The fear I feel is overwhelming, even though the hawk is gone. My whole body feels shaky, numb, as though I had just avoided death myself. Without understanding it, I know the hawk was after me. Is after me.

I have to get off this beach!

I run for the trees, the pebbles flaying my feet. Soon I'm limping, stumbling, looking back over my shoulder, desperate to make the line of trees before the hawk returns. Then, just as quickly as the hawk appeared, I'm at the entrance to the woods, and I plunge into darkness. It's cooler. It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the shaded light. The ground is covered with pine needles, ground-hugging vines, weathered bits of leaves, all dry and crackly. I look around but can't see any kind of path, any destination. There's a fallen log nearby, and on it is a cluster of pale, spindly mushrooms sprouting up like a tiny Dr. Seuss forest. Large black ants swarm over the log, moving fast in a wavering line.

Oh, Goddess, where am I? Without knowing that, I feel so alone and scared. What woods are these? One thing is clear: I have to find my way out. I'll have to make my own path. A quick glance finds a slightly less overgrown section, and I head for it. I hold slim branches aside as I pass through, heading deeper into the woods.

Then I stand quit and unmoving in the woods and realize that all of my senses are prickling. Magick. There is magick here. More than the constant low hum of energy that most blood witches pick up on and then ignore as background noise. This is magick being worked, being created, brought into being by design and effort and thought. My skin us tingling, my breathing faster.

Closing my eyes, I cast out my senses, searching for the magick's source. I concentrate, slow my heartbeat, remain perfectly still…there.