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“I think that the residents of Pleasantville were shocked to find the prom queen gone and the wicked bitch of the hunt in her place,” she shot back, unperturbed by my tone.

“Answer the question about the wight,” I demanded, eager to change the subject. “We don’t need to explore my tragic backstory.”

It made my skin crawl—having my past and present collide like that. It had been comfortable with Donny only knowing me as a foul-mouthed, substance-abusing hunter. It was something else entirely for her to know I’d once been a stupid prom queen. That I’d been helpless, weak. A victim.

“Honey, we all have tragic backstories.” She spoke in a tone too grave for the Donny I’d come to know. “That’s why we chase monsters for no pay with an almost certain chance of eventual bloody, painful death.”

“Touché,” I replied, thinking of what I knew of her own tragic backstory. Arguably worse than mine. I wondered what it was like for her, being part of a hunting dynasty, everyone knowing versions of how her whole family had been butchered. Rumors ran rampant through the community, no one knew the true story, and Donny never uttered a word of it.

No wonder she’d sequestered herself in the mountains. I would too if I were her. Except then I’d have nothing to kill.

“A forest wight?” she asked after an uncomfortable silence.

“A forest wight.” I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. “Able to mimic voices from not just recent kills, but those long dead.” My mother’s voice echoed through my brain. I was unable to unhear it.

My boots crunched over twigs and fallen leaves as I walked closer to the tree that had caught my eye. A low humming sounded in my ears, like I was coming upon a swarm of bees. The hairs on my arms stood up.

I touched the shape on the tree. Not natural. Carved. A rune.

Fuck. This got more and more complicated.

Donny clicked her tongue on the other end of the phone. “I have heard of a couple of isolated wight appearances, but most have been connected to a witch.”

“Fuck,” I grumbled, glaring at the rune. “That’s what Dante said.”

“I hate to agree with Dante, but it’s more likely than it migrating. There are still plenty of victims in Europe.” There was a loaded pause as I waited for her to continue, surrounded by only the sound of birds and Donny puffing on a cigarette. I knew what was coming, though. “You haven’t killed Dante yet. Which means you’re fucking him.”

“I am not fucking him!” I yelled. A bird flew off from a tree at the interruption to its peace. As if the death match with a wight hadn’t happened twelve hours before. “Just because I haven’t killed him doesn’t mean I’m fucking him.”

“That’s exactly what it means,” Donny argued, though I could hear the smile in her voice.

“Fuck you too, then.” I wanted to throw my phone across the grass just to watch it break, but I needed it too much.

“No thanks, neither of you are my type. Too messy,” she sniggered.

“Back to the wight and the witch.” I touched the shape on the tree. My fingers vibrated with an uncanny feeling of wrongness. Like I’d touched an exposed wire.

“The wight is dead?” she inquired as I heard the cracking open of a can.

“As far as I know.” I continued to examine the scorch marks.

“You didn’t kill it?” Donny questioned in disbelief.

I gritted my teeth. “I was … indisposed.”

“So you let Dante kill it?” she surmised. “You must’ve been on death’s door for that to happen.”

I sucked in a rough breath, my ribs protesting as I did so. “Something like that.”

I was still experiencing cognitive dissonance about my injuries, about the reality that I wasn’t dead. It had to have something to do with the wight being created by a witch—it hadn’t had the typical amount of strength. The theory was comforting, at least.

“I’ll need to do some research.” Donnie tapped at a keyboard, thankfully not asking about my injuries. Donny didn’t do that. If I wasn’t dead, I was fine in her books. “Strange,” she muttered, almost to herself. “All of this supernatural activity in a concentrated location. Maybe a demon-blessed coven?”

I nodded slowly, circling around the woods, a prickle at the back of my neck. There were eyes on me, I could’ve sworn there were. My fingers brushed against my gun as I kept my expression neutral.

Pines rustled in the gentle breeze, squirrels scrambled up trunks. Yet no monsters jumped out of the shadows. No witches.

“Demon-blessed witches are not known to work together,” Donny continued. “They’re solitary.”