Chapter 7

Kate

The tune we hum is eerie, spooky and disconcerting. I don't focus on that. All of my energy is on keeping my feet moving, spinning when the others spin, clasping hands when they clasp hands, twisting my hips from side to side as we make our way around the fire.

Shirtless and barefoot, wearing a necklace of bones and flowers, sewn into a pair of tight leather pants with sinew for thread. Under different circumstances, the dance might feel ridiculous. But not here, not like this.

The fire is hot, but the woods at my back are coldly neutral. That's nature, I guess, but it feels amplified here. Right and wrong, good and evil, those are not concepts understood by these woods. It is painfully, horrifically neutral. That owl creature felt similarly to me, like something outside of humanity's scope of morality.

I skip and spin, clapping my hands when Brooks does, putting my arms in the air when he does, shifting my heels back and forth in the dirt in unison. The flames dance higher and higher in response to our rhythm and our sound, this bizarre but haunting song that doesn't compete with the sounds of the forest, but joins with it.

Hooting owls. Screaming wildcats. Skittering rodents. Ravens calling to one another. The rustle of underbrush and the snapping of branches. Scurrying feet. Running water. Flapping wings (just hopefully not the wings of the giant owl). Our pounding feet. Our panting breaths behind the metallic reek of the iron masks.

The dry clinking of our bone necklaces adds to the ambiance as we go round and round, round and round, until I'm dizzy and soaked in sweat. My breasts hurt from dancing and leaping and spinning without a bra, and my braid is wrapped around my neck like a noose.

I don't dare to reach up and unwind it, careful to follow Brooks exactly. How do you know he isn't binding you here rather than working to send you home? The thought remains, but I don't put any stock in it. I can see in all three of their eyes that getting out of these woods is the only thing that matters. Whatever else they're lying to me about, that much is true.

What if they go home and you get stuck here in their places? I don't know how any of this works, but I'm also inexperienced and alone. They've trapped me here, in a pitch-black fantasy forest in the middle of the night. I'd be dead from hypothermia before morning. If I managed not to get eaten myself, I'd probably eventually die of starvation.

All I can do at this point is what they tell me to do.

I don't like it, but it's the smart choice, the only choice. It's the practical choice.

The men come to a sudden stop, and I stumble slightly before righting myself to do the same. They clasp their hands in front of them, roll their wrists, extend their arms and then spread them wide.

Tanner steps forward, pulling a knife from his belt and cutting the tie on the leather sack. He drags a live animal from the squirming bag and hefts it up by the leg. A purple toad struggles lazily in his grip, trilling as it expands its vibrating vocal sack. It's covered in bioluminescence that snakes across its aubergine skin like lavender ribbons.

I swallow back my unease.

I'm as trapped, as trussed, as that fucking toad.

I don't close my eyes as he slits its throat. I'm proud of myself for that. But when Tanner brings the amphibian to Brooks, and he yanks his mask down, I worry about what he's going to do next.

What I'm going to have to do.

Tanner lifts the bleeding animal up and Brooks tilts his head back, letting the other man fill his mouth with fresh, hot blood. I'm speechless as Tanner makes his way to Marlowe next, and Brooks steps forward, spewing the blood into the flames and then stepping back again. He runs his arm across his mouth and stares at me through the flames.

I can't look at him and his blood-smeared lips, but when I turn to Marlowe, he's no different. He steps forward and does the same, spitting blood and turning the orange fire red.

Then Tanner is standing in front of me and my hand is trembling as I pull my mask down.

What if I throw up? I might throw up. I think I'm going to throw up.

Now, I do close my eyes, tilting my head back. I try to think of anything but what's actually happening as hot, viscous liquid hits my lips. This is no different than eating a medium-rare steak, I tell myself, but it is different.

My mouth tastes of copper and salt as I drop my chin and close my lips around it, fighting the urge to gag as I approach the flames. Just like the men did, I spit the liquid into the bonfire and it gets even redder. When Tanner completes the act, the flames shift into a crimson that's almost black.

Marlowe approaches Brooks next, placing something in his mouth that he chews and swallows. Along with a little extra toad blood, I'm sure. Tanner is next. Then it's my turn.

I accept the item—a small, black mushroom with red gills—chewing it and swallowing even as my body fights me on the act. Marlowe smiles in a way that makes my blood blossom with rage, but other than clenching my fists at my sides, I do nothing.

He returns to his spot, eats one of the mushrooms himself, and then waits.

Brooks draws a knife with a white hilt from his belt and lifts it up to his chest. He doesn't flinch as he traces the design scarred into his skin and surrounded by tattoos. Blood drains down his chest and the impressive planes of his abs, collects in those spectacular grooves on his hips, runs down the crotch of his leather pants.

He makes his way to Tanner first, doing the same to him. The designs on their chests are identical, wings and moons and triangles woven together in a heart-shaped crest. Same with Marlowe. He's the third to bleed under Brooks' knife, and then the man is standing in front of me, and my knees go weak in anticipation of the pain.

Happy birthday, Kate, I tell myself as the tip of the blade finds the smooth skin above my breasts. I shove the metal mask back into place to stifle any sounds of pain, my entire body quivering as Brooks expertly carves the symbol into me with his knife.

As hot, red rivulets run down my naked skin to the waistband of my pants, my vision begins to blur and I can see creatures watching from all around the clearing. Glowing eyes and big teeth and claws wrapped around the trunks of trees.

Brooks places the blade back in its sheath and then braces two big, bloody hands on my shoulders. When he leans down and puts his tongue on the wound, I almost pass out.

It doesn't feel good. No, it hurts. It hurts so badly that silent tears are rolling down my face, but I say nothing. I wouldn't dare.

He traces the entire design with his tongue before standing up straight and putting his hand on the back of my neck. Shit. I'm drawn forward, my lips pressed into the hot skin of his chest. Why didn't they explain this to me before we came outside?!

But I know why.

Because they thought I might refuse, and they didn't want to give me the chance.

I trace the complicated swoops of the arcane shape with my tongue. Bat wings and antlers, curved horns and tails with arrowhead tips. I can't help but notice the correlation between this design and those shadows—including my own.

Keep thinking clinically, Kate, and you'll get through this.

Clinically.

Right.

With my tongue pressed to a stranger's bloody wound.

" You're not ... religious, are you?"

Now I understand what he was asking. This is positively wicked, lewd and primal and unholy.

I press my palms flat against Brooks' impressive abs, leaning in and smelling blood and fresh sweat, wet earth and a strong floral scent from the dried flowers on his necklace. Underneath all that, embers and sparks and heat. His blood is metallic and tangy on my tongue, but it's better than the toad's blood.

Think clinically.

We made a sacrifice and now we're exchanging our own blood. Makes sense from what little I know about rituals and magic—not that I ever believed any of it was real. I wanted to. I wanted to so badly. I needed to believe that my grandma was telling me the truth, that the one family member in my life who stuck around wasn't full of shit.

Turns out that my grandmother was as veracious as she claimed to be.

Somehow, despite the fact that she entered the Witchwoods only eighteen years ago, she never ran into these guys. When I think about the looks on the men's faces when I asked them what they'd have done if I wasn't a young woman, if they'd have forced themselves on me anyway ... then I'm glad I'm the one that's here and that my grandma never met them.

Brooks steps back, unsmiling, wild. Tanner takes his place, gripping my shoulders and lowering his mouth to my bloodied skin. Where Brooks was quick and sure with his tongue, Tanner is slow and languid, like he's enjoying this.

I reassess my earlier thoughts: Marlowe is bad, Brooks is worse, and Tanner is the worst.

I tilt my head back and close my eyes, but I can still hear the men humming, can feel the heat of the flames, see the fire dancing behind my eyelids.

Tanner's tongue is hard and relentless, hungry in a way that has nothing to do with magic or the thrill of escape. His hands slide down my arms, fingertips rough from years spent in the woods with the grip strength to match. He ends with his hands encircling my waist, fingertips nearly touching.

I'm not a small girl, five-seven and cushy but healthy from all the physical activity that goes into setting up the scaffolding, climbing on roofs, and painting outside all day. But Tanner isn't so much human as he is ... other. A part of the Witchwoods. Unnaturally large and powerful and lonely.

That's the feeling I get as he licks me with a vigor and excitement that was lacking in Brooks, and my body breaks out in a feverish shiver. When he's finished the design, he doesn't stop, licking my collarbone and then my neck.

I snatch a fistful of his hair and tug him back, bringing his bloodied lips into view. His eyes are nearly black. Not just the irises, not just from the shadows, but everything. As I watch, that inky darkness bleeds across the whites of his eyes and obliterates them. When I look at Brooks, I see the same. Are my eyes like that now, too?

Tanner clutches my head to his chest with a strong hand in the back of my hair, tugging me to him and letting his own head fall back in bliss. He never stops humming, but the sounds are mixed with groans of need that are reflected back in the hard bulge pressed against my stomach.

He's aroused and, as I lift on my tiptoes to put my tongue to his chest, I realize that I am, too.

What the fuck, Katelynn? What the actual fuck? There's something in the air, something that makes me feel as wild and unhinged as the look on Tanner's face, like I'm becoming a part of the woods myself. Half a night here, and that beautiful poison is already ruining me from the inside-out.

Just like with Brooks, I brace myself on Tanner's abs, and he lets out a growl that he quickly stifles by shoving his iron mask back over his mouth. His eyes crack open and slide down to me, black and inhuman and feral.

When he steps aside, I start to wonder what else this ritual might entail.

" If I initiate something, you go along with it."

My breath catches as Marlowe takes his place in front of me and this time, when I think about his fingers inside of me, something different happens. An uncomfortable, throbbing pulse takes over between my thighs, and I can feel my nipples hardening against the small skulls adorning my necklace. When I shift, the bones move and I feel flower petals on my breasts instead.

The sensation is horribly overwhelming.

That cool, apathetic neutrality washes over me, the woods climbing into my veins. I'm no longer a trapped and manipulated woman surrounded by strangers, I'm a female in heat surrounded by virile males. Think clinically, Kate. Clinically, goddamn it.

But it's too late.

I'm not a woman with unknown men, but a witch with her coven. I can feel it, this connection snapping into place between me and the three missing Witchwoods men. When Marlowe removes his mask, he's wearing that same resigned determination from before, and the feel of his tongue on my skin is even more perfunctory than Brooks'.

His eyes are as black as mine and when his hands tighten on my hips, I feel claws. When I lift my own hands up, I find my nails elongated and pointed at the tips. My very DNA is shifting, making room for something new, for that magic I chased so fiercely when I knew that I should very well have left it alone.

Despite Marlowe's teasing and crudeness, he's as trapped in all this as I am. I can't help but wonder if he wasn't coerced into the woods by either Tanner or Brooks. Maybe he's a victim who's become a perpetrator?

A groan escapes me as his lips trail across my skin, tongue lapping up the blood from my oozing wound. I clutch at his head, and my hips rock in his grip, his claws scraping my skin just above the waistband of my leather pants.

Our eyes meet as we switch places, and something odd happens. I kiss him. He seems momentarily surprised, blinking so rapidly that some of the white returns to his eyes, but then I'm nipping his lip and working my way down his neck to his chest. His eyes roll back and shift with shadows again as I lick and swallow greedily, hungrily.

This isn't ... it's not right ... I shouldn't ... Why do I like this so much? What have they done to me?

Marlowe steps back, and the men shift places so that we're standing at the four cardinal points again, but much closer together this time. The bonfire is at Brooks' back as he draws out a small bag filled with black powder, pouring it into his palm and then blowing it across the wound on my chest.

A glittering cloud settles onto my skin, sticking to the blood and saliva in each carefully carved line. The trees around the clearing flicker with our shadows, four monstrous silhouettes dancing when their owners have already stopped.

I shift nervously as Brooks tosses the bag onto the ground, all three of them staring me down with solid black eyes, the brims of their pointed hats curled above their sweat-soaked and bloodied foreheads.

In unison, all three lift their fingers and point into the woods.

I don't have to be told twice.