With me.
But can I really just leave him here?
As I start to back away, ready to run in the opposite direction, I make the mistake of looking at him one last time.
He looks so fragile. Like he might simply dissolve into the earth if I leave him here.
How long has he been sitting against that tree?
When I first spotted him, he looked like he’dbecomepart of the tree—an endless bed of moss and ivy covering him, crawling around his chest and up the trunk behind him.
He doesn’t seem to have much energy left. If any.
In the end, it’s not so much a decision as an impulse I can’t fight.
I can’t just leave him here.
I step forward and heft him into my arms. He barely weighs anything—what weight he has feels like it’s mostly caked-on mud and plant matter—and I start jogging with him thrown over my shoulder.
On my way in, I passed a remote cabin, maybe twenty kilometers back.
I head that direction now.
He stays motionless in my arms the entire journey. Light as a child.
When we reach the cabin, I hate having to drop him at the doorstep. His eyelids flutter as I set him down, and I catch what looks like distress when he realizes where I’ve brought him. He starts shaking his head weakly, mumbling, “No. No people.”
“Hush,” I hiss at him, already raising my hand to knock. “I’ll get rid of them.”
His eyes pop open wide—those shocking, translucent gray irises flashing with sudden clarity—but he doesn’t say anything else.
At my knock, a man in worn country clothes opens the door. Shotgun in hand. He threatens me in the local Romanian dialect, gesturing sharply for me to get off his property.
“Is your wife home?” I ask in the same language, keeping my voice calm. Sweet, even. “Bring her to the door. Along with anyone else in the house.”
His eyes go blank in the familiar way they always do when I apply blood compulsion. He immediately lowers the shotgun to his side and nods.
“Mariana,” he calls back into the house.
A woman’s voice snaps something about how he’s a fool and she’s not even dressed yet.
But he calls again, insistent. Several moments later, a grumpy older woman appears beside her husband—handkerchief tied around her head, cigarette dangling from her lips.
“Hello,” I say, smiling at both of them. “Please leave and don’t come back for a month. Go take a lovely holiday somewhere warm.”
Her angry expression melts away as her eyes zone out.
I pull out my wallet and hand them more money than they probably see in a year. But it’s the pressure I put behind the words—the compulsion woven through every syllable—that has them both walking directly out of the house. The husband takes the money silently. They head down the little path toward the road without looking back.
I watch tree-man’s eyes follow them, then return to me.
“How?” he asks, voice barely audible.
I roll my eyes. “You’re not the only one with magic, tree-man. Now come on, let’s see if they’ve got a hose out here somewhere.”
I scan the side of the house and sigh when I spot the water pump in the overgrown front yard. “No such luck. This is going to be cold.”
I look down at him. “If I leave you here, will you stay put?”
