Cassie Mint

  Cold Wood

  First published by Black Cherry Publishing 2021

  Copyright © 2021 by Cassie Mint

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Cassie Mint asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-914242-57-1

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  Keep in touch with Cassie!

  1. Ruby

  2. Blaise

  3. Ruby

  4. Blaise

  5. Ruby

  6. Blaise

  7. Ruby

  8. Blaise

  9. Ruby

  Teaser: Snow Storm

  About the Author

  Keep in touch with Cassie!

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  One

  Ruby

  When I was a little girl, I heard stories about the man in the woods. My grandmother told them as she tucked me into bed at night; they were whispered in the school yard behind cupped hands. Every person in town knows about the man, and every person fears him.

  They say he’s a killer.

  They say he snatches children from their beds and cooks them into stews, then picks his teeth with their bones.

  They say he transforms into a monster under the waxy full moon, howling until windows shatter in their panes.

  And sometimes, after too many ales at the pub, they say he’s magic. That he’s wicked. That he lives in a sprawling cave system under the woods, sneaking out of holes in the earth to descend on the town and wreak his vengeance.

  The townspeople say the man in the woods is a beast.

  That he’s the devil himself.

  I listened to those stories as a child, and I gasped along, goosebumps rippling down my arms. I was every inch as scared as the other children—who wouldn’t be? I was only a little girl, and little girls love stories. Especially scary ones.

  Even now, at twenty years old with both feet firmly in the real world, I still love graveyards and haunted houses; it’s still the horror section I drift to in the town bookshop where I work week after week. I’m constantly surrounded by books, but it’s the scary ones I thumb through on my lunch breaks, hoping for drawings of monsters. Hoping for sharp fangs and beady red eyes.

  Hoping to feel something.

  “You’re a morbid one,” my grandmother always scolds, shaking her weathered head and tutting, but I don’t care about that. Who needs pretty and gentle when there are curses and demons to dream about?

  My favorite stories are the ones where the monster gets the girl. Where he snatches her and steals her away to his lair to do God only knows what.

  But despite my love for scary stories, I’ve never gone looking for the man in the woods. Either he’s real and that would be incredibly foolish of me, possibly the last thing I ever did, or he’s not real at all—and that would break my heart.

  Better to keep to the path that winds through the woods when I walk home to my grandmother’s cottage. Better to stare up at the full moon each month, and hope and pray the man is out there somewhere.

  * * *

  My grandmother has rules if I’m to work in the town. Rule number one: I must pick up her medicine every Thursday from the pharmacy, and bring it back to her along with a fresh box of butterscotch toffees.

  Number two: I must be polite to everyone I meet. None of my sass.

  And number three: I must not walk home through the woods after dark.

  It’s not just the man from the stories, you see. There are wolves and bears. There are hunters and hikers and hidden caves. The spiders are almost as big as terriers, and though their bites won’t kill a person, they could paralyze someone my size, and then the cold will do it anyway.

  I don’t argue with my grandmother’s rules. They make a lot of sense to me—especially on days like today, when the icy wind moans through the cobbled streets and rattles the painted window shutters on their hinges.

  “The night’s coming in fast,” Sylvie calls from the front of the bookshop, her head and shoulders hidden where she’s rearranging the window display. My boss is very proud of her window displays. They’ve won regional awards, and they often use a truly alarming quantity of paper flowers and tulle fabric. “How much longer until the end of your shift, Ruby?”

  I wince, peering first at the gloomy sky, then at the cuckoo clock on the wall. I shift on the stool behind the front desk. “An hour.”

  Sylvie grunts, and goes back to her display. It’s a themed one this week, with roses and thorns; glass slippers and crowns. Fairy tales.

  Outside, dark clouds gather over the rooftops.

  It’s cozy in here, at least. The bookshop is a labyrinth of groaning shelves and reading nooks, lit by fringed lampshades and wall sconces that look like they’d be more suited to a medieval dungeon. Special collections of valuable books stand proudly inside glass cases, and the shop smells like old paper and the scented spiced candles that Sylvie burns at the front desk—surely the mark of a woman tempting fate.

  It’s my favorite place in the whole world, and this is the best job I’ve ever had. I can’t risk leaving early.

  The woods won’t get dark for ages yet, I’m sure of it.

  “Heavy clouds,” Sylvie nudges again when she emerges from the window display twenty minutes later, carrying the box of her decorating supplies to the front desk. “Looks like snow.” The box thuds onto the table, rattling the pens by the cash register in their jar.

  Sylvie watches me expectantly, her big eyes bugging behind her glasses. Then when I say nothing, she sighs and throws up her hands, tossing back her white-blond bob.

  “You should go, no? Ruby! Your grandmother will tan my hide if I keep you here after dark.”

  That she will. My grandmother is an intimidating woman, almost as fearsome as the beast-man from the stories. Grown men cross the street to avoid her when she comes to town for church on Sundays, a feathered hat quivering atop her old head.

  “You’re sure?” I’m already hurrying to my red winter coat, hanging on the hook by the door. I really don’t like the look of those clouds.

  Sylvie flaps an impatient hand at me. “You can make the time up next week. Go.”

  The wind blows straight through to my bones when I step out into the street, the bookshop bell tinkling behind me. I frown up at the dark clouds, angry-looking and gray, and tug my red hood up, burrowing into its depths before I set off for the path into the woods.

  I left it too long. Should have left half an hour ago. The sinking feeling in my gut tells me so.

  * * *

  Snap.

  Huff.

  Scrape.

  Crack.

  I’m used to the sounds of the woods. The eerie noises; the chorus of creatures all around, hidden between the trees. The wind doesn’t reach this far along the path, so it’s silent as I pass through—silent except for my hurried steps, and the swish of my red coat, and my shallow, panting breaths.

  Okay, I’ll admit it. I’m scared. I’ve never been in the woods this close to dusk before. The trees look almost black, their bare limbs reaching for the clouds, and even though the wind can’t reach here, they seem to shift and move, gnarled branches grasping. Patches of shadow spread over the forest floor, pooling over the leaf litter, and I’ve been staring so hard between the tree trunks that my eyes are itchy and dry.

  A twig snaps nearby. I whimper, clutching my coat tighter around me, and force my tired legs to go faster.

  It’s more fun being scared by books than real life.

  “Nearly there,” I murmur, and I don’t know who I’m trying to kid. My grandmother’s cottage is another half mile at least through these whispering trees. Only an idiot would get caught in the woods when the sky darkens like this. Only a complete fool.

  “Damn it, Ruby.” I curse myself under my breath, hurrying so fast that my boots thud against the frozen dirt. I should go quietly, should try to slip through the woods unseen, but my breaths are louder now, gasping and wheezing from my chest. My boots slam against the dirt, announcing to the whole world that I’m here, as my thighs burn, and my ankles ache, and—

  And a howl rents the gloomy air.

  “No.” My whisper is soft. I’ve heard wolves before, of course I have, but never so close. I spin around, my head woozy from panic, and back up until my shoulder blades press against a tree trunk. At least this way, they can’t sneak up on me. At least I’ll see them coming.

  I steal a glance at the moon, just now starting to peek through the clouds. It’s bright and waxy, hanging low in the sky, and for a ridiculous moment, I pray that it’s full. That the howl came from the man in the woods, that he’s real and he’s here, and God, if any creature is going to drag me away, let it be him—

  Ther e.

  Eyes flash in the gathering darkness. Tongues loll between white fangs.

  A pack of wolves creeps closer.

  I can see four of them, but there might be more. A large black one, a slightly smaller brown, and two slender gray wolves that must be females. They move through the trees, silent as ghosts, eyes fixed on my stupidly red coat, breaths panting and hungry.

  Now and then, we hear in the town about people attacked by wolves. Hikers and tourists. Rough sleepers who took a chance too close to the treeline. But not locals. Not townspeople. The wolves have never been so bold.

  They’re bold tonight, that’s for sure. Or maybe I’m just incredibly stupid, more foolish than any local has ever been. That feels pretty likely as I crush myself back against the tree trunk, rough bark snagging my hood and digging into my shoulder blades, my heart slamming so hard in my chest that my ribs ache.

  “Stay back,” I call out, and my voice is strong. Clear and brave—far braver than I really feel. The wolves pause for a second, their heavy paws raised over the dirt.

  Then there’s a huffed breath, and they creep closer once more.

  I can’t outrun them. Can’t fight. I don’t have anything except my wits, this tree, and a burning desire to live, to get home to my grandmother. She’d never forgive me for dying so stupidly. Knowing her, she’d stand and lecture at my grave.

  No, this can’t be it. This can’t be all.

  I suck in a sharp breath, turn my back on the wolves, and start to climb.

  Two

  Blaise

  There are plenty of downsides to being universally hated. To starring in little kids’ nightmares and playing the role of the local bogeyman. There’s the shame and self loathing, obviously. The loneliness that burrows down into my marrow, freezing me from the inside out. Not to mention the boredom.

  But there are positives, too—like having the woods all to myself, and not answering to anyone else. Like minding my own damn business. It’s peaceful.

  Most of the time, anyway.

  But not tonight. Tonight, some girl won’t stop screaming. And I’m not in the fucking mood.

  It’s probably a bunch of schoolkids, coming out here on a dare. Winding each other up, and trying to see who cries first. But it’s getting dark, the moon shining between the bruised clouds, and those little shits will find more trouble than they’re looking for if they stay in these woods after nightfall.

  The wolves are hungry at this time of year. The bears, too. Hell, we’re all hungry. The scream wails louder, and I heft my ax, adjusting my grip on the handle as I stride through the trees. A small deer hangs over my shoulder, body cooling and head lolling against my back, and my boots drum against the ground, pine needles trembling over the dirt.

  Damn it, I should be heading home. Back to my cabin in the deepest part of the woods, to skin and treat my dinner—not chasing after some foolish schoolkids who came looking for me on a dare.

  I hate that goddamn town. Those stupid stories. How would they like it? How would they like being called a monster, all because of some scars?

  The screams get louder, rising in pitch as I approach, high and terrified. I weave through the trees, my grip tight on my ax as unease slithers through my gut. I may be sick to death of the locals daring each other to sneak into my woods, but that doesn’t mean I want anyone hurt. Far from it.

  They’d never use me as a scary story if they knew the truth about me. I’m a teddy bear. A huge, scarred, angry-looking one, but a teddy bear all the same.

  I hear the wolves before I see them. They’re snarling, snapping their teeth, hurling themselves into the air and landing with a crash. And when I peer through the trunks, I see what’s got them in a frenzy: there’s a crimson bundle, clinging to the top branches of a tree.

  “Hey!”

  The wolves know my voice after all these years. They’re my neighbors, basically; they know more about me than the people in that town. So they know I mean business when I stride into view, ax raised, deer carcass listing to the side on my shoulder, and they’re smarter than the kid up that tree, because they turn and snarl at me, but they don’t try anything.

  Fur bristling and eyes gleaming, the wolves size me up. They’re wondering: could we take him this time?

  No they could not. I know it and they know it, same as they know not to take on a bear.

  “Be careful!” A hoarse female voice floats down from the tree. I ignore it, still staring at the biggest wolf.

  “Get on with you.” I take a step closer, puffing up my chest and making myself big. Or let’s face it—bigger. The wolves back up a few feet, snarling, drool dripping between their teeth. I juggle the deer on my shoulder to keep from dropping it, and four sets of eyes land on my dinner.

  … Shit.

  I flex my grip on the deer’s leg. Ah, hell. I was looking forward to this. I was going to make a pie.

  The sigh that gusts out of me—it’s exhausted. I’m full up to my eyebrows with this nonsense. First they call me a monster, then they cost me my food. I’ll have to hunt again tomorrow, and lord knows I take no pleasure in the act.

  The girl whimpers above me in the tree.

  “Alright, fine.”

  I stride between the trees, the wolves’ muzzles following my path. I don’t go far—just far enough to put some distance between me and them. And when I let the deer carcass slide to the forest floor, their tails are practically wagging.

  “Come on then, you bastards.” I walk a wide arc back to the girl’s tree, giving them space to run over there. They streak through the gloom, all flashing teeth and bunching muscles, and then they lay into the deer with low snarls and the crunch of bone.

  “Ew,” I hear faintly, up in the branches.

  Yeah, she got that right. Ew. And that would’ve been her, crunched up like that. I’d like to pretend my own table manners are better than the wolves’, but after all these years, I’m not so sure.

  Still, I’m all she’s got right now, so I tip my head back and peer at the crimson bundle.

  “It won’t keep them busy forever,” I call. My voice is rough, gravelly from hardly ever speaking to another soul. But I know she understands me; I can hear it in the way her breath catches as she clings tighter to the branch, the wind whipping her to and fro.

  I wait for a moment. Wait a bit longer.

  Nothing.

  Not a damn thing. Not even a thank you.

  “You want me to leave you up there?” After all this time, it shouldn’t hurt, but there’s an ache in my gut. She thinks I’m a fate worse than hungry wolves? Really? “Suit yourself.” I’m turning on my heel before she calls down to me, voice high and clear.

  “Wait. Please. I can’t—I can’t get down.”

  * * *

  I frown, peering up at her. She’s wearing some big red hood, and with the fading light, I can’t make out her face.

  “You got yourself up there just fine.”

  She huffs. “Well, up is easier than down.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Yes, it is!”

  I grunt. “Says who?”

  “Says a person of normal height!” I cock my head, trying to size up her balled-up form as she blathers on. “You might be able to just step out of the trees, mister, but for us normal folks, this is very high up.”

  Her voice goes all squeaky on that last part. That’s how I know she’s really frightened. I forgot for a second there, what with her acting so brave.

  “How’d you even get up there?” I cross my arms, trying to picture it, my ax dangling from my fingers. Not far away, the wolves are snapping and growling, tearing the deer carcass apart, but it’s her I’m focused on. She’s so damn high. She’s practically clinging to the tippy-top branch, swaying in the wind.

  “Adrenaline,” she snaps. She’s trying to feel her way down, sending out one foot as a scout. She’s doing it all wrong.

  “They chased you up there like a squirrel.”

  “I made a tactical decision. It was this or be eaten.” She blows out a long breath. “Are you going to help me down or not?”

  My eyebrows shoot up my forehead. I’m not standing here being deliberately slow—it just never occurred to me that she’d let me put my hands on her. Not with the wolves distracted and the risk of death put off for a few minutes. I figured she’d probably rather them than me.

 

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