GENRE: YA SECRET
Typically when one is faced with a feral creature capable of snuffing out their very existence, they back up slowly and pray to whatever gods are left they're not noticed. It's arguably the smart thing to do.
Too bad I've never done the smart thing.
I cycle the bolt, chambering the bullet into my rifle. Inhale, aim, and shoot. The way Uncle Jeff showed me until it was etched into my muscle memory.
My finger hovers over the trigger as the creature shuffles into my sights, nose sniffing the air. Its skin is sagging off as if it can no longer maintain shape. The only vaguely fae-like thing about it are the pointed ears. Without them, the creature looks like a decaying corpse. A feral fae. It might as well be dead, it’s hardly living.
I squeeze the trigger before it can make out my scent, the bullet hitting a hair to the left from where I intended.