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Truly jerked in its hold.
With another grunt, it raised her higher.
She sucked in a shaky breath. Which hurt… a lot.
Her gaze even with its gaping yellow eye, she brushed the discomfort aside. No time to sit with the pain as the bark monster tilted her one way, then the other, studying her as though she was some kind of strange specimen.
Afraid to move, she took shallow breaths.
The monster continued to stare.
Moving nothing but her eyeballs, Truly returned the favor. Branches rose, some thick, others thin, wrapping like armor over its shoulders, crisscrossing behind its head. Bark dipped and rose on its torso, curling into waves at the edges. Leaves sprouted from the tangle, undulating, making it smell like Spring and newly fallen dew.
Blood rushed to her head. Her temples began to pound. She waited, tense — for it to shake her, raise a wooden fist and hit her… or do anything at all. Nothing of the kind happened. Silence expanded. Seconds ticked past. Time full of intense study as she looked at it, and the monster looked back.
Freaked out, not knowing what else to do, she greeted it. “Hello.”
“Turnbolt,” it rumbled through no mouth at all. The thing didn’t appear to have one. Just a ropy, bark-covered face with the single light-filled hole for an eye. “Finally, a Turnbolt.”
Well…
At least that was a familiar refrain.
Her house had said the same thing. Exact phrase. Making her wonder — was Weeping Hollow, enemy to Westvane and all other Azlandians, a friend to her? A safe haven, in the same way the Victorian on Isadore Street turned out to be?
Truly chewed on the inside of her lip. Could be true. A solid working theory, given the creature hadn’t killed her yet.
“My friends,” she said, testing the waters. “I need to know wh —”
With another grunt, it flipped her upright.
Her head snapped back. Pain streaked down her spine.
Grimacing, she cupped the back of her neck with one hand. With the other, she grabbed the bark monster, holding onto a branch, before she went flying over its shoulder. Perched safely in its grasp, she glanced down. Her stomach dipped. She shouldn’t have looked. The thing was tall, which meant she was a long way up. She already hurt all over, and taking another tumble, wasn’t on her list of things to do. Survival, however, sat right at the top, and if she could avoid more bruises while accomplishing that, all the better.
The creature lurched on.
Truly rode in silence, reshuffling her deck as she tried to figure out how best to proceed. Her first priority needed to be Westvane and Montrose. She’d already searched the forest. Neither of her friends were behind her, being carrying through the brush by other bark monster brethren.
“What’s your name?” she asked, staring at its profile.
The creature grumble-growled and, with a flick of its tangled wooden fingers, kept walking, navigating through dense shadow and forest murk.
Settled in the crook of its arm, she hung on, struggling to see in the dark. Thick canopy overhead. Slices of moonlight. Pale patches of light dominated by deep gloom. Enormous trees everywhere. Mossy vines dripped from thick branches. No clear path in front of her, but the creature knew where it was going. It moved with an easy gait. Long strides neither fast or slow, just steady and even.
The thump of its footsteps crunched over downed branches, making her senses hum. She listened harder, paying attention. Subtle, but… a cacophony of sound broke through the quiet. Too much noise. More than one set of footsteps kicking up the musty smell of old leaves and rotting wood.
She glanced around the creature’s tangled crown of branches and sucked in a choked breath. The thing wasn’t alone. A platoon of bark monsters broke from the shadows, falling in line behind their leader. Moving in time, like a military unit, she saw a dozen, but knew there were more, striding with purpose passed towering trees and jagged bluffs.
Heart in her throat, Truly returned her gaze to the creature who carried her. “Your name?”
A series of clicking sounds came at her.
Truly frowned. Maybe it wasn’t fluent in English. Maybe it possessed a limited vocabulary. Or maybe, it was following orders by refusing to give her any information. Could be his one-eyed comrades had already killed her friends.
Twisting in its grasp, she yelled, “Rosy! Westvane!”
Her shout echoed through the woods.
