Speaking of which, a note sat tied to a white rose with a red ribbon. The script-like writing could only belong to one fae. Welcome back, old friend. You did well. The Court approves and offers you our blessing. Our work is not done. I will see you soon.
I brought the rose, the perfect rose that hadn’t been there last night, to my nose and inhaled it’s delicate perfumed scent. Flora always knew how to leave messages and make an entrance. I stood and went to the end of the barn aisle. A rooster crowed as orange and pink light illuminated the sky. I flipped on the barn lights. Another day at Lucky Lady Stables. With the gods on our side, how could we not win? But first, training needed to happen. I recognized the expensive SUV coming up the driveway. I also had fae to talk to, and with that, I went to meet my old friend, sparing a thought for my beloved on Rota. Whatever you are doing, my love, I hope you return soon, because boy do I have a story to tell you.
About the Author
Mary Kit Caelsto never grew out of the phase of being a "horse crazy girl" and horses were her gateway to fantasy through Mercedes Lackey’s Valdemar Books. Though she's now over 40, she's finally fulfilling her dream of writing equestrian books for others who haven't grown out of being "horse crazy" along with fantasy for those who love sassy animal companions. She lives in the Ozarks with her bearded dragons, her parrot, an emotional support miniature rooster and SuperDuck, plus four very spoiled and very opinionated horses, a large flock of poultry and enough cats to qualify her as a crazy cat lady.
Visit her website at https://www.marykitcaelsto.com to learn more about her fantasy worlds, her horses and animals, and sign up for her newsletter to receive free stories, sneak peeks, and more.
Wendigo Forest
C. A. King
Wendigo Forest © 2020 C. A. King
Edited by Karen Hrdlicka
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
Wendigo Forest
Myths—legends—stories—they all amounted to one thing: half-truths. Through evolution things changed. Revealing false information became a profession trusted only to a select few. Sometimes, however, the unknown preferred anonymity.
The Fawns researched the unusual on a daily basis. That didn’t mean everyone in the family was happy with the lifestyle. Scars came in a number of varieties and Clara Fawn carried them all, visible or not. No one ever questioned them or her before. That was about to change...
Somewhere along the line, moving became as common as Sunday night dinner. Some bites were good, others not quite as palatable. Their new hometown overflowed with strange myths. Not waiting to hear them before entering the woods was the last mistake any of them would make.
The Wendigo were out there, waiting...
Chapter 1
Being ordinary was anything except easy, especially when one was anything but. Webs of lies seemingly formed overnight, making remaining in a single location an impossibility. Looking at paths already forced to the background was even less feasible. That left only one option: straight ahead. Moving forward and never glancing over squared shoulders was a great plan on paper. Unfortunately, in execution it lost some of its glamour.
Somewhere along the way, moving had become second nature to breathing—whether for occupation or health. Clara’s family simply complied, pulling up their roots only to attempt to replant them again in new soil. In reality, the process was merely running: running away from the past to hide from the future. For her, the change meant weeks of living out of boxes scattered about on dust-bunny-covered floors. As for candles, they didn’t always set the right mood, the same way food packed in cardboard take-out boxes wasn’t as tasty in real life as actors made it seem in movies.
It was raining; that was appropriate. The blanket of grey covering her offered little warmth, instead making a perfectly good summer day go to waste. She was tired of the weather. She was tired of propping her face up with the palm of one hand. Too bad there was nothing else to do. It had been days since her parents had even tried to find a radio station. They came and went too quickly, changing in sync with the addresses. The monotony of squeaking windshield wipers, in dire need of a change, was broken only by the occasional honk. Even the rhythmic pitter-patter of drops wasn’t loud enough to overtake their song.
Clara sighed, meaning to be heard. Voicing anymore
