Wings to the Kingdom (Eden Moore 2)

e enough to lift the light again and scan the trees.

An owl. Maybe.

A stick broke with a crackling snap. Farther to the left. Nearly behind him.

Owls don’t walk around on the ground, do they?

Leaves rustled, as if a low branch were being nudged aside.

He was being circled. Stalked.

“Who—who’s there?” He gulped. He cleared his throat and said it again, clearer. Louder. “Who’s there?”

The question echoed back to him, reflecting off the fog like his flashlight beam. Who’s there?

“This isn’t funny. ” His voice made him bolder, hearing the normal sound disturbing the perfect quiet. “Hey. This isn’t funny. ”

In his ears, his heart beat hard. The throb sounded deep, and slow, and heavy with bass. But that didn’t seem right—the steady pump and rhythmic, weighty pulse. Pete could feel his heart knocking against his sternum not far from the flashlight he still hugged close. His heart did not sound slow. His heart did not sound steady. It sounded like a wounded animal thrashing in a cage.

Still the thick pounding filled his ears.

Not mine. Not mine.

A scuffing noise, like a foot dragging through dirt, scratched itself out over to Pete’s right.

“You stay away from me!” Pete ordered, clutching the light against his chest. “You’d better do it! I’m armed!”

The dual glow burned again, closer still and very, very high for a pair of things that resembled eyes. One word came back in a hiss of an echo: armed. A rushing fuzz like TV static rose up hard and filled Pete’s ears.

A gust of wind crashed against Pete’s side, shocking him into motion. He nearly dropped the flashlight, but caught it and pointed it at the ground. One foot in front of the other, he began a terrified dash, but a tree older than his grandparents reared out of the cloud. He plowed into the trunk face-and shoulder-first.

Armed.

Dazed but afraid, Pete straightened himself up, ignored the wild blue pain in his shoulder, and spun the light around.

Armed.

The eyes soared forward, dipping down as if their owner was diving towards Pete’s head. He screeched and staggered over a tree root and around a trunk, struggling to put that trunk between himself and the incoming horror.

“I’m not armed, not armed!” he repeated, gasping as he ran. The way the word kept floating back to him—it made him wonder. “I’m not armed. I was lying! Leave me alone. God, let me go. Leave me alone!”

He started another crazed dash and collided with another tree, falling this time. He scooped himself up, forced his legs to rise beneath him, and hauled the light around to lead him.

The unnatural wind and humming breath buffeted Pete still, blowing him onward and forward. The light was almost less than useless to him, but he wielded it like a weapon, since he had no other.

The green eyes followed—from behind, from the left, and from the right.

“Get away from me!”

Pete thrust his hands in front of him, not wanting to make hasty friends with another tree. His wrists and fingers battered against wood, and his feet tripped over every obstacle before him. But every glance over his swelling shoulder reminded him why he ran.

Waving his hands and the light, he ran on; and after a few minutes it occurred to him that he really was running—straight and unhindered. He’d left the forest. He’d run clear.

He’d been herded clear.

His shoes were slapping against a paved surface before he realized that fact. His toes were catching on the asphalt before he knew he’d been manipulated.

Pete fell, catching himself on his hands and one knee. The duffel bag, which latched at the top, flew open, and the metal detector slid forward, knocking him in the head. He slung an arm around to stuff it back in, but an enormous hand wrapped itself around his forearm.