2. The Hunt

The Hunt

I smell something deliciously pungent in the air–a mixture of crippling depression, grief, and hopelessness wrapped in mouth-watering fear. Cloying and thick, it wafts around the trees and entices me to find the source. It smells like a human…a heart-broken human who’s lost their way. Their perfect scent awakens some primal instinct dormant in me. Track, hunt, claim. I pursue the human through the forest, determined to get a closer look at them.

I finally track it to the road that cuts through the forest. The human is a young woman driving a car. Stepping into the road, I force her to stop, lest she hits an unsuspecting pedestrian. She has long, sandy blond hair swept over her shoulder, crystal blue eyes with dark circles, and plump lips. Her body seems thick and soft, although I can only see the top half through her window. If I chase her through the woods, I could see the bottom half… I envision her running from me, dodging trees as she’s consumed by pure fear and adrenaline, only motivated by a diminishing will to live. I’d give her a false sense of hope, hiding myself before ultimately pouncing on her.

This girl could be fun.

The mere sight of me makes her tremble, her fear multiplying tenfold, and I can’t help but breathe it in. Those perfect, heart-shaped lips quiver as she sits deathly still in her car, the color draining from her face. Her scent could turn into an addiction very quickly. She takes one look at me and cowers in fear like the pathetic, weak girl I know she is. How perfect.

A second taste of her fear and pain hooks me. I rarely play with my victims, preferring to feed from their sickness, collect their souls, and leave; there’s no shortage of ill people in Ireland to feast upon. But the hunt can be fun when you have the right victim; one with an addictive, savory flavor and a beautiful face the saints would be jealous of. I bet her screams would sound like shrill, wailing music to my ears. I need to taste her again, consume every last morsel of her pain until she has nothing left except her bereft, damaged soul. And then that soul will be mine for the taking. She’ll be mine.

I stand in front of her car door, tapping on the window. Sour bursts of pure horror permeate the air, and I greedily suck them in. Her eyes close as she hunkers down in her seat, probably praying that I don’t kill her here and now. The woods would be the perfect place to dispose of a body. No one would hear her scream or come to her rescue. The wildlife and other creatures here would take care of the cleanup.

Don’t worry, little girl, I’m not going to kill you today. You’re too beautiful and delicious to get rid of so soon. I have plans for this scrumptious prey. As I consume her emotions, I close my eyes and use my power to reach out and touch her soul.

Pain…despair...loss.

I see a vision of the young man who held her heart. Auburn hair, green eyes. Large build and a kind smile. All good to know, so I can create the perfect trap for her. I search her soul again, coming across her name. Fiadh. Gaelic for wild. Oh, my Wild One, you’re in for it.

“Fiadh,” I rasp into the night, stoking the flames of her peril.

How fitting that The Hunt is hunting the wild. Hopefully she lives up to her name and gives me a good chase. I take a few minutes to observe her, allowing myself to eye her. I’m close enough to the car now that I can see her round curves and appreciate her delicate porcelain skin.

I retreat back behind the treeline. My goal was just to scare her and get a good taste, not scare her to death. I stalk her until she arrives at a quaint little cottage on the edge of the woods. Images of chasing her though the trees outside her house at night and cornering her as she begs for mercy flood my mind. Then a novel idea hits me. Why not hunt her during the day too by playing with her in plain sight? A plan takes form in the back of my mind.

An older, sick man greets her as she exits her car. Maybe I can snag a two-for-one deal while I’m here. His wheezing and erratic heartbeat ensures me that he already has one foot in the grave. He’s worth keeping an eye on for later. She brings her suitcases inside, and I transform into a raven so I can watch her through the window. They sit in front of the television for a few hours, chattering about the programme they’re watching as they drink tea. The older man sits up straight, brushing biscuit crumbs off his shirt.

“Fiadh, listen here, child,” he says, commanding her attention during a commercial break. His brogue is much thicker than hers. “This forest is dangerous at night. There are creatures that could hurt a young woman like yourself. I want you to promise to keep all the doors and windows locked. Don’t venture outside at night, no matter what you see or hear.”

Her face pales momentarily, no doubt from her remembering our earlier encounter. She shakes her head, setting herself right again. “Granda, come on. That lore may have scared me when I was a child, but I’m a twenty-three year old woman now. I don’t believe in Unseelie faeries, leprechauns, The Dullahan, Sluaghs, or any of those fairytales creatures anymore.”

“Shhhh! Don’t say the s-word—you’ll call one here!” he admonishes her. “Shame on you, too. You have no business calling one of those Sluaghs here. They prey on the sick and the broken-hearted. Do you want one to snatch your soul?!”

Too late, Granda. The Sluagh aren’t fairytale creatures. We’ve always hidden in plain sight, shifting our form to hide among the humans. In our true form, some call us demons or faerie folk gone wrong. Some think we’re black-winged spirits that take the form of a raven. Others think we’re a host of the unforgiven dead who come back from the afterlife to take our vengeance out on the living. The truth is that we are the bringers of death. We harvest the souls of the sick, dying, and broken-hearted. Feed from their fear, desperation, and pain. And this Sluagh plans on devouring you, Fiadh. One delectable bite of your soul at a time.

She shrugs, peering down into her teacup. “Okay, I’ll play along.”

Wild One, could you be any more delightfully ignorant? There’s already a Sluagh hunting you. Consuming the nonbelievers is tastier, because their fear is always more potent when you break their perception of reality.

“I’m serious. Samhain is in a couple of days, and that’s when the veil between this world and the next is the thinnest. The creatures will be out in droves, and I need you to have your wits about you. You can’t act like the daft broad in every horror movie. She’s always the first to die. What do you do when you hear a noise?” he questions her.

“Don’t follow it, stay inside,” she drones, as if this entire conversation is ridiculous.

“And all the doors and windows are to remain…?” he presses.

“Locked,” she answers.

“Right-O. Time for bed. Tomorrow, we’ll drive into town, and I’ll show you the new shops along the sea. We’ll get sweets and visit some of my friends. Mr. Tyrone’s grandson will be in town, and from what I’ve heard, he’s quite the looker.”

“Granda, I’m a kip and a half, a complete mess. I’m not over Daire, and I don’t know if I ever will be. I’m not ready to date again,” she almost whispers the last part, and her eyes fall to the floor. Her grief is so lucious… I wish I was closer to taste its richness.

“I understand. I felt like the world ended when I lost your Nan. She was my pulse, my soul. But I was much older than you when she passed,” he says as he holds her hand and squeezes it, causing her to look up at him. “But if I could give you a solid piece of advice? Don’t waste your youth in grief. You’re too young and special to be alone. Daire would have wanted you to be happy. At least give it a try–you never know who you’ll find out there in the world.”

“I’ll mull it over,” she says.

After hugging the man, she heads to another room in the house, and I fly as a raven from window to window until I find her. She sits on a small bed, her head in her hands. Sadness pours off her in buckets as tears stream down her face.

I’m glad I found her today. I’m overdue for a delectable soul.