals?”

“To sate your curiosity, apparently.”

He cocks that eyebrow again, and the corrupt smile looms on his lips. There have been so few smiles in my home since my grandmother’s passing, and seeing such a bold one aimed toward me is unsettling. “Hmmmmm, perhaps. You’re no witch or mysting hunter, girl. What purpose do you have for dabbling with the star? I could kill you, and only the trees would hear your screams.”