“My soul hurts,” I breathe.
“Oh, honey, I know.” She smooths a hand over my blood-dampened hair, and murmurs, “Harpists harp harping. Angels airily dancing. On clouds, casting glances. Their eyes glowing brightly. Guarding. Guiding. And that’s how I got my name. Or so my mother says.”
“No Van Morrison right now.”
“It’s not Van Morrison,” Eloise reveals. “Your mother wrote that.”
“Really?” Even if she’s lying, it’s a good distraction.
“Really. Right before she died, she took your dad’s hand and said, ‘Name her Harper.’ We figured it was an omen. They say people see things right before they die.”
I killed her, too, I think.
Eloise helps me to my feet, throws a coat around my shoulders, pulls a hoodie up over my head, and leads me out a back door at the end of the hall. Past witches I don’t stop to talk to and a dazed Jeanine Turner. She won’t remember this tomorrow. Quite possibly, she won’t even remember her vacation.
I fist my hand around the keys until the metal bites into my flesh.
That night, after hours of forced wakefulness, I fall into a deep, exhausted sleep, my sore body curled around a pillow, blankets wrapping me, and my aunt’s familiar apartment surrounding me.
Then, I dream.
Night swallows the daylight.
I am standing on a mountain, a brisk wind lifting my hair against my face. There’s snow on the air, the smell of it heavy and thick.
A full moon shines down on a silver world, on a sleepy town full of people I’ve known forever. Streets, shops, parks, and cemeteries I could walk in my sleep spread out like pieces on a board game.
My town. No road map. No signs.
Words are dangerous, so I navigate without them. My mind is an atlas of landmarks. Over two miles of stamped images: avenues named after the Old Families, a town square, a park with a lake, a ski resort, a myriad of residences ranging in income and style, and mountain trails. Housing developments dot the town: Havenwood Heights, Creekwood, Havenstone, and Havenwood Village. Shops I rarely visit out of fear stare up at me: Howe’s Herbal Shoppe, Soothing Sips, Coffee Haven, Callie’s Consignments, Shelf Indulgence, and Tragic Ink among many.
In the mountains are other things—Cooley Creek, Mathews River, Smalls Falls, Peacock Lake, Bels Creek, Hale Creek—beautiful landmarks I’ve made a living hiking so that I can capture the animals and flora on film, being careful not to snap pictures of the shifters and other supernatural creatures that prowl the trails with me.
Somewhere in the forest, a wolf howls.
“It’s a beautiful town,” a gravelly voice says, the words a part of the wind. “What a shame it would be if I destroyed it.”
“Why would you destroy it?” My words sound far away, as if I’m floating outside of my body instead of inhabiting it.
“Because I can.” Evil doesn’t always need a reason to do things. “Can’t you see the future, psychic?”
Above me, the moon turns red. Something wet and sticky drips on my face, and I swipe at it, horrified when my hand comes away covered in a substance that looks suspiciously like blood.
Black shadows so dark even the night can’t hide them drop out of the sky, descending on the town. Screams rise from the streets below. Agonizing screams.
“They’re dying,” the voice gloats. “They’re all dying.”
“No!”
From the edge of the woods, animals emerge. They crawl toward me, all of them wounded, blood spilling out of their sides. Shifters. All of them are shifters. Shifters I know. People I spend every day passing on the streets. People I talk to. Friends.
“Help us,” they beg.
Blood. There’s so much blood.
The shifters crawl closer, reaching, their prone figures so close I can see the agony etched into their faces.
“No!” I scream.
Closing my eyes, I cover my ears and fall to my knees.
Only, I don’t hit the ground. My knees land on air, and I am falling, falling, falling.
When I come to, I stare into a dark room touched by a night-light that’s been in my aunt’s apartment for as long as I can remember. It’s shaped like a star, and I used to make wishes on it. Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight.
That was before I learned wishes are scary things. That was before I learned it is much easier to wish for something than it is to make it happen.
Chapter 4
Light finger-shaped bruises form around my neck, and I spend the next few days pulling the collar of my coat up, my hair swinging loose. Other than the bruising and a mild concussion, the worst thing I suffer is a blow to my pride. Nothing yells adulting quite like being found in a fetal position on the bathroom floor covered in blood and shame.
After three days of sweat-inducing terrifying nightmares—the same one every night—sympathetic stares, Court interrogations, and my aunt’s outrageous herbal concoctions, relief washes over me the minute I step into the driveway of my new home. It’s perfect. A remote, fully furnished, one-bedroom log cabin in the mountains, the home is everything I had worked to achieve: independence.
Inhaling the cold mountain air, I sling a camera bag over my shoulder before tugging the single rolling suitcase after me. My life in one bag and one suitcase. I don’t know if that’s sad or impressive.
Mine.
My fingers tremble when I insert the key in the lock, the sound of it clicking open like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
Now would be a good time for intro music, something about freedom and home, but all I get is the heavy arched door creaking open on its iron hinges. The door is part of the reason I love the place. Sunlight spills in like a spotlight on stage, revealing a stuffed leather sofa, wood-burning fireplace, and stone-accented kitchen, but the best part is what the place is missing.
No television. No books. No cell phones. No signs.
No trouble.
You will have a place in Hell, Lucas Fox. Cast and chained in the Infernum of darkness. Death to the messenger. Death to those who give her sanctuary.
The message haunts me, but I push it away. I’m sick of evil controlling my life.
Setting the suitcase and camera bag inside the entry, I switch on the lights and quietly shut the door behind me, my fingers running over the frame. Home. Excitement burrows a den in my heart.
Unable to stop smiling, I move through the house doing mundane things I never thought I’d appreciate: starting a fire, unpacking clothes, and sweeping the floors with a broom I find in the hallway utility closet.
My fireplace. My dust. My broom.
In the middle of my living room, I take it all in, embarrassed by the tears pricking the back of my eyes. I am proud of this.
“They tell me you’re the messenger,” a low voice says from the direction of the kitchen.
I freeze, goosebumps rising on my skin, my fingers gripping the broom in my hand so hard my knuckles turn a mottled shade of red, the flesh around it pallid.
Death to the messenger.