Chapter 3: A Bargain in Moonlight
The silver trail through the trees did not lead to a road, or a clearing, or anything resembling an exit. It simply deposited them at the edge of the Moonlit Stream.
The name came unbidden to Simon’s mind, as if the forest had slipped the thought into his head. The water moved with a slow, viscous grace, more like liquid mercury than H2O. Its surface didn’t ripple. It shimmered, holding reflections that weren’t theirs: the sway of branches from no tree nearby, the slow pass of clouds that weren’t in the sky above them.
“Well, that’s not creepy at all,” Tony muttered, kneeling on the bank. He made no move to touch it.
Exhaustion was a physical weight, pulling at their shoulders and fogging their thoughts. The adrenaline from the bridge was gone, leaving a hollow, shaky ache. They hadn’t slept. Had barely stopped moving since the fire. The night felt like it had lasted for weeks.
“We need to rest,” Simon said, the words thick. “Just for a minute. We can’t think straight.”
“Rest where?” Tony gestured around. The banks were clear of the giant, pulsing roots, but the earth was cold and damp. The trees here were tall, straight pines that whispered in a breeze Simon couldn’t feel. “I’m not lying down on that.” He nodded toward the stream. “It looks like it’d suck you right in.”
Simon’s flashlight beam was growing dim, the battery icon blinking a weak protest. He switched it off, plunging them into the milky moonlight. His hand went to his neck, to the anchor pendant. It was cold. A stupid little piece of metal. Useless.
“Just… sit. Watch the water. If anything moves, we run.” Simon didn’t wait for agreement. His legs gave out and he slumped onto a dry-ish patch of moss, his back against a pine trunk. The silence here was different. Not a hunting silence, but a waiting one. A watching one.
Tony sighed, the sound heavy with reluctance, and sat beside him, a careful foot of space between them for a clear field of fire. He kept the gun in his lap, his fingers resting on the grip. “Remember that time in seventh grade,” he said, his voice artificially light, “when we tried to camp in your backyard and your mom’s sprinkler system went off at 2 AM?”
A faint, weary smile touched Simon’s lips. “You screamed. Like, a full-on horror movie scream.”
“A surprise jet of ice water to the face warrants a scream, Si. It’s in the Geneva Conventions.” Tony leaned his head back. “I’d take a thousand sprinklers right now. A whole army of them.”
They lapsed into quiet. The stream shimmered. Simon’s eyes grew heavy. The cold from the tree at his back seeped through his jacket. He focused on the anchor in his hand, the solidity of it, a tiny point of order in the chaos. He must have drifted, because the next thing he knew, Tony’s posture had changed. He was rigid, the gun now held in a two-handed grip, aimed at the opposite bank.
Simon followed his gaze.
She was just there. As if she’d condensed from the moonlight and the mist rising off the strange water. A young woman, naked, her skin holding the faint luminescence of a pearl. Long, white hair flowed around her like a spectral mane, providing only the barest modesty. From her temples, a delicate, tragic crown of dead willow branches curved upward—antlers, but fragile, desiccated. Her eyes were the color of the stream: liquid, reflective silver.
She made no sound. She simply stared at them, her head tilted with a curiosity that seemed both ancient and innocent.
“Don’t move,” Tony whispered, his voice tight. “Don’t even blink.”
But Simon was already moving. Not out of bravery, but out of a deep, resonant pull. The compass. His compass was in her hands. She held it out before her, the brass casing glinting in the moonlight. It was an offering.
“Si, no!”
Simon stood on stiff legs. His mind screamed that this was another trap, another root-column horror. But his body, starved for something that made sense, carried him forward. The compass was a piece of his world. A real thing. He took a step toward the water’s edge.
The being—Aetheryn, the name sighed through him—did not retreat. She watched him approach, her silver eyes wide and brimming with an emotion Simon couldn’t name. A profound, lonely sadness.
He stopped at the water’s edge. The stream was narrow here, maybe six feet across. He could see now that her form was subtly translucent. He could see the darker outlines of the trees behind her through the pale silver of her thighs.
Slowly, she extended her arm over the water. Her fingers were long, elegant. The compass lay balanced on her palm. A tremor ran through her, a shiver that made the light within her flicker.
Simon reached out.
Her fingers were colder than the night air, cold as stone buried deep in the earth. The moment his skin touched hers, a jolt went through him—not electric, but draining. A siphon. The mild warmth of his living hand flowed into her, and for a second, her glow intensified, a soft pulse like a sigh.
She didn’t let go of the compass. Instead, she stepped forward, onto the surface of the stream. It held her weight, barely denting the mercury-like plane. She was close now. Her scent was ozone and damp moss. Her sorrowful eyes searched his face, as if memorizing it.
Then she leaned in.
Her lips touched his. They were just as cold, a soft, freezing pressure. There was no passion in it, only a deep, desperate need. The drain became a flood. The warmth was pulled from his mouth, his cheeks, his very breath. It was a violation so intimate it froze him in place. His thoughts slowed. His muscles went lax. It felt good, in a terrible way. To just let go. To let something else have the warmth, the life, the worry…
CLICK-CLACK.
The crisp, metallic sound of Tony racking the slide of the handgun broke the stillness.
The connection shattered. Aetheryn recoiled as if burned, a faint, melodic sound of pain escaping her—a note like a cracked bell. Her form rippled, destabilizing. The compass tumbled from her grasp, landing with a soft thud on the moss at Simon’s feet.
She looked at Simon, her silver eyes pools of regret. Then her gaze flicked to Tony, to the unwavering barrel of the gun. A whisper filled the air, not a voice, but a thought etched directly onto the cold glass of their minds.
I am so… hungry.
And she was gone. Not vanishing, but dissolving, her light scattering into a thousand moonbeams that were swallowed by the trees.
Simon stumbled back, collapsing to his knees. He was freezing, his lips numb. He gasped, sucking in the cold air, feeling the slow, painful return of circulation to his face.
Tony was at his side in an instant, hooking a hand under his arm. “You with me? Talk to me, Si.”
“I’m… I’m here,” Simon rasped. His voice was a stranger’s. He fumbled for the compass, his numb fingers closing around the familiar metal. It was ice-cold. He brought it to his chest, as if he could warm it.
“What the hell was that?” Tony’s eyes scanned the opposite bank, then the trees around them, the gun still up. “A kiss? Really? Now?”
“It wasn’t a kiss,” Simon said, shuddering. “It was… feeding. She was starving.” He looked down at the compass. The needle spun once, lazily, then settled. It pointed steadily, unwavering, directly up the stream, into the heart of the woods. A true reading. For the first time all night, it had found north. “She gave me back my compass.”
“Yeah, after trying to suck out your soul like a juice box. A trade’s a trade, I guess.” Tony finally lowered the gun, his shoulders slumping. The bravado was a thin veneer now, painted over raw nerves. “She said she was hungry. The whole forest is hungry.”
Simon stood, using Tony for balance. The cold inside him was being replaced by a new, more profound dread. He looked at the compass needle, then followed its direction up the dark, watery path.
“She wasn’t just telling us she was hungry,” Simon said quietly. “She was warning us. We’re not lost hikers anymore. We’re not just prey for wolves or bears.” He met Tony’s eyes, seeing his own dawning horror reflected there. “We’re food. And now everything here knows it.”
As if in answer, a low, resonant groan traveled through the earth, up through the soles of their shoes. It wasn’t the bear. It was deeper, slower. The sigh of the forest itself. The trees around them seemed to lean in just a fraction, their branches converging slightly overhead, narrowing the path forward.
The path the compass now insisted they take.