All Chapters of Whispers of the Wild Hunt: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

I press the gauze to the palm of the little girl in front of me, faking a wince as I pretend empathy for her frailty. Memories of the copper tang of my mother’s wounds, the iridescent shimmer of the clotting gel that webbed over her open skin. The way it looked less like congealing blood and more like the iridescent streak of a rainbow in an oil slick. It makes doing my job a bit harder, the constant pretending to care about people who could care less about me. The constant memories the sight of their blood brings. It’s too much.June is in full force, making my small clinic’s waiting room thick with heat. The waft of canned air assaults my nose as the walls glaze over with faded safety posters. My black curls are piled high on my head in a futile attempt to keep my neck dry. I’ve gotten used to the way children tend to stare with their wide and considerate eyes, though it doesn’t make it any easier.“You have such cold hands,” the child says, not with a shudder but almost with admira

We walk in silence for a little more than a mile, the only sound, the crunch of old leaves underfoot. Even the forest knows when a predator walks among them. The path widens, revealing a cluster of cabins built from rough logs and spare housing parts. A ring of old cars and scrap metal fences around them, making it look less like a community and more like a fortress hastily assembled from leftover parts.A giant house sits in the center, every window lit up against the darkness. The thought of entering there with no idea of the number of people inside has my nerves going haywire, but I push them down. It’s not like I have many options anyway.The men usher me through a wide door, the heavy heat and smell of frying meat hitting me in the face. And not in a good way. It’s overbearing, cloying in the air. I make a point to breathe through my mouth, pushing back the bile that threatens to come out.A woman in a flannel button up and tight jeans stands over the stove, her hair sheared clos

The next morning, I woke up well before my alarm. I’d slept with the window cracked, a habit left over from Faerie I can’t seem to break, no matter how many times the cold nights left my bones aching. Some feral part of me still craves the scent of fresh air, and the way it peeled away the staleness of indoor life.In the forests of Faerie where my people are from, the air tastes of wild honey, moss, and amber resin. Here on Earth, the smell of pine needles saturates the air, mixing with the lingering sulfur of the old paper mill that closed down years ago.My rented room is barely bigger than a closet, but I’ve taken the time to make it my own. The walls are lined with oddities and knickknacks. A driftwood shelf I made myself holding apothecary jars labeled in my looping script and filled with hard to find necessities. A pressed fern that still faintly glows under the moonlight from my homeland adorns my family&rsquo

Tam bends down, her voice low so as to not travel, “You’re a great asset, Lena. I hope you know that.”I don’t bother looking up as my magic works its way through the boy, looking for anything major we can heal before letting him go. “Funny. You say that like I have a choice in the matter.”Not that it would have been a hard decision. I would have come to help the child no matter what. It just starts to grate on my nerves when it’s an order rather than a question.“We all have roles to play in this town, Lena.” Tam’s voice is a growl, a warning.“Right,” I scoff, pulling my magic back into me slowly. “Yours is growling and posturing, while mine is patching up the mess your kind leaves behind. Fulfilling.”“Remember your place, witch. You’re alive because we prot

On my lunch break, I duck into the bakery that sits below my apartment. The owner, a soft-spoken, graying man with a bad limp is one of the few people in this town who treats me like an actual regular. Which probably means I come here way too often, but I’ll take it, if only to act normal for a bit. The bell over the door signals my arrival, and I take in a deep breath of fresh pastries and baked goods as he walks out of the back room, leaning heavily on a wooden cane.He grabs the pot of black coffee on his way to the counter, pouring me a glass without hesitation. I settle onto a stool, as he gestures toward the scones. With the barest of nods, he grabs me one. No words needed, just a mutual understanding of caffeine and sugar.“You look like you’ve been through war,” he says, a smirk on his face. “Rough morning?”While his legs don’t always work like he wants them to,