Page 27 of The Blight of Hollowmire

Nightmares plague me, yanking me to and fro in my sleep. Visions of rotting corpses crowned with mushrooms staggering toward me—of my limbs blackening beneath slick, oily slime mold—of my belly’s flesh decaying and falling to the earth in sizzling piles—of blinding pain as my skull twists into something monstrous and forbidding, sprouting heavy antlers dripping gore.

It’s little surprise to me that I wake with the gray dawn even more exhausted, unsettled by things that feel more like premonitions than dreams. The entire floor of the cottage is thick with a carpet of bright orange slime mold that has sprawled outward from my prone body in sticky, pulsing patterns. It is striking in its beauty, and equally disquieting.

The human wakes sometime after me, his bedframe shifting with a long, complaining groan followed by a pained grunt.

I watch him from beneath my lashes, pretending to be absorbed in my book, and half-listening to the subtle murmurs of the forest outside. The cottage creaks occasionally as the wind presses against the warped boards, and the mushrooms I coaxed into blooming along the beams give off a faint, pearly glow that softens the early morning darkness just enough to read by.

He collapses back onto the mattress with a muffled curse that is remarkably articulate for someone who lost a considerable amount of blood only a few hours ago.

“Ambitious,” I chuckle.

Immediately, his eyes snap open, sharp and disoriented, and for a brief moment he looks exactly like what he is—a wounded animal waking in unfamiliar territory, unsure whether the quiet figure in the chair is rescuer or predator. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

“So, I’m not dead,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“You’re welcome.”

He studies me then, his eyes roving over me with interest and, I must note, no visible sign of disgust. That’s a welcome change. His gaze lingers briefly on the pale cast of my skin, the knotted, white mess of my hair, my angled ears, needle fangs, and my oxblood eyes.

“…you’re not human,” he says.

“No,” I agree.

He shifts, testing his balance as he pushes himself into a seated position against the headboard. The motion is careful, controlled, and deliberate, suggesting long practice with injuries.

“Fae, then?”

I nod. Wariness sparks in his gaze, but I suspect it’s more to do with me being fae than anything else. His hand drifts instinctively toward his hip, where his sword would normally be. The absence registers quickly, and his eyes flick back to me.

“It’s by the door,” I say, addressing his concern. “I removed it to ensure you didn’t cut yourself open again while you fought the fever.”

“Where am I?” he asks.

“In an abandoned cottage about three hours’ walk from the bog road,” I reply, rising to better face him. “You were being eaten when I found you, which made further travel somewhat impractical.”

His brow furrows faintly as the memory surfaces.

“The… swamp spider thing,” he mutters. “It attacked me almost immediately.”

“A bogunder.”

His eyebrows lift in question, and he nods again. “I haven’t seen one before—the last time I was here, it was something else living in the bog.”

That needles my curiosity. So, he’s been here before! When, I wonder. It’s been an age since anyone has had contact with humans.

He attempts to adjust his injured leg and winces from the pain.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” I advise.

He scoffs. “I’ve endured worse.”

Reflecting on the myriad scars mapping his body, I huff. “I don’t doubt it, but nevertheless, your leg might have opinions.”

He glances down at the carefully wrapped bandages, then back at me, and the expression that settles over his face is one I recognize immediately: the reluctant calculation of a man realizing he owes a debt he cannot easily repay.

“You saved my life,” he says slowly. It occurs to me that he does not seem at all relieved about it, but I put that observation aside for now.

“I did,” I reply. “At great expense to my boots.”