It’s too late. Evlynne and the helicopter are gone.
Heart pounding, I jog to the landing zone. She’d mentioned a present, which turns out to be the backpack I find on the grass. I grab it to check if it contains actual supplies and not a bunch of rocks like I assume Evlynne the asshole would cram in there.
A quick inventory reveals dried rations, a canteen, a handgun, and a radio. I also have my comm and telepathy, but I can’t bring myself to reach out to anyone and tell them what happened.
For now, the comm stays in my pocket, the radio remains in the pack, and I don’t try to link with anyone. I don’t want to admit that Evlynne tricked me. It’s too humiliating. Hopefully I’ll just make it back to base before someone notices I’m gone.
I should have trusted my instincts, damn it. Now I’m stranded on this stupid mountain and who knows how long this trek is going to take. The rest of the day, at least. Luckily, I have a good sense of direction, and my comm has a nav system that tells me where to go. Evlynne wasn’t trying to kill me—just wanted to ruin my day, apparently—but I know from experience how dangerous the wilderness can be.
The anger inside me is sharp and relentless. I don’t even bother trying to suppress it. It fuels my every step as I begin my descent of the ridge. I readjust the pack, slipping my arm through the second strap so it rests solidly on my back, and trudge down the steep ridge,careful not to rush it. One misstep and I’ll go tumbling down the side of the mountain.
I maintain my focus, forcing myself to keep moving. One foot in front of the other. Just keep walking. Picture Evlynne’s grisly death to occupy the time.
Hours pass.
Hours.
I realize too late that my slow pace was probably too cautious. I’m far behind schedule when I check the comm to see where I am. It doesn’t help that the current path I’m on isn’t stable, but precarious and rocky. I slip several times, managing to steady myself by grabbing random bent branches, before the path unexpectedly becomes an incline and I’m suddenly ascending rather than descending. I stop and check my screen again to make sure I’m not going the wrong way. But nope, the ridge is an asshole like Evlynne. It just decided to climb for half a mile for no discernible reason before going downhill again.
I traverse the twisting path through the dense foliage. As I round another bend, something catches my eye in the fading sunlight. At first, I think the red petals are crimlock flowers, until I notice one of the roots is exposed. Crimlock roots are brown. The twisted root protruding from the ground is dark red, contrasted against the light-colored dirt.
Holy hellfuck.
Is that heartroot?
I crouch down to examine it, running my fingertips over the thin ridges. Instantly, I smell that peculiar, sickly-sweet odor that’s unique to heartroot, and a memory flashes through my mind. I’m in our little hut in the Blacklands, watching Uncle Jim sort through the various plants and roots he’d dug out during his daily walks in the darkness.
“This one is pretty!” I’d exclaimed, picking up a chunk of blood-red root. “And it smells like candy!”
“Careful with that one, little bird.” Even now, I can practically hear his gruff voice, and it brings a deep ache to my chest. “This is heartroot.”
“What does it do?” I asked curiously.
“In this state? Nothing. But if you ingest it, it’s not pretty at all.” He gave me a grave look. “It stops your heart.”
I gasped. “And then youdie?”
“Then you die.”
Now here it is, heartroot, randomly growing in the middle of this path.
My comm vibrates in my pocket, distracting me from the root. It’s a message from Gray.
Where the hell are you, cowgirl?
I ignore the message and keep walking. Only minutes later, I feel someone trying to link with me. It’s Adrienne’s energy. I ignore her, too, scrambling through thickets and bushes.
The sun is dipping lower and lower in the sky, and soon I start to see shadows forming across the landscape. I’m sore. My feet hurt. So do my legs from the random inclines. But I need to make it down before nightfall. The last thing I want to do is spend the night on this damn mountain.
I finally find an even path, and my aching body welcomes it. No incline, no downhill. Blessedly flat.
I’m just starting to relax when I hear a rustling behind me.
It’s faint, easy to mistake as the wind fluttering through the leaves—except I’m pretty sure it stops every time I do. I decide to test the theory, picking up my pace.
Rustle rustle.
I stop walking.
