Hidden: the Dark Forgotten

Rafe tasted the breeze, sifting through the smells. Each had a texture and color in his mind, as unique as faces in a crowd. He would—No, he must find his prey. The search hadn’t started with one lone wolf. The extended kin of the Devries family—bereft and furious—had been part of the hunt. Not many creatures could evade an entire werewolf pack hungry for vengeance.

But this fae could—and did. With every search, they had tracked the vile bastard to this valley, only to lose him like one more needle in the vast carpet of cedar and fir. In the end, the pack had sent for Rafe, their prodigal son, to come home and collect their debt in blood.

There.

This time, the tantalizing hint was stronger. Rafe turned toward it, breathing deeply. At first, the astringent wash of pine and loam drowned it out, but he caught that lingering note of something else—cinnamon on ice, hot and cold as freshly forged steel quenched in snow. The signature was uniquely fae. He’d found the trail once more.

He picked up his pace, moving as fast as stealth would allow. His quarry was directly ahead where the land rose out of the valley, exchanging dark shadows for fitful moonlight. Dense brush gave way to a sketchy path that wound toward still higher ground. Rafe broke into a loping run, unable to rein himself in.

A figure emerged from between the trees, striding steadily up the path. The broken light traced the silhouette. Graceful. Tall. Slender as a reed. Long, straight hair the shade of palest wheat.

Definitely fae. Definitely female.

He was hunting a male.

Rafe stopped dead, leaves flying as he skidded to a halt. Not even the backpack and loose jacket could hide those curves. A mix of disappointment and interest coursed through him. This creature was not his prey, but she was beautiful, even if she was one of them.

As if hearing his thoughts, she turned to search the darkness. Rafe flattened himself to the ground, silently cursing. He’d been too eager, too noisy. A fae’s hearing missed nothing.

The moonlight caught her features, confirming his suspicions. She was a light fae, with features almost alien in their fine-boned perfection. Rafe’s pulse quickened, the fae’s sheer loveliness demanding a response.

But this wasn’t his first hunt, and he knew better than to roll over for one of them. He remained as still as the twisted roots around him, cool and self-contained. The fae studied the path behind her, head tilted at a haughty angle.

Arrogant, like all the rest.

Eventually, her shoulders relaxed. With a half-shrug, she turned and resumed her climb up the hill, moving a little faster now.

Rafe rose to his feet. She wasn’t the one he wanted, yet he wouldn’t let her slip away. There were only so many reasons a fae—or anyone—would take a stroll through this remote valley. If he tracked this female, surely she’d lead him to his quarry.

He followed, soundless as mist. Where was she going? There were no buildings, no campgrounds, not even a treehouse in these woods.

Rafe paused long enough to scan the direction she’d come from. There was a secondary road on the other side of the valley, used mostly by outdoor enthusiasts on the way to campgrounds another thirty miles to the east. Had she parked on the roadside and walked in?

He returned his attention to the female’s dark-clad form, her long legs and elegantly curved hips. She moved in and out of the scattered moonlight as silently as a dream. Narrowing the gap between them was risky, but it allowed him to catch her scent again—wild, spicy, tantalizing. Now it seemed ludicrous that he ever thought something so attractive might belong to his real quarry.

The foul one. The killer. Memories of grief—his own and the pack’s—focused him.

The fae they sought was popular among the supernatural youth of East Bay—those old enough to attend a club and young enough to enjoy the noise and erratic hours. And wherever there was a hot, sweaty crowd with drink, dancing, and not enough clothes, this fae showed up.

That in itself was curious. Usually fae—especially light fae—kept to their own kind. They were an ancient people and, unlike the vampires, had never known what it was to be mortal. This one, though, he befriended the young—those caught just at the first glimmer of independence.

No one had thought anything about this fae’s influence until their cubs began to die. The only clue that linked the deaths was the fact that they’d recently spoken to that fae. Then the wolves—and vampires and witches—had howled for blood. For the one they called the Magician and whatever foul magic he used.

And for some reason, his trail led here.

Rafe followed the female, struggling to ignore everything but her usefulness as a guide. He kept that concentration at a cost. Without warning, an owl dove from the sky, snatching a vole from the ground. Rafe startled, caught unawares.

The female spun, a sleek pistol in one hand. Rafe dove for the shadows, but not before he heard her intake of breath.

“Who’s there?” she demanded in a voice like chilled velvet.

The night was silent but for the beat of wings. He could almost feel the fae’s gaze searching the darkness. The way she held herself—and the gun—said she was trained to use it.

Her fierce confidence made her even more compelling. The itch to confront her—to see who had the superior battle skills—almost made him forget his carefully maintained calm. His pulse thundered in his ears.

She turned away, shattering the moment. With a hop and scramble, she reached the lip of the valley, vanishing for a moment into the gloom beneath a pair of giant cedar trees. When she emerged again, she was outlined against the sky.

Then she raised her hand and spread her fingers wide. Rafe blinked as spears of light arced between them like a fistful of lightning. A spell crackled, raising the fur along his spine.

The brilliance rippled outward, making a corona against the horizon. Forgetting all caution, Rafe stood for a better look. Afterimages of the woman’s silhouette danced in his vision, merging with the trees.

What was she doing?

The sky wavered like the surface of a pond. Stars swirled and ran, reminding him of a Van Gogh painting. Then the darkness around her melted away, replaced by a modern, white-walled mansion sparkling with lights. It stood a hundred yards away, as if plucked from the cover of an architecture magazine.

The female stepped onto the smooth concrete path that led to the door.

Finally, Rafe understood. This was a glamour—a fae spell that confused the senses of their victims. Sight, sound, and scent could be confused. And a villain could hide in plain sight.

The fae had hidden an entire mansion behind their spell. The one they sought had been here all along, so close the wolves might have run him to ground like an autumn stag. No wonder the cubs called him the Magician.

The depth of the deception dragged an angry rumble from his chest. The female’s head turned slightly, catching the sound. She hurried forward, her boots all but silent on the walk. It was like watching a phantom falling into a dream. A moment later, the mansion—and the female—vanished. The horizon was nothing but stars and trees, empty of fae.

His gaze probed the darkness. Even in that short time, he’d learned the female’s form, and he wanted her within his sight. That made no sense. She was not for him.

Fae. The enemy. Anger crackled through him, bright as her magic spell—and now he could act on it. The killer had hidden himself away, but Rafe had found his den.

The hunt was on.