Blood Moon (Silver Moon, #3) - By Rebecca A. Rogers Page 0,36
not going to lie, I don’t see a damn thing. All I spot are trees, trees, and more trees. But as the sun sets, the fiery rays glint off a huge chunk of metal. Metal in the shape of an axe head, tied and strapped to a ginormous handle, waiting to be released so it can swing back and forth, slicing a person, or animal, in half.
“That’s creepy,” I say.
Ben can only nod; he’s too amazed to do anything but.
“Why is it so damn big? Are there giants around here that we don’t know about?”
Slowly, Ben shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
While Mr. Testosterone over here stares in admiration at the handiwork of his ancestors, I check out the other side. Just as I had thought, there’s yet another giant axe suspended in the trees. Not only that, once I really pay attention to our surroundings, I realize these aren’t the only two axes—there are three more sets just like them. The section of forest in front of us is a circular clearing, with eight trees spaced apart in the center, two for each axe, nearly side by side. I guess whoever invented this trap decided it was best to uproot the remainder of the trees which might’ve been here once. That way, they wouldn’t have to worry about the axes coming into contact with them.
“Uh . . . Ben? We have a problem.” Pointing to the obvious, he curses under his breath. “Why don’t we try going around those trees?”
Hands on his hips, Ben squints past the axes. “I have a feeling it’s not that easy.”
“More traps?”
“Probably.”
“Want to find out?” I ask.
“Might as well,” he admits, shrugging.
Carefully, we traipse toward the outer ring of foliage. Ben and I study the forest beyond, curious as to what secrets it holds, what tricks it has up its sleeves. Searching nearby, I find the stick I previously used. Taking a few jabs at the ground, the entire contraption gives way, and the forest floor becomes one huge hole.
“Let me guess . . . the other side is the exact same, which means we can’t escape on either side—we can only go forward or backward,” I say, stating the obvious.
Grim-faced, Ben replies, “I’d say you’re correct about this one. I guess we go forward.”
One of the trees at the edge of the gap is leaning; its creaks and groans sound like a house during strong winds. Its roots splinter under pressure, and as it tumbles into the cavernous pit along the edge, the tripwire snaps.
“Oh, no,” I mumble.
Ben notices the same, a concerned-but-concentrated look on his face.
“What do we do?” I screech, just as the first set of axes whoosh by, cutting through the air. The breeze they leave behind gently tickles my cheeks—an ironic reminder that these things are weapons, and there’s nothing gentle about them.
“We have to pass through them.” Ben’s eyes dart from axe to axe, checking out the rhythm. They’re not in sync with each other; as one swings, the other rears back into the trees. We’ll have to time this just right.
But just as we’re about to run through, another tree snaps, and with it, yet another tripwire. While the tree crashes to the pit below, two more axes are released from their bonds. Now the momentum of the axes produces a whoosh-whoosh every time they pass each other. None of the four axes are synchronized. Not a single one. If Ben and I are going to attempt this, we’re going to need a miracle.
“Okay, listen,” Ben shouts over the blades ripping the air nearby. “We need to get past the first two, and then stop. I think there’s an opening in between the first and second sets.”
Nervously, I shriek, “But what if there isn’t an opening? What if they’re too close and we can’t run? Ben, I don’t want to be chopped in half!”
Placing his hands atop my shoulders, he gives me a firm squeeze. Listen to me, baby. We have no choice. We can’t go back and run straight into the witches’ arms. We can’t go around, because we’ll fall into the pit. We can’t go back in time, because we’ll continually run into more problems and possibly change the future. I need you to stay with me and pay attention. Can you do that?
I bob my head in a half-assed attempt at agreement.
When I say go, grab my hand and run like hell, Ben orders. Ready?