《The Aurelian Legacy》


 The Stalker

    My stalker is back.


    I¡¯ve been seeing him for days now. At the Butt of Lewis lighthouse tour over the weekend. Yesterday at the local arcade. Then again today at the library across the street. Now he¡¯s here, at the Stornoway Children¡¯s Community Home¡ªthe place I¡¯ve called home my whole life. I dismissed the first two appearances as coincidence. It¡¯s a small island, after all. But there¡¯s no mistaking his waxed green overcoat and sharp, pale cheekbones as he stares at me.


    Someone bumps into me. Hard.


    "Move," orders the grating voice of Mitzy Pendleton, a seventeen-year-old bully whose permanent record makes mine¡ªeven with its laundry list of curfew-breaking infractions¡ªlook flawless to a fault. "You don''t just stop in the middle of a doorway." She shoves past me. "Pick a better place to daydream, freak."


    "Mhmm," I murmur, barely fazed, as I stare at the man. He stands in the distance, rooted beneath the shade of two trees. He''s so still that, if not for the daytime, I might have mistaken him for a tree as well. His gaze is cold. Calculating. I think he hates me.


    "Are you okay?" Pink polka-dotted fingernails wave in front of my face. "Riley?"


    I blink, then glance sideways at my friend, Jess. "Yeah. Fine. Do you see that¡ª" I flick my head toward the trees. "Man?"


    "What man?"


    I look around the courtyard. My stalker has gone.


    "Riley?" There''s a note of concern in her voice.


    "Uh¡­ never mind." I shake my head, then force a smile. "Let''s go."


    I follow the weedy, overgrown path to the crumbling building at the edge of the large courtyard. The afternoon air is chilly and damp, and the thick taste of salt from the nearby white-blue sea settles on my lips. A thick layer of gray clouds veils the sun, providing eternal fuel to the steady drizzle, typical of autumn in the Scottish Isles.


    My hair and clothing are damp by the time I settle into a chair at the back of our history classroom. I¡¯m so lost in thought that, although I see my teacher¡¯s mouth forming words, they don¡¯t register in my ears, and it doesn¡¯t faze me when I receive a failed grade on my recent history exam. My mind is still on the man from the courtyard. Was he actually there? How did he disappear so quickly? Also¡­ why would I have a stalker? Nothing like that happens to me. My life¡¯s about as dull as a snail¡¯s, like every other teenager on the planet.


    The only difference is I¡¯m an orphan. I have been my whole life, since the day I was dropped off here like a piece of mail as a newborn with nothing aside from my name and an ugly old pendant. I¡¯m the only one of my peers who doesn¡¯t even know the names of their birth parents. They all have birth certificates. The only detail I know about my parents is their surname¡ªJames¡ªand that¡¯s only because it¡¯s also mine.


    Allegedly, anyway.


    I tried to find them once in the genealogy collections at the town library. After all, I was abandoned as a newborn¡ªbarely one day old¡ªon an island in the dead of night. Surely I can¡¯t have been born that far away. There are limits to how much one can accomplish in twenty-four hours, and it simply isn¡¯t reasonable to pop out a baby and then ferry off to some distant island to abandon said baby all in the same day.


    But apparently I underestimated my parents¡¯ burning desire never to be found, for no one on the Isle of Lewis has ever shared my surname.


    So yeah. That¡¯s about as interesting as my life gets. Maybe I am losing my mind. Your brain can hallucinate when its overtired, right? Perhaps the real culprit is the dreams. Or should I say nightmares? It¡¯s a nightmare when you wake up screaming, right? They started about a month ago. It¡¯s always the same¡ªI¡¯m stuck in a dark cave and can¡¯t find the exit. Unlike most dreams though, I remember every detail of this one. Every boring ridge in the cavern floor. It¡¯s always so vivid. So real. The musty smell. The awful feeling of claustrophobia.


    I do get a bit farther every night before waking¡ªat midnight¡ªdrenched in a pool of my own sweat. I suppose that¡¯s progress. Maybe tonight, I¡¯ll finally make it to the end of that stupid cave. It¡¯s time for a change of scenery.


    Yeah. It¡¯s the dreams. I¡¯m overtired. I¡¯m hallucinating. That¡¯s all.


    I repeat this in my head like a mantra throughout class, until I¡¯ve convinced myself of its truth.


    Still, the creeping feeling in my bones doesn¡¯t go away.


    ***


    On the way back to the main building where our dormitories are, I¡¯m telling Jess about my recurring dreams when a high-pitched scream slices the air. Farther up the path, a younger student is trembling while Mitzy and one of her minions stand a short distance away, bent over in laughter.


    ¡°Get it off, get it off, get it off!¡± the girl screeches, whipping her head to one side and shaking out her hair.


    ¡°It¡¯s huge!¡± cries another girl, who looks very much like she wants to help her friend, but the sight of whatever¡¯s in the girl¡¯s hair is stopping her short.


    The girl¡¯s responding scream is so loud it rattles my brain. I quickly piece together the scene.


    ¡°Move over,¡± I say. Her friends gladly clear the way. There on the girl¡¯s head is a large, reddish-brown spider, its eight legs tangled in her curly hair. ¡°Hold still.¡± I reach up and use my fingers to peel the spider from the girl¡¯s hair¡ªthen chuck it at Mitzy.


    Mitzy knocks the insect away. ¡°I see you¡¯ve rejoined the land of the living. What, did you finally get bored by your own brain?¡±


    ¡°At least I have one.¡± I look at Mitzy pointedly, but she clearly misses that the jibe is at her expense. ¡°Leave the girl alone.¡±


    Mitzy¡¯s eyes glitter in challenge. ¡°Or what? Think you can win a fight against me?¡± Mitzy¡¯s friend gives a braying sort of laugh that reminds me vaguely of a donkey.


    ¡°Physically? No,¡± I admit. ¡°Intellectually? Absolutely. I once convinced a sheep that counting itself would help it sleep better.¡± A shrug. ¡°You¡¯re not much smarter.¡±


    Mitzy¡¯s smirk fades. ¡°You sure you wanna insult me?¡± she hisses. I hear the faint cracking of her knuckles as her fists clench.


    Placing my thumb beneath my chin, I consider her in mock contemplation. ¡°Is something really an insult if it¡¯s true?¡± I know it¡¯s unwise to provoke her, but I can¡¯t deny that it¡¯s a welcome distraction from mulling over stalkers and nightmares. ¡°After all, you¡¯re in the fifteen-year-olds¡¯ history class, and you¡¯re still flunking.¡±


    A small moan from Jess behind me.


    Slowly, Mitzy¡¯s face screws up in thought, as though she¡¯s assessing how much trouble she¡¯ll get into if she hits me. I take an instinctive step back. Perhaps I went too far. There¡¯s a reason people avoid Mitzy and her throng of minions.


    ¡°You¡¯re going to regret the day you were born to parents who didn¡¯t even want you.¡± Mitzy steps forward.


    Oh, crap. Yep, too far. ¡°What are you going to do, Mitzy?¡± I ask, backing into a deadened bush. ¡°At what point do you think the home will decide you¡¯re not worth dealing with anymore and send you to juvie instead?¡±


    Mitzy stiffens. I hit a nerve. Even Mitzy must have some sense of self-preservation. For a second, I think she might back off. But then her gaze dips from my face to my neck. She sneers.


    ¡°Pretty necklace. Don¡¯t mind if I take it, do you?¡± Her hand darts forward and closes around my pendant. I wait for the snap of the chain¡ªbetter my pendant than my face.


    But it doesn¡¯t come.


    Mitzy cries out in pain and recoils as though she¡¯s been burned. Then I catch a glimpse of her hand and realize that¡¯s exactly what¡¯s happened. The skin of her palm and fingers is red and inflamed. ¡°What?¡± she gasps, staring at her hand.


    Her friend drags her away, and my shocked gaze drops to my pendant.


    It¡¯s a bulky ancient thing, but I¡¯ve worn it for so long that I feel naked without its weight. They told me that, as a baby, I used to cry whenever they tried to remove it. They never said anything about it causing burns.


    I lift it a bit warily, peer at it more closely than I have in a long time. Large, round, and gold, the pendant has a four-cornered endless knot engraved on its surface, with a vivid purple gemstone in the center. The back of it is coated in bark, strangely enough. There¡¯s a clasp on one side, reminiscent of a locket, but I could never pry it open. It isn¡¯t pretty. A bit hideous, actually. But it¡¯s the only thing my parents left me.


    I realize something then¡­ something that, strangely enough, never occurred to me before. Despite the fact that I¡¯ve seldom removed it in nearly fifteen years, the pendant shows no signs of wear. Its golden surface is as bright and polished as ever, its engraving as intricate as it was when I was a kid. Not even the slightest scratch or blemish mars the finish.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    ¡°You should take that off,¡± advises Jess, coming to stand beside me. ¡°What if it cuts you, too?¡±


    A cut? Is that what she thinks happened to Mitzy?


    Then again, why would she think otherwise? Maybe I¡¯m the one who saw it wrong. Burning necklaces aren¡¯t a thing. And it¡¯s never burned me.


    I hallucinated again. Yeah. That must be it.


    Pushing it from my mind, I continue up the path with Jess.


    ¡°I can¡¯t believe you just picked that spider right out of that girl¡¯s hair,¡± says Jess. As if spiders are a greater evil than Mitzy. ¡°You were so calm about it.¡±


    I shrug. I¡¯ve never understood why so many people are terrified of spiders. There is a fair share around here due to the lack of upkeep on the grounds. You would think people would get used to them. In all honesty, I find spiders sort of¡­ interesting? Maybe even cool? I mean, an insect that can produce silk, of all things, and craft it into creative designs that then trap food. That¡¯s the definition of cool, right?


    This isn¡¯t something I¡¯ll admit to Jess though. She already thinks I¡¯m super weird. I never say the right thing¡ªor have the right opinion. I told her last Christmas that I liked Krampus better than Elf, and that earned me a raised eyebrow and a verbal attack on my sense of humor. Or lack thereof. The only thing we really have in common is a mutual interest in Taylor Swift.


    ¡°Anyway¡­ What were you saying earlier? Something about nightmares?¡± Her brows slide together. ¡°Also, who was that man you saw before class?¡±


    Don¡¯t be weird, I remind myself. I know Jess well enough to guess that she¡¯ll report me to the nurse if I tell her I have a stalker. Let alone a burn-causing necklace.


    Then again, maybe the nurse is the answer.


    ¡°Nothing.¡± A casual shrug. ¡°Don¡¯t remember.¡± Then I change the subject to Taylor Swift¡¯s new album.


    Before we part ways, Jess grabs my arm. ¡°Happy Birthday,¡± she says, a grin cleaving her face. ¡°I¡¯m sorry¡ªI completely forgot.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s tomorrow,¡± I tell her, my voice stiff.


    Truth be told, I forgot about it, too. The community home tries to make birthdays exciting when you¡¯re younger, but as soon as you¡¯re a teenager, all you get is a happy birthday card from the headmaster, and a cupcake. I¡¯ve never cared about my birthday. In fact, I intentionally try to forget it.


    To me, it¡¯s only a reminder of the day I was abandoned by my parents.


    ***


    I lie awake that night for what feels like hours. Every time I close my eyes, I see the man in the green coat, and the feeling of unease in my stomach burrows deeper, knotting itself there like an unwelcome guest. What if I¡¯m not imagining things? I can¡¯t be that tired. What if the man is following me for reasons unknown? Between the dreams, the stalker, and my attacking pendant, things have seemed¡­ off, lately.


    I repeat my mantra a few more times. It¡¯s the dreams. I¡¯m overtired. I¡¯m hallucinating. That¡¯s all.


    Eventually the pull of sleep wins out against my spiraling thoughts, and my eyelids drift shut.


    I¡¯m standing in a cold, dimly lit cavern¡­


    A thick, musty smell saturates the air, and moisture clings to my skin like damp cloth. Above me, stalactites hang like icicles, and droplets of water trickle off their pointed tips and plunge to the ground with faint, rhythmic splashes that form puddles in the ground¡¯s uneven surface.


    My footsteps echo off the stone walls as I search for an exit. A growing sense of panic seeps into me as each lengthy passage leads me only deeper into the cave. But like a magnet drawn to some distant piece of metal, I know with an inexplicable certainty that my path is true.


    I¡¯m unsure how long I¡¯ve been walking when I reach a large chamber. The place I know I was meant to find. A dark stone altar shaped like a coffin rests on a circular tiered platform in the center, and hovering above the altar¡¯s surface as though propped up by an invisible easel is a gleaming sword with a tapered silver blade and a black hilt.


    As I approach the platform, my foot knocks into something light but solid. I look down, and my breath hitches in my throat. It¡¯s a bone. A human bone. Part of the human skeleton that lies in the shadows. I jerk away, and my gaze circles the stone floor, stopping in turn on four other skeletal remains.


    I stumble sideways up the platform steps, unable to rip my gaze from the horrific sight, until my back hits the altar. I turn slowly, eyes drawing level with the sword. I reach out to touch it but¡­ I can¡¯t. It¡¯s as though some invisible barrier is guarding it.


    Then my gaze focuses on something behind the sword, on the far wall. A tall mirror, bordered by an intricately carved frame and standing nearly three times my height. A thick mist like heavy storm clouds swirls inside it.


    Slowly, I descend the platform and approach the mirror. As I step in front of it, the mist clears, and I meet my own bewildered expression. Light blue eyes wide as saucers peek from behind long red hair that hangs in tangled strands around a pale face. In the reflection, a soft glow emanates from my right forearm beneath my nightshirt. I lift my sleeve and watch curiously as a mark of some kind is drawn on my skin, traced as though by an invisible pen. A cool, tickling sensation raises the hairs on my arm as the line weaves and twists in a deliberate fashion, forming a winding set of loops. A pattern emerges: four identical teardrops that intertwine and meet around a central opening, like a four-cornered endless knot. It feels familiar¡ªand a second later, I make the connection.


    My pendant. It¡¯s the same mark as the one on my pendant.


    When it¡¯s finished, a small symbol materializes inside the leftmost loop. I bring my arm up for a closer look.


    A dragon.


    Without warning, my reflection disappears, replaced once more by the misty, swirling haze. Hesitantly, I reach forward¡­ and am stunned when my fingers sink through the surface and chill as though I¡¯m dripping them into a freezing pond.


    I realize then that I must go through the mirror¡ªthat it¡¯s the way out. As I step forward, the sensation of being doused in icy water overwhelms me, and my world goes dark.


    ***


    I bolt up in my bed, my heart racing in my chest. The irregular cadence of heavy breathing and soft snores fills the room. I exhale in relief¡ªat least I didn¡¯t wake up screaming like I sometimes do. It¡¯s embarrassing when you suddenly start getting recurring nightmares at nearly fifteen years old.


    You are fifteen now. I glance up at the clock out of habit, though I already know the time.


    Midnight. Shocker.


    On a good note, I finally escaped the cave. That means the dreams will stop, right? Been there, done that?


    I stand up, wincing as my feet touch the cold tiles. I pace the floor near the window, attempting to shake off the jittery feeling in my bones. Only to see something outside that drives a wrench into that plan. A tall silhouette, shrouded in silver moonlight. The coat looks black from here¨C¨Cbut I know it¡¯s green.


    I blink¡ªtwice¡ªwaiting for him to disappear like usual.


    He doesn¡¯t.


    My breath catches as fear creeps into my gut. Though the lights are off, I can¡¯t ignore the uncanny sense that he somehow sees me too.


    I yank the curtains together. I¡¯m not hallucinating. There is someone watching the community home. Watching me. I have to warn the night porter.


    I quickly change clothes and slide into my shoes, slinging my rucksack over my shoulder out of habit. Then I jerk open the door and take off down the hall.


    I reach the porter¡¯s lodge in the main hall¡ªand skid to a halt, a strangled gasp slipping from my throat. The porter on duty is lying unconscious on the ground.


    Oh no. I take a hesitant step forward and kneel beside him, lifting my trembling hand to hover just over his mouth.


    ¡°He¡¯s alive.¡± I jump up, whipping around. The man in the green coat is leaning casually against the wall, blocking the doorway. His frame is lean and muscular, his features chiseled and sharp with a strong jawline and those piercing green eyes. He has jet-black hair and looks to be in his late twenties. ¡°Though if he remains so will depend on you.¡± A predatory smile plays on his lips.


    ¡°Who are you?¡±


    ¡°My name is Clem. And you are Riley James.¡± It¡¯s not a question, but I detect a hint of disbelief in his voice. ¡°Now, why don¡¯t we go somewhere we can have a nice chat?¡± He backs away to let me pass. ¡°And I¡¯ll warn you¡ªI¡¯m much faster than you. Don¡¯t try to run, or I might just have to take out my anger on this kindly gentleman.¡± His voice is soft as silk, barely above a whisper. For some reason, it makes me think of a viper right before it strikes.


    My legs shake so badly as I walk that I fear they might give way. Something tells me the man isn¡¯t bluffing.


    He leads me across the hall into the headmaster¡¯s office. Once inside, he walks around behind the oak desk by the far wall and sits in the headmaster¡¯s chair, then leans back as though it belongs to him. He motions to the chair facing the desk.


    I stare at him from the doorway, itching to make a break for it.


    ¡°Ah ah.¡± He wags a finger at me. ¡°I could be there in a flash.¡±


    ¡°What do you want from me?¡±


    ¡°Sit down and I¡¯ll tell you.¡± He motions again to the chair with a lazy wave of his hand. ¡°Don¡¯t worry¡ªI won¡¯t bite.¡± The smile he gives me makes me shiver. But it isn¡¯t until I¡¯m sitting across from him that I notice them. Fangs. He has actual fangs. He peers at my face, searching it, as though it holds the answer to some profound question in his mind. Then he speaks again, his voice quiet, thoughtful. ¡°I see it now. The resemblance. You look just like them.¡±


    My breath stops, lips part. ¡°My parents? You know them?¡±


    ¡°I knew of them.¡± He pitches a brow. ¡°Past tense.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re dead?¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t know.¡± He tilts his head. ¡°Then again, how could you when they stashed you away here, safe and sound? Any answers they might have had¡ª¡± he leans down and picks up a worn chest made from bark, about the size of a shoebox ¡°¡ªare in here.¡± It¡¯s then that I realize he¡¯s wearing gloves. He follows my gaze. ¡°Oh yes, your parents created this chest from a special bark with magical properties. I can¡¯t touch it.¡±


    Bark¡­ Like the kind fixed to the back of my pendant?


    The box holds a strange, almost primitive quality, and looks like it hasn¡¯t been opened in years. ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°Something for you,¡± says Clem. ¡°They left this with a family friend.¡± He sets it on the desk and pulls a note from his pocket. Holds it up between his index and middle fingers. ¡°Along with this. Apparently, this friend was meant to find you when you turned eighteen to give this to you.¡± His smile broadens. ¡°Thanks to me, you¡¯re getting it early. Go ahead.¡±


    Momentarily forgetting the danger, I eagerly pluck the note from his grasp. I can¡¯t steady my trembling fingers long enough to read it, so I flatten it on the desk. It¡¯s written in a tidy, slanted handwriting that would make any English teacher beam with pride.


    To our dearest Riley, on your eighteenth birthday,


    We must be honest with you. If you¡¯re reading this right now, it means that your mother and I are dead.


    Dead. The word bounces around my skull. My parents are dead. Is that why they abandoned me? From the way the letter is written, they predicted this potential outcome.


    We so wish we could have been there with you to celebrate this birthday and all the rest. Please know we love you very much. We hope that one day you will come to understand why we couldn¡¯t be a part of your life and that you may find it in your heart to forgive us for what we had to do.


    The chest is the key to your questions, and you are the key to it. Inside, you¡¯ll find certain items that have been passed down in the family for ages. We place them now in your care.


    With all our love,


    Arthur and Wendy James


    P.S. I think you¡¯ll find there¡¯s more to the pendant than meets the eye.


    ¡°Arthur and Wendy,¡± I echo softly, fingers brushing their signature. I glance up. ¡°What happened to them?¡±


    ¡°Murdered.¡±


    ¡°Did you¡ª¡±


    He shakes his head.


    ¡°Then¡­ who?¡±


    ¡°That is the question.¡± He scratches his chin. ¡°I know who got blamed. That¡¯s why I¡¯m here.¡± He pushes the chest toward me with a gloved hand. ¡°Now, I want you to open it.¡± He smiles pleasantly. ¡°Please.¡±


    Gingerly, I pick up the chest and examine it. The surface feels rough, starchy, in my hands, and very old. But except for a single loose nail, it¡¯s sturdy, which surprises me because, at first glance, it bears the look of something that might very well splinter beneath the slightest pressure.


    ¡°Open it,¡± he repeats softly.


    I turn it over in my hands and find a shiny silver padlock¡ªbut no keyhole. ¡°How?¡± My throat feels raw.


    ¡°It¡¯s a blood seal. A drop of your blood is all that¡¯s needed.¡± He takes out a pocket knife and slides it slowly toward me, hilt first.


    I stare at it for a moment, then meet his gaze. ¡°And after I open it¡­ what happens then?¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°Then I kill you.¡±

 Death by Book

    Icy chunks sluice through my veins. It¡¯s as bad as I imagined. This man just admitted he¡¯s here to kill me. What am I going to do?


    For now, I opt to stall. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Revenge,¡± he says softly.


    I fight to keep my breath even. ¡°You don¡¯t even know me.¡±


    ¡°I know you¡¯re their daughter.¡± His gaze slides to the chest. ¡°Now, open it. Before I force you to.¡± His fingers angle toward the knife.


    I want to. I really, really do. I want answers. But he just said he¡¯s planning to kill me the second I open it, didn¡¯t he? It¡¯s not like I would even get a chance to look through its contents.


    He exhales, then snatches up the knife and rises to his feet. I jump up, too, but almost immediately, he¡¯s at my side. How did he move so quickly? Placing a hand on my shoulder, he pushes me back down. ¡°Hold still. You wouldn¡¯t want me to miss, would you?¡± He leans down. Lifts the knife.


    When his face is right next to mine, I act on instinct and shove the chest against his cheek. With a pained scream, he¡¯s blasted off his feet and crashes into the wall¡ªunconscious, but still breathing. For a second, I¡¯m stunned as I take in the burned red flesh that has replaced smooth pale skin on his face.


    Then I run for it.


    As I tear down the hall to the stairwell, a plan forms in my mind. Thanks to years spent breaking curfew¡ªusually to steal sweets from the kitchen to use for bribes¡ªI know all the best hiding spots from the times I¡¯ve had to evade the night porters. I charge up three flights of stairs, taking two steps at a time, not stopping until I¡¯ve reached the window of the third-floor bathroom. I push it open.


    The fire escape outside is slick from the earlier rainfall. I stuff the chest into my rucksack, thanking the stars I had it on me, and climb the ladder as quickly as I dare.


    At the top, I hoist myself over the ledge and onto the roof, its damp surface glistening in the moonlight¡¯s pale glow. I run to the other side, pulling the chest free as I go, then collapse to the ground, trembling and panting for breath, my mind spinning over what just happened. Surely, Clem won¡¯t find me up here, will he?


    Will he?


    I can¡¯t be certain. Because, impossible as it sounds, I¡¯m not sure he¡¯s entirely human.


    I remember the loose nail on the chest and pull it free, then jab its sharp tip against my index finger. A bead of blood bubbles to the surface, and I press it to the silver padlock, doubting all the while that this is going to work.


    Click.


    Sure enough, the lock releases, and I¡¯m able to lift the lid. An abrasive screech resounds through the night as the chest creaks open. My pulse jumps at the noise. I glance toward the ladder. How long will Clem be out?


    Peering inside, I reach first for a thick glass flask that glows an unnaturally bright orange. Rounded at the bottom, with a narrow, tightly stoppered neck, it reminds me of the Florence flasks we use in science class. But the contents inside are unlike anything I¡¯ve ever seen. Tiny orange pearls dance and glint, looking very much alive, like scores of impossibly small fireflies flashing through the night. And though they appear soft and lightweight, almost powderlike, when I shake the flask, the clinking of a thousand tiny beads meets my ears.


    My fingers locate a stained label on one side, written in black lettering; I angle my torch so I can make out the words:


    Forget-Me Dust


    Friend or foe,


    If you disappear now,


    They may have a row.


    So sprinkle me in your hand.


    A pinch is plenty enough.


    Now take a huff,


    And give it a hard blow.


    ¡°What?¡± I whisper to the empty night air around me. Perplexed, I set the flask aside. No time to puzzle over it. Clem could wake up at any moment.


    My fingers close next on an ornate ring with a silver band and a large, vivid amethyst stone at its center. The ring is surprisingly heavy in my palm, and smells of rust and time and age. My surname, James, is engraved on the inside. At first, it looks a bit big, but when I slip it onto my index finger, I find that the fit is just right.


    Next, I pull out a second, larger piece of jewelry. A metal torque bracelet made of garnet, a rich golden-red in color. I slide it over my wrist.


    At once, it ignites with a ring of blazing, pumpkin-orange flames.


    ¡°What the¡ª¡± I yelp, flinging it off my wrist. The flames gutter out. I examine my wrist, shocked by the absence of burn marks. Still, I have no desire to wear something that spontaneously bursts into flames. I pick it up between my thumb and forefinger and toss it in my rucksack.


    I dip my hand inside the chest a bit more warily this time and withdraw a long, narrow box. A label scribbled across the top reads In Case of Emergency. Inside, a single black pen with gold markings rests in a red velvet cradle. I scratch my head, thinking about the murderous man downstairs. How is a pen supposed to help in an emergency? Curious, I pop off the cap and scribble on a spare sheet of paper from my rucksack. Black ink runs smooth and fine along the page. I wait, staring, but nothing remarkable happens.


    Useless, I can¡¯t help thinking, frustration licking my skin. Along with everything else inside. Sure, these might be nice heirlooms¡ªwith the exception of the killer bracelet, perhaps¡ªbut what had Clem been hoping to find?


    Clem. Ice melts down my spine. He¡¯s probably searching for me by now. There must be something useful inside the chest¡­ an actual weapon, maybe.


    But as I peer inside, I see only one more item: a small black journal.


    As I pick it up, a bizarre sensation emanates from it, like strong, relentless waves of invisible energy. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Even stranger is the coil of thin, ghostlike thread that secures it. I tug at it, lightly at first, then forcefully. Despite the thinness of the material, it won¡¯t budge. Instead, the dark outline of a large keyhole materializes in the center of the otherwise blank cover. At first glance, it looks to be nothing more than cover art. But as I run a finger over it, I am stunned to discover that the keyhole is a real indention, traveling deep within the book. Surely, surely, I am not meant to stick a key through the book¡¯s cover?


    But as I pull¡ªor rather, yank¡ªat the thread with all the strength and force and desperation of a person wanting nothing more than to learn about her family, to no avail, I know that¡¯s exactly what I¡¯m supposed to do.


    Massaging the fresh sores on my hands, I look back inside the chest and¡ª


    ¡°Brilliant,¡± I say, heart sinking. ¡°They forgot the key¡­¡± My voice trails off as I think of my pendant. The letter said there¡¯s more to it than meets the eye. Is it locked with a blood seal, too?Stolen novel; please report.


    I stab my finger again with the nail and press it to the pendant¡¯s smooth surface.


    At once the pendant shines a bright, luminous gold. My heart gives a great leap. I fumble with the clasp, and the pendant falls open with ease.


    And there, concealed within, is a key the length of a bottle cap.


    Fashioned from black iron, the tiny key glints like a sword as it drops into my palm. A bloodred crystal gleams in the center of a handle shaped like a skull, and a set of rough, uneven ridges like jagged animal teeth line the blade. Though something tells me it must be very old, it is, quite remarkably, as unmarred by age as if it were forged this morning.


    I bring the key to the book, then hesitate. The keyhole on the book is larger than the key is long. Still, it¡¯s worth a shot, right? Perhaps the book doesn¡¯t need a specific key¡ªmaybe it just needs a key¡ªor maybe I could use it to pick the lock, or¡­


    But as I stick the key into the lock, something strange happens. Something remarkable and bewildering and a bit scary all at the same time. The key quivers of its own accord, its shape morphing and changing and molding before my eyes until it matches the size of the lock into which it has been inserted.


    My jaw goes slack. Did I imagine it? I turn the key. Click! The ghostlike thread recoils, vanishing from sight like a snake sensing imminent danger.


    Rousing myself from my daze, I pick up the book, and a letter drops into my lap. It¡¯s penned in the same slanted handwriting as the one from my parents, only this time, it¡¯s written on a thick sheet of yellow-tinged paper, the top of which bears a coat of arms emblazoned in a vivid mix of gold, purple, and black, with James written boldly below the shield. The James family crest. The motto above it says Astra inclinant, sed non obligant.


    My gaze moves to the letter, which I drink in earnestly:


    Dear Riley,


    We so wanted to be the ones to bring you home when it was safe to do so. But if that couldn¡¯t happen, we needed to ensure you have another way, when you¡¯re older and have a choice. A part of us wishes to keep you ignorant of your roots, safe to live a different kind of life where we imagine you could find happiness. But to do so would be selfish and hypocritical on our part. It is our greatest desire that you have the courage to live a bold life, not one of sheltered pretense.


    You have a right to know where you come from, and that place is called Aurelia. You will not have heard of it, because it is a country of magic, both in the figurative and literal sense of the word.


    A magical country? It¡¯s absurd. At least, it would be, if I hadn¡¯t witnessed a chest scalding Clem¡¯s face and a key morphing shape right before my eyes. What else can explain those things?


    We cannot hope to tell you everything in this letter, but the Hooks can help to fill in the gaps. You will come to know all in time, should you choose to return to Aurelia. As you¡¯re a member of the James family, we believe we know what that choice will be.


    Whenever you¡¯re ready, use the Forget-Me Dust. It will erase all memory of you from those within a close radius. Do not use this lightly, as it is an irrevocable decision.


    Next, open the book, which is a flashport, find the landmark titled ¡°Echo Forest,¡± and go through it. Once you¡¯re in the forest, follow the path to the outskirts of Skeleton Grove.


    I blink. Go through a book? Like, travel? How am I supposed to do that?


    Do not leave the path. When you reach the village, your task will be to find James Manor, located at 9 Melody Lane. This is our family estate, to which you are the rightful heir.


    I blink again. I own a manor?


    Be very careful to whom you reveal your true identity. Keep the key hidden in your pendant at all times, and do not share it with anyone under any circumstances. At the time we wrote this letter, our family was in great danger. We didn¡¯t know who to trust, so we sent you away. We cannot know if the danger will have subsided by the time you read this. We must impress upon you the importance of heeding our instructions and staying vigilant.


    With all of our love,


    Your parents, Arthur and Wendy James


    I stare at the letter, my mind spinning. Mere hours ago, I believed I would never know the names of my parents. Now I know more than I bargained for.


    Over the wind I hear the faint clank of metal. I freeze, gaze jumping to ledge. Someone is climbing the ladder.


    Oh no. Clem. How did he find me up here?


    My mind whispers the answer. Magic.


    Heart pounding, I fumble for the Forget-Me Dust. I know what I have to do. But I¡¯m supposed to have time to think it through¡­ to weigh the pros and cons. Decide if the risk is worth it. My parents meant for it to be a choice.


    Only there is no choice now. In order to make Clem forget me, I have to make everyone at the community home forget me.


    If I go to Aurelia, I might be in danger. I might die. But if I stay, I know I¡¯ll die.


    I unstopper the vial and sprinkle the contents frantically into my palm. The dust particles feel icy cold against my skin, as though I removed the flask from a bucket of dry ice. I watch, mesmerized, as the miniscule beads buzz around each other in speedy flashes of orange, almost like lightning.


    As Clem steps onto the ledge, his gaze finds me immediately. Half his face is burned. Even still, he smiles. ¡°Perhaps I should have mentioned that I¡¯m a vampire. I can smell your fresh blood.¡± His gaze moves to the beads swirling in my hand. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°Forget-Me Dust,¡± I say, raising an eyebrow. His smile falters. Without another thought, I blow hard on the dust.


    In a blinding haze of bright orange, the tiny beads spring into action, rising together like a swarm of bees preparing to attack and then charging across the roof as though pulled by an invisible strand.


    The chain of dust hits Clem as it swoops below the roof. Clem stumbles back, a dazzled look crossing his face for the briefest of moments. Then he tumbles backward over the ledge.


    I swallow. Is he dead? Surely, he couldn¡¯t have survived a four-story fall.


    I run to the ledge and look over. Thanks to the floodlight below, I¡¯m able to see Clem. My gut churns, and I swallow sour spit. He lies on the ground, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle. He certainly looks dead.


    Either way, I have no choice now. I return to my things. As I replace the key inside the pendant, it transforms itself into a suitable size. I pack the other items back in the chest and then stuff the chest itself into my rucksack.


    Slowly, I turn to the book, feeling very nervous over what I¡¯m about to do. I flip it open.


    As I expected to find a keyhole-shaped crater inside, I¡¯m surprised to see that the pages are whole, though crisp and rigid, like a delicate fabric stiffened with starch. Each page displays a uniquely detailed and vivid picture¡ªso vivid, in fact, that it doesn¡¯t take me long to realize that they aren¡¯t pictures at all. It¡¯s as though I am seeing another world through a frame in real time, like a miniature television screen, each page tuned to a different channel. Or in this case, location.


    I land first on Foggy Bottom, where a thick cloud of mist drifts across the page. Through it, I can just barely make out the indistinct profile of a shadowy hunched figure crossing a desolate street, eventually becoming one with the heavy fog. I shudder, relieved that this isn¡¯t the place I¡¯m going.


    I leaf through the pages. As I do so, a knot forms in my belly, pulling itself tighter with each flip when I realize that the other landmarks¡ªWickenden Woods, the Ghouls¡¯ Nest, Howling Harbor, Phantom Island, the Shrine of Sorrows, the River of Fire, the Cave of Lost Souls¡ªreally aren¡¯t much better.


    ¡°What is this place?¡± I say, feeling slightly ill as I reach the Mountains of Misery, where something dark and winged and large as an airplane streaks through the sky.


    I¡¯m nauseated by the time I arrive at Echo Forest, where gnarled trees are silhouetted against the silver moonlight above and thick patches of ghoulish green below, though I cannot tell what these are. Vines and spidery tendrils sway from low branches, casting long shadows on the forest floor, where a gray-white fog the color of human bone shifts along the ground.


    I set the book on the ground, dimly wondering why my parents didn¡¯t think to mention in their letter that Aurelia is some sort of nightmarish shadow realm. But seeing that no one in the community home has a clue who I am anymore, there is no backing out now.


    ¡°All right,¡± I say, steeling myself. ¡°Now¡­ I just need to figure out how to go, um¡­ through a book¡­¡±


    I frown at the open page. It¡¯s barely larger than my hand. So how exactly am I meant to go through it? It doesn¡¯t make sense.


    Then again, nothing else that has happened to me in the last hour makes much sense either.


    Feeling ridiculous, I reach out a trembling hand and tentatively place it on the page. Only, there¡¯s nothing there. The page, the book, the ground¡­though I can see them clearly, they¡¯re somehow not there. My eyes widen. It¡¯s hard to know whether I should feel amazed or horrified as my hand sinks into the book.


    Upon contact, the book glows blindingly bright. I register a cool dampness against the skin of my vanished hand, as though I¡¯ve plunged it into the core of a dense cloud. As I edge forward, forearm dipping into the void, the glowing light begins to spin. Slowly at first, then gathering speed, forming a vortex within the pages. The forest falls away in the distance, nothing more than a speck of color in a black abyss.


    And then, as my shoulder vanishes from sight, I know I¡¯ve hit the point of no return, for my entire body follows it into pitch blackness. Everything halts. A deafening silence descends around me, and all sensation leaves my body. I am drifting weightlessly through a void, pulled along by some invisible force. Deep in the distance, pockets of silver dot the blackness, like faraway stars. I attempt to turn my head for a better look.


    I can¡¯t.


    Horror floods through me.


    Panicked, I try and fail to move my limbs. To open my mouth. To scream. It is then that I realize I¡¯m not breathing. I¡¯m not even sure I have lungs. My heart, which would surely be thundering right about now, harder than it ever has, isn¡¯t beating. Isn¡¯t there. I have been separated from my body.


    I¡¯m dead now, nothing more than a ghost¡­ who has somehow been murdered by a book.

 Echo Forest

    Just as I''m imagining what my obituary might say, sensation returns. My lungs expand, greedily sucking in oxygen. I can feel my body again!


    The air is crisp and cool, heavy with the smell of rain. My eyes flicker open. I''m lying on the ground, staring up into a thick canopy of dark, thorny trees, gray-white fog wafting around me in clouds of thick smoke.


    In my periphery, I become aware of a ghostly green glow. Turning my head, I blink in surprise: it''s a giant mushroom, as tall and towering as the trees around it, fanning out like an enormous umbrella. Strangest of all, it''s moving, its thick cap rising and falling like a human chest, each breath expelling thick bursts of green vapor into the air. Long, thick tendrils hang beneath the cap, sparking and glinting like lightning strikes as they extend down to touch the forest floor, where they writhe like massive snakes in search of unsuspecting prey.


    A shudder surges through my body, rolling along my bones, warning me to stay far, far away from those tendrils.


    Slowly, I push myself to my feet. Though it''s dark, the glow from the mushroom casts a faint light on my surroundings. Above me, sweeping white cobwebs stretched between heavy sagging branches are crawling with spiders of a size you would normally expect to find only in places like Australia. I may like spiders, but not quite at this size... certainly not in a forest where everything seems to be of a deadly variation. On the ground, thick tufts of lengthy tree roots tangle around each other, coating the earth with what look an awful lot like giant snake pits. A cool wind rattles the leaves and pushes the relentless fog along the forest floor in all directions.


    I can''t shake the disturbing feeling that I''m being watched. As if the forest itself is alive, a quiet but vigilant sentinel on the lookout for trespassers.


    And that''s exactly what I am, aren''t I?


    A trespasser.


    My gaze drifts to the black book that brought me here. It lies innocently in a cluster of leaves, bound once more by ghostlike thread. I bend down and stuff it quickly back into my rucksack, darting glances all around.


    A low, guttural growl sounds nearby. Far too close for comfort. Like a startled mouse, I snap up and turn tail, running as fast as my feet can carry me in search of the forest path, leaping my way through the pitted web of tree roots twisting along the ground. Bevies of large purple-blue flowers poke out of the earth up ahead, swaying in the wind. Their bright green beaded cores glow softly in the night, illuminating the forest floor. For a moment, I''m entranced by their beauty. But as I close in, the flowers still, as though sensing my presence. Then they turn as one, their glowing cores aimed at me like a hundred glaring eyes.


    I skid to a halt. What is this place? A small noise escapes my throat as I turn and race off in a different direction.


    At long last, I reach a dirt path partially hidden by leaves. I bend forward, panting heavily, waiting for my heart to stop pounding. A part of me doubts it ever will.


    What just happened?


    The logical part of my mind reminds me none of this is possible¡ªthat it''s all some bizarre dream, or an extra-trippy hallucination. But another part of me knows it isn''t. Somehow... somehow a small book indeed swallowed me up and spit me out into the middle of some strange-scary forest in an equally strange-scary country that I had no idea existed.


    A country of magic.


    A sudden thought strikes me: Does that mean I can do magic? It would certainly be a useful thing to have right about now, particularly if the growling thing in the forest acquires an appetite.


    I decide to test it out. I scan the path, my gaze settling on another patch of glowing flowers nearby. Maybe I could try floating a flower? That seems easy enough.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    As I approach, the flowers still, as they did earlier. Then they turn in unison, facing me. I freeze, resisting the urge to back away. Other than this peculiar behavior, they seem harmless. They are just flowers, after all. And really quite beautiful ones at that. Mesmerized, I reach forward to pick one¡ª


    The flower springs to action, stinging my hand before my fingers can close around it.


    "Ouch!" I shriek, jerking my hand back to see a large purple welt already blooming. I glare at the flower. Then my anger turns to fear. The flower''s green beaded core is sucking itself in, and I realize what''s about to happen a second before it does; I leap backward just as the flower shoots something slimy and green and glowing through the air that misses me by an inch. It lands on the ground near my foot and sizzles into the dirt like molten lava.


    Someone chuckles behind me. "You ought to use your familiar for that."


    I whip around. A boy is standing nearby, leaning against a tree, lips pressed together in an amused smirk. He looks around my age and is tall and slender, with russet-brown skin, broad shoulders, and wide, deep-set eyes. A strange bird perches on his shoulder. With a waxy coat of bright green feathers, a long neck, and even longer tail, it looks almost reptilian. Nearly dragon-like, only a thousand times smaller. Its round, sea blue eyes peer at me curiously.


    I give the boy a blank look.


    "Watch," he says, before nodding to the bird. It flies toward the collective of flowers, swoops down, and retrieves the one that attacked me. Its neighbors shoot jets of green lava at the bird, two even hitting it, but the bird pays them no mind. It returns to the boy''s shoulder and holds out the flower, puffing out its chest proudly.


    "Thanks, Dooner," says the boy, stroking its scales affectionately. He takes the flower and hands it to me. "Here. I already got some earlier."


    "Is he okay?" I ask.


    "Of course," he says slowly, in a voice that informs me that this was a very stupid question. "Firedrakes are immune to burns." He looks around. "Where''s yours?" Then he tilts his head. "Or are you a werewolf?"


    It takes me several seconds to realize this is a real question. "Oh. Um. No." Surely my parents would have thought to drop a fun fact like that into their letter.


    "What''s your name anyway?"


    "Riley Ja¡ª" I bite my tongue, the reality of the past several hours crashing back. I scold myself; my parents warned me to keep a low profile. And after the attack at the community home, it would be careless to do otherwise. I pretend to clear my throat. "Riley Jacobs."


    "I''m Patrick¡ªPatrick Goodwin."


    Our surroundings are growing lighter. I glance up to see the black sky morphing slowly into a deep gray. Almost dawn.


    Thank god.


    "So, you must have a potionmaker for a parent, too, eh?" says Patrick.


    I blink. "I¡ªwhat?"


    He nods to the flower he gave me. "The twilight? That''s why you''re out here, right?"


    "Oh. No, I was just¡ªum... hiking."


    He stares. "In the middle of the night?"


    I force a smile. "Couldn''t sleep."


    He''s silent for a moment. "So... you go hiking through monster-infested forests when you can''t sleep?"


    "Yep. That''s me¡ªavid hiker. Great way to... um... catch the sunrise..." I glance up at the burgeoning purple-gray veil that is the sky.


    When he continues to gawk at me, I cross my arms. "Well, why are you out here, then?"


    "Because I needed twilights." He points again to the purple flower in my hand. "As in, the ones that come out only at night?" He gestures beside us.


    I turn¡ªmy eyes flare. The blanket of twilight flowers is slowly sinking into the earth.


    Patrick laughs. "They disappear with the sunrise. I''m surprised you''ve never seen them before."


    "What do you need them for?"


    The grin slips from Patrick''s face. "My mother sent me after them." He scowls. "Again. She owns the apothecary in Skeleton Grove¡ª"


    My heart jumps. Skeleton Grove? That''s where I need to go.


    "¡ªand twilights are one of the main ingredients for all sorts of tonics and potions. She needs them for an elixir she''s brewing this morning for a client. I swear, she treats me like I''m her assistant. Unpaid assistant. Why hire help when you''ve got a kid to order around? She''s always sending me after ingredients when school lets out, never mind that Grimlock isn''t even in session right now¡ªjust wakes me up at four o''clock in the morning." He huffs.


    "Ah," I say, attempting to hide the fact that nothing he just said made the least bit of sense to me.


    "Speaking of which, I ought to be getting back." He glances at his wristwatch. "Are you going to continue your hike? Or does daytime take the fun out of it?"


    "Hike?" I say, before catching myself. "I mean, nope, all hiked out." That much is true, at least. "So... you said your mom''s shop is in Skeleton Grove?" Patrick nods. "Mind if I tag along?" I ask casually. "I''m... uh, visiting a friend there today, and... well, I''m not familiar with the village."


    "''Course!" says Patrick, starting down the mossy path. "It''s a bit of a walk. We can get to know each other better!"


    I inhale, my mouth going very dry. "Great. Yeah. That''s... just great."


    I''d only been talking with Patrick for a couple minutes, and almost blew my cover more times than I could count. What will he do if he discovers my secret?

 BONUS CHAPTER - DELETED SCENE

    A country of magic.


    A sudden thought strikes me: Does that mean I can do magic? It would certainly be a useful thing to have right about now, particularly if the growling thing in the forest acquires an appetite.


    I decide to test it out. I scan the path, my gaze settling on another patch of glowing flowers nearby. Maybe I could try floating a flower? That seems easy enough.


    As I approach, the flowers still, as they did earlier. Then they turn in unison, facing me. I freeze, resisting the urge to back away. Other than this peculiar behavior, they seem harmless. They are just flowers, after all. And really quite beautiful ones at that. Mesmerized, I reach forward to pick one¡ª


    The flower springs to action, stinging my hand before my fingers can close around it.


    "Ouch!" I shriek, jerking my hand back to see a large purple welt already blooming. I glare at the flower. Then my anger turns to fear. The flower''s green beaded core is sucking itself in, and I realize what''s about to happen a second before it does; I leap backward just as the flower shoots something slimy and green and glowing through the air that misses me by an inch. It lands on the ground near my foot and sizzles into the dirt like molten lava.


    "All right, I get it, you don''t want to be picked." I hold up my hands in surrender. "Suppose I wouldn''t either," I mumble in afterthought. As I back away, the group of flowers relax, once again swaying leisurely in the wind.


    I look around for something else and settle on a nearby twig. Perfect. Something that won''t attack or spit at me. Hopefully.


    I pick it up, resting it in the palm of my uninjured hand. Taking a deep breath, I concentrate hard on the twig, trying to make it move with my mind. First with mere thought. Then ordering it aloud. Then asking it¡ªasking it nicely¡ªsnapping my fingers...


    Nothing happens.


    With a resigned sigh, I release it. Even if I can do magic, it''s probably a bit more complicated than snapping my fingers. For now, I need to focus on finding a way out of the forest. I glance uncertainly from one direction to the next, feeling my anxiety heighten. I haven''t the faintest clue where I am, or which direction leads to the village, Skeleton Grove.


    Ultimately, I settle for walking in the direction opposite the growling noise from earlier.


    I follow the path for what feels like hours, darting glances over my shoulder all the while. But aside from passing more glowing flowers¡ªwhich I steer clear of out of fear but, at the same time, have to admit are actually quite convenient, because they light the path¡ªnothing out of the ordinary happens.


    I notice my surroundings growing lighter. I glance up to see the black sky morphing slowly into a deep gray. Almost dawn.


    Thank god.


    Knowing it''s nearly morning eases some of the fear that has taken residence in my gut since I arrived in Echo Forest.


    But then, just as my heart rate is on its way back to normal-ish, I hear something that stops it completely.


    "Help! Please help me!"


    ***


    A wild fear wraps itself around me. That was the cry of a child. I sprint off in the direction of the voice. What sort of parent would allow a child into the forest¡ªespecially this forest¡ªat any time, let alone at night?


    Eventually, I come out into a foggy clearing that borders a large, dark lake. I look around, groping for the torch in my rucksack.


    "Hello?" I call out uncertainly, flicking on the light. "Is someone there?"


    "Yes! I''m here! Come help me!" The young girl''s voice carries through the wind, bouncing off the trees, surrounding me on all sides.


    I scramble around the clearing, shining the torch through the thick haze. "I don''t see you!"


    "The lake! I''m in the lake!"


    There is a gurgling noise behind me in the lake. I turn slowly, an inexplicable feeling of foreboding washing over me as I stare into its murky depths. "Can you swim out? Swim toward my voice!"


    "I''m scared! I can''t swim! Please, come save me!"


    I swallow. Despite being a good swimmer, something about the lake is making me hesitate.


    "Hurry! PLEASE!"


    I rub my temples. What choice do I have? I can''t let the child drown. "Okay, I''m coming!" I call weakly, sliding out of my coat and shoes.


    Now shivering in my thin shirt, I touch the water with my foot and wince; it''s freezing. I take a deep breath and, before I can talk myself out of it, dive forward.


    The icy water hits me like an electric current, all-consuming. I resurface and swim forward, limbs already seizing up, constricting my movement. "Where are you?" I shout, unsure which way to swim.


    No reply.


    "Hello?" I call again, teeth chattering. Am I too late? Has my moment''s hesitation cost the little girl her life?


    A trough converges from the back of the lake, sending small, rippling waves outward from either side as it moves toward me. Is it the child?


    But she said she couldn''t swim¡ª


    "What are you doing?" A panicked male voice rings through the air, and the frantic note in his voice makes my blood run as cold as the icy water around me.


    I whirl around, alarmed. A figure, blurry in the fog, is tearing across the clearing toward me.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    "Get out of there!"


    The words have no sooner left his mouth than there is a thunderous splash behind me. I look around; something is accelerating toward me from mere yards away. Terror rips through me. A child can''t swim that fast. I can''t swim that fast. As this horrifying realization dawns on me, I whip around and kick hard against the water, ignoring my protesting muscles. Just a few strokes, and I''ll reach the bank. But the thing in the water is gaining on me.


    Suddenly, my world blurs as a strange, all-consuming rush of adrenaline seizes me. An adrenaline unlike anything I have experienced before. My mind stills as my limbs take over. I dive sideways in the water, sensing movement as the thing misses my leg by an inch.


    The feeling leaves me as quickly as it came.


    Before I have time to consider what just happened, the thing claws through the water a second time. My world blurs again, and I draw my leg in, but it isn''t enough. A viselike grip clamps around my ankle and yanks me under. I flail my arms, hands groping uselessly in the water, trying to find purchase on something¡ªanything. I catch hold of an underground root and manage to pull myself up just enough that my head resurfaces, and I gasp for air.


    The creature yanks again on my ankle, and I lose my grip on the root. Before I can be dragged back down, I kick out with my free foot and feel a burst of mingled triumph and revulsion as it collides with a patch of slimy flesh. Whatever the thing is, it isn''t human. Not even remotely. Its grip slackens, and I grasp the root again, holding fast to it for dear life. If it breaks, I''m done for.


    A boy appears in front of me, holding a large stick with blazing flames at one end. A welcome wave of heat passes over me as he plunges it like a sword into the water behind me.


    A savage, high-pitched shriek pierces the air. The grip around my ankle vanishes, and I lug myself out of the water. "Thank you," I gasp, crawling forward on frozen hands and knees.


    "What on earth were you thinking?" The boy is staring at me as though I have three heads. He looks around my age and is tall and slender, with russet-brown skin, broad shoulders, and wide, deep-set eyes. An odd lizard-like bird sits perched on his shoulder.


    I open my mouth to warn him that there''s a child out there but cough up water instead. Once my coughing subsides, I climb shakily to my feet. "We have to go back out there!"


    His forehead crinkles as he surveys me. "Um..." he starts. He seems to be trying to work out whether or not I''m joking. "Let me get this straight¡ªyou want to jump back into the freezing, kelpie-infested water?" As he speaks, he edges sideways, positioning himself between me and the lake.


    "I¡ªwhat? No¡ªthere''s a child out there who needs help!"


    "No," he says slowly. He raises his hands, palms out, as though preparing to tackle me if I make a break for the water. "That was a kelpie."


    I shake my head. I have to make him understand. "No, there was a child out there, before you came¡ª"


    "No, there wasn''t." When I open my mouth, he cuts across me, "Do you hear a child out there now?"


    "That thing probably killed her in the time we''ve wasted talking!"


    He opens his mouth to respond, but a new voice rings out across the lake.


    "Help me! Please help me!"


    My eyebrows shoot up my forehead. That''s my voice. Dumbfounded, I turn, staring across the lake.


    There''s a small, choked noise; I look back in time to see the boy attempting to pass off a laugh for a cough. He presses his lips together.


    "Help! I''m in the lake! Swim out to me!" my voice cries out again.


    "Master imitators," he says. Obviously convinced that I''m not about to go charging into the lake again, the boy''s voice has taken on a relaxed, cheerful note. "Though they''re a bit stupid. They imitate voices they''ve heard before but don''t stop to think that the person whose voice they''re mimicking might still be standing around."


    "Well, why isn''t there a warning or something?" I ask, cheeks warming despite the chilly air around me. I think of the warning signs sprinkled around the Isle of Lewis flagging those bodies of water that aren''t safe for swimming.


    "Because everyone knows about them." A pause. "Except you, I guess," he adds, sounding genuinely surprised.


    And just like that, the reality of the past several hours comes crashing back. I scold myself; I''m supposed to be keeping a low profile and, so far, I''m doing a lousy job of it. What if the boy discovers I''m not from Aurelia and decides to dig deeper?


    "What''s your name anyway?" he asks.


    "Riley Ja¡ª" I bite my tongue and pretend to clear my throat. "Riley Jacobs."


    "I''m Patrick," he says, flashing me a friendly smile. "Patrick Goodwin."


    "How did you know I was in trouble?"


    "We''re in Echo Forest," he says, as though this is all the explanation needed. He gives me another strange look. "Honestly, did you hit your head on a log out there?"


    "Feels that way," I say dully. Shivering in the early morning air, I bend down and slip on my coat and shoes.


    "What are you doing in the forest at this time of day anyway?"


    "Uh... couldn''t sleep."


    He stares at me. "So you go hiking through dark forests when you can''t sleep?"


    "Yep. That''s me. Avid hiker," I say. "Great way to... um... catch the sunrise..." I glance up at the murky sky.


    No sooner do the words leave my mouth than Patrick''s eyes bulge. He slaps his forehead. "Oh no," he says, looking at the burgeoning purple-gray veil that is the sky. "No, no, no." He whirls on the spot, looking desperately around the clearing.


    Alarmed, I follow his gaze but see nothing of particular interest. "What is it?"


    "Sun''s up," he says miserably, dragging a palm down his face.


    "Is it though?" I say, before I can stop myself, glancing again at the very gray sky. "I mean, is that a bad thing?" I ask, utterly baffled by the frown on his face.


    "No, I¡ªit''s my mother. She''s sent me after twilights." The boy turns back to me. "She owns that apothecary in Skeleton Grove¡ª"


    My heart jumps. That''s where I need to go.


    "¡ªand twilights are one of the main ingredients for all kinds of tonics and potions. She needs them for an elixir she''s brewing this morning for a client. I swear, she treats me like I''m her assistant. Unpaid assistant. Why hire help when you''ve got a kid to order around? She''s always sending me after ingredients when school lets out, never mind that Grimlock isn''t even in session right now¡ªjust decides to wake me up at four o''clock in the morning." He huffs.


    "Ah," I say, trying to hide the fact that nothing he just said made the least bit of sense to me. "Um. What does that have to do with the sun being up?"


    "You know... twilight flowers? As in, the ones that come out only at night," he says, before raising an eyebrow. "You''ve never heard of them?"


    "Uh¡ª"


    "But you must have seen them during your hike," he says, cutting me off, which is perfectly fine, seeing as I haven''t the faintest clue what to say. "You know, the big angry purple ones with serious personal space issues?"


    "Oh, those!" I say, feeling a modicum of triumph that I finally understand something he''s talking about. "Yeah, I tried picking one earlier, but it stung me!" I show off the welt on the back of my hand. "And then it... um... tried to spit on me," I add slowly, still bewildered by this.


    He chuckles. "Yeah, you really ought use your familiar for something like that. Immunity to burns and all that."


    I stare at him blankly. "What?"


    "Your familiar," he repeats, with a nod toward the strange bird on his shoulder. With a waxy coat of bright green feathers, a long neck, and even longer tail, it looks almost reptilian. Nearly dragon-like, only a thousand times smaller. It has sea blue eyes, which peer at me curiously.


    "This is Dooner," he tells me. He looks around. "Where''s yours?" Then he tilts his head. "Or are you a werewolf?"


    It takes me several seconds to realize this is a real question. "Oh. Um. No." Surely my parents would have thought to drop a fun fact like that into their letter.


    "Well, I should be getting back¡ªyou know, face my mother," says Patrick, sucking in a breath between his teeth. "Are you going to continue your hike? Or does daytime take the fun out of it?"


    "Hike?" I say, before catching myself. "I mean, nope, all hiked out." That much is true, at least. "So... you said your mom''s shop is in Skeleton Grove?" Patrick nods. "Mind if I tag along?" I ask casually. "I''m... uh, visiting a friend there today, and...well, I''m not familiar with the village."


    "''Course!" says Patrick, leading me back up the clearing. "It''s a bit of a walk. We can get to know each other better!"


    I inhale, my mouth going very dry. "Great. Yeah. That''s... just great."


    I''d only been talking with Patrick for a couple minutes, and almost blew my cover more times than I could count. What will he do if he discovers my secret?

 Aurelia

    A bit of a walk was clearly an understatement, especially after a long night spent escaping a murderous vampire and then stumbling through a dark, trap-infested forest. It''s a long journey to the village.


    It''s lucky that I ran into Patrick. The path splits several more times, and most of the wooden signs at these junctions that had, I presume, once provided helpful directions, are illegible on account of having either faded or otherwise had huge lopsided chunks taken out of them, as though some passing sharp-toothed animal mistook them for food. If left to my own devices, it''s doubtful I would have made it out of Echo Forest alive.


    But unfortunately for me, Patrick is extremely chatty and seems to be operating under the notion that any bit of silence is a wasted bonding opportunity.


    "What have you guys got planned for today?" His chipper voice and jaunty walk seem a bit out of sorts in this lethal place.


    "Who?" I ask, sighing at his relentless effort at conversation.


    "You and your friend in Skeleton Grove."


    "Oh... um¡ªnothing really... we were just going to... um¡ªyou know, do this and that," I ramble, cringing at how dull I sound. Even to myself.


    Patrick whirls around to face me¡ªso abruptly and with such enthusiasm that I jump back, startled. "I know! You guys should go see the Hellhound Gang!"


    "Hellhound Gang?"


    He opens his mouth to respond, but a loud sneeze erupts instead. "Sorry." He wipes his nose with his sleeve. "I have terrible allergies."


    Indeed, Patrick sneezes almost as much as he talks.


    "Anyway, I meant the band. They''re performing at the festival tonight in Skeleton Grove."


    "Uh, all right, yeah," I say noncommittally, tugging at my earlobe. "Maybe we will. Thanks for the tip."


    There''s a beat of silence, and then¡ª


    "Wait!" Patrick''s eyes bulge. I hold my breath. "I was planning to go with a friend tonight! We should all go together."


    "Oh. Yeah, that would be really fun, but um, I just remembered we were going to... um, watch a m¡ª" do they have movies here? "¡ªI mean... have dinner with her parents tonight." Better. A universal activity.


    "Oh, too bad." A pause. "What''s your friend''s name? If she lives in Skeleton Grove, I might know her."


    "Mitzy Pendleton," I say, uttering the first name that pops into my head and then trying hard not to wince at the thought of being friends with the real Mitzy Pendleton.


    "Hm... Doesn''t ring a bell. Does she go to Grimlock?"


    I open my mouth, about to ask what Grimlock is, but stop myself. Something tells me this question would trigger suspicion. "No."


    "Oh. What school does she go to then?" asks Patrick conversationally.


    "She''s..." I rub my temple. Hard. My brain''s starting to hurt. "Um, I''m not sure..."


    Patrick gives me a funny look.


    "I mean, she''s homeschooled, you see," I say quickly.


    "Oh. Odd." A pause. "What school do you go to?"


    I steal a glance at Patrick, worried that his prying questions are a sign that he''s becoming suspicious. But as I study his face, the bright, innocent curiosity I see there reassures me that I''m safe. For now.


    I scratch my chin. "I''m... uh, homeschooled too."


    "Oh." A beat. "What''s that like?"


    Thankfully Dooner chooses this moment to fly off and I duck out of the way with a yelp.


    "He''s just going to hunt," Patrick informs me. Then asks, "Where''s yours?"


    I blink. Twice. "Um... also hunting."


    It continues like this for what feels like hours. Patrick, if not a little na?ve, is naturally charming and gregarious, never without something to ask or say. "How old are you? Do you have siblings? What do your parents do? Do you like sweet or savory? Or both? What''s your favorite color?" Under other circumstances, I might have enjoyed talking with Patrick. But as it happens, I''m running out of vague responses and plausible lies.


    It''s a relief when the trees grow sparse and the path widens. Moments later, we step beneath an arched sign reading Skeleton Grove and onto a sloping cobbled road, as heavy with fog as the forest. It''s old and pocked, with large cracks and hollow pits holding small pools of rainwater. Stone cottages with sagging gable roofs fall into each other along either side of the street, which twists and curves up a high hill. It''s eerily empty. Were it not for the dim yellow glow emitting from paneled windows and smoke escaping the occasional chimney, I would have assumed it was a ghost town.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    We turn onto a few more residential streets. The sound of voices reaches my ears and grows louder as we walk, and eventually we enter a buzzing village square where dozens of crooked wooden pubs and crumbling stone shops are clustered tightly together.


    "Where does your friend live?" asks Patrick.


    I don''t reply. Once again, the keen sense of having been dropped into a surreal dream¡ªor nightmare¡ªthreatens to overwhelm me. On display in and around eerily decorated shop windows are an odd assortment of some of the strangest items I have ever seen: cursed daggers; oracular spying skulls; charmed tarot cards; gleaming crystal pendulums; jars crawling with black spiders; and tall cannisters trapping sharp-toothed creatures that glare at us, their gazes following us as we move. One shop touts spelled mirrors that insult passersby with rude, unsolicited opinions on all things appearance, including hair styles and fashion choices.


    Across the street from us, standing near a shop advertising consultations for treating hexes, a performer is playing a shabby, patched instrument. It resembles an S-shaped harp, but the sound it emits is more like the dull, low-pitched hum of a pipe organ at a funeral. As the woman strums the strings, thick green smoke escapes its crown and fuses with the fog, engulfing the street in a ghostly haze.


    "Riley?"


    I register Patrick''s voice as though from a distance. I blink. "Sorry. What?"


    "I was just asking where your friend lives."


    "Oh, right. Mitzy." I search my memory quickly. What''s the street again? It started with an M, didn''t it? "Melody Lane. She lives on Melody Lane."


    Patrick frowns. "But the only thing that road leads to is James Manor¡ª"


    My heart soars. I''ve found it!


    "¡ªand that place is wicked haunted."


    My heart plunges to the ground. "Haunted?" I swallow. "With what?"


    "Ghosts?" A shrug. "Dunno. But kids are always daring each other to enter the grounds. Some friends dragged me there last Halloween. We didn''t even get past the gate. We saw the lights flicker on, then smoke started coming out of the chimney, and I swear it looked like someone was walking inside behind the curtain. But that should be impossible, because everyone knows it''s been abandoned for over a decade." He shudders. "That place gives me the creeps."


    My jaw slackens. Wonderful.


    "You''re sure your friend said Melody Lane?"


    "Um. She actually said near it," I say, feeling sick.


    "Ah, so she probably lives on Whispering Pine Road, then. It turns into Melody Lane at the end. It''s not far from here. But it is uphill." Patrick makes a face at the slanted street ahead. "Wanna walk or take the telehub?"


    "Definitely walk." What on earth is a telehub?


    Probably deadly¡ªwhatever it is.


    Patrick only grins. "Right, I forgot. Avid hiker."


    I follow Patrick up a labyrinth of sloping streets, each one a little steeper than the last. Shadowy alleyways and desolate stairwells occupy the narrow crevasses between buildings. There are no cars, but throngs of people saunter by in every direction, most dressed in darker shades of black, olive, gray, midnight blue, and burgundy. Women wear a variety of clothing: silk cravat blouses, leather skirts over black tights, wide-brimmed hats, wool overcoats, and fur-trimmed capes. Men sport velvet brocade vests over black button-downs, wool caps, and thick sweaters beneath embroidered tailcoats. The style as a whole has a Gothic aesthetic to it. Quite a few people have birds similar to Patrick''s on their shoulders or flying overhead.


    I''m suddenly very aware of my blue jeans and bright hoodie¡ªand lack of a pet bird.


    My gaze dances around as we walk. The shops and pubs all sound a bit grim: the Dragon''s Claw, the Razor, Slugs & Grubs, the Hornet''s Nest, Potion in Motion, Matilda''s Mystics. A pungent, spicy aroma fills the air outside the Viper''s Tongue, a tavern advertising its legendary dragon blood soup. We turn onto an adjacent street and pass a shop called Comfort Row. I think this sounds refreshingly normal until I see that the furniture being advertised looks anything but comfortable, including pinching chairs and¡ªI grimace¡ªa chaise longue reupholstered in human skin.


    "That''s... Whispering Pine... up ahead," says Patrick between heavy pants as we slog up the steepest street yet. Despite my pounding heart and aching leg muscles, I''m secretly glad for the terrain. Patrick can''t continue his onslaught of questions if we''re both gasping for breath.


    Once we''ve reached the top, my gaze is drawn to an imposing dark building that dwarfs all its neighbors. A pair of black wrought iron gates open onto a gravel path that leads to the entrance, splitting midway around a fountain in the center. Identical stone gargoyles¡ªbearing a striking resemblance to a pair of vicious, hungry cheetahs with razor-sharp teeth, wings, and batlike ears¡ªguard either side of the gates. But most disturbing of all, they move, pawing angrily at the platform on which they prowl and snapping warnings at other pedestrians around us who venture too close.


    I frown. Even without the monstrous gargoyles, I''ve never seen a building look so uninviting.


    "That''s the town hall," says Patrick, following my gaze. "My aunt Agnes used to work there. But then she got promoted to the Birth Registry Department at the Aurelian Services Agency in Polaris." He gives a long sigh. "She never shuts up about it at family reunions."


    I stiffen. "The Birth Registry?"


    For some reason, the term chills my blood.


    "Yeah," he says slowly, watching me. "You know... the document that inscribes the name of every person born in the country?"


    I slap my forehead to stave off the weird look he gives me. "Oh, that!" Then, schooling my features into neutrality, I ask, "So, um, what sort of work does your aunt do in that department?"


    "Lots of dull document filing and paperwork. Can''t understand why she enjoys it¡ªI think I''d pull my hair out." He cocks his head. "Though sometimes she works on cases of unlawful entry into Aurelia, which could be interesting."


    My tongue goes dry, heavy. "Unlawful entry?"


    "Yeah... I mean, obviously the borders are designed to prevent outsiders from finding the place. But that doesn''t stop some citizens from trying to smuggle in new friends or lovers they met while traveling abroad."


    "And... what exactly do they do with outsiders?" I ask, hoping he can''t hear my skittering heart.


    "Well, they wipe their memories, of course. Then have them deported."


    I have to remind myself to breathe. Am I an outsider? Maybe I have parents from Aurelia, but that doesn''t mean I was born here. In fact, I''m nearly certain I wasn''t. I remember the look of disbelief on Clem''s face when he said my name. The whole reason my parents brought me to Scotland was to hide my existence. They wouldn''t have had me in Aurelia if there existed a book that would inscribe my name and spoil their cover-up.


    I know the truth as intuitively as a baby knows how to swallow after birth.


    I am an outsider.


    Will Patrick turn me in if he finds out? He seems nice enough, but I can''t take chances. I need to get away from him. Now.


    "I think I can manage from here..." I begin, as the sign for Whispering Pine Road comes into view ahead. But as I look sideways, my voice trails off.


    Patrick is nowhere in sight.

 Hook Tavern

    For the briefest of moments, I stare in bewilderment at the spot where Patrick just was, amazed and confused at my luck. Apparently, simply wishing something in Aurelia makes it a reality¡ª


    Something hard hooks me from behind, entrapping my middle¡ªI scream as my feet leave the ground and I¡¯m hauled backward, flying fast through the air. I jam my eyes shut, anticipating a painful crash into the building next to me¡ª


    It never comes.


    Instead, I land quite gently on a smooth surface. A crisp woody scent mingled with freshly brewed ale perfumes the air. My eyes pop open. I¡¯m standing before a long, polished counter, which I clutch for support as the grip around my waist disappears. I twist around just in time to see a spiraling, bungie-like cable with a large black hook whiz back outside. The door slams behind it.


    ¡°Wha¡ª¡± I gape at the door.


    A loud sneeze erupts beside me, and I turn. Patrick. He looks as startled as I feel. We¡¯re in an empty, cramped tavern with a low, curved ceiling. Round wooden tables with old oak barrels for chairs dot the room, and flames flicker inside a fireplace along the back wall. It might have felt like a cozy cave if not for the savage manner in which we were hauled inside.


    ¡°Welcome to Hook Tavern!¡±


    I give a start. A middle-aged man with medium-brown skin, a chubby face, and nut-brown eyes has popped up from beneath the wooden counter, a large tankard in each hand.


    ¡°Thank you much for dropping in.¡± He flashes a smile, revealing two missing front teeth, before pushing breakfast menus toward us. ¡°Now, what¡¯ll it be?¡±


    I stare, dumbfounded.


    Patrick finds his voice first. ¡°What was that thing?¡± He sounds more curious than annoyed.


    ¡°Ah yes, forgive the hook.¡± The man nods toward a narrow set of stairs behind the counter where footsteps can be heard. A second later, a thin, dark-skinned woman with angular features and vivid red hair styled into a pixie emerges in the doorway. ¡°We recently opened the tavern, and the boss told me I needed to do something to boost business¡ªsomething to hook customers, you know?¡±


    The woman rolls her eyes. ¡°The hook is cheating, dear.¡±


    But Patrick laughs. ¡°Ah, I get it¡ªbecause this place is called Hook Tavern! Very clever.¡±


    The man blushes.


    I glance between them. The words tumble out of me before I can stop them. ¡°You thought dragging people in against their will was a good way to win over customers?¡± If any business in Scotland tried something like that, there would be a few dozen lawsuits by lunch time.


    But then¡­ this isn¡¯t Scotland.


    The man¡¯s face falls. The woman¡¯s eyebrows furrow. Patrick looks taken aback, as though he can¡¯t understand why someone who was so friendly that morning is suddenly being so rude.


    Eventually the man breaks the silence. ¡°Guess time will tell, eh? Wait till people muck and grime it up over time¡ªthen we¡¯ll see the appeal.¡± I blink. ¡°Besides, it¡¯s not like business can get any worse, can it?¡± He gestures around the otherwise empty pub.


    ¡°It is a bit¡­ shiny in here.¡± Patrick runs a finger along the polished counter, seemingly disappointed by the lack of dust.


    ¡°Exactly. Gotta keep up with the competition, don¡¯t I?¡± The bartender goes on, defensively. ¡°The Deranged Ghoul next door just installed disappearing chairs, didn¡¯t it? And the Blind Banshee is serving slime monsters with complimentary floating eyeballs, for skeletons¡¯ sake. They had to hire help to keep up with the demand.¡± Something in his voice suggests he¡¯s rather bitter that he didn¡¯t think of floating eyeballs first.


    ¡°Right,¡± I say weakly, making a mental note to avoid the Blind Banshee. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I didn¡¯t mean to¡ªI mean, um, I think the hook¡¯s¡­ very unique. I¡¯m sure people will love¡ª¡± I break off as the man¡¯s face suddenly pales, his eyes widening, nostrils flaring.


    He points a stubby finger at my neck. ¡°That pendant¡ªis that¡­ But it can¡¯t be¡­¡±


    My hand snaps up to my pendant, which has fallen outside of my shirt¡ªprobably when I landed on the ground in Echo Forest.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± the bartender whispers, eyes returning to my face, as though seeing me in an entirely new light.


    ¡°I, uh¡ªsorry, need to go.¡± I bolt.


    ¡°Wait¡ª¡± The man¡¯s voice is cut off by the slam of the door.


    My hands tremble as I hastily shove the pendant beneath my shirt, barely noticing that it¡¯s started to rain. That bartender recognized my pendant¡­ and I have a weird feeling he recognized me, too. He knows who I am.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Yet¡­ he was surprised to see me here.


    My mind races. My parents letter mentioned the Hooks¡­ could they be the owners of Hook Tavern? It certainly fits.


    Part of me wants to march back in there and confront them. They¡¯re a direct link to my parents, after all¡ªa way for me to learn about them. Maybe they could help protect me here. I want that. Desperately. I¡¯m very much on my own right now, navigating a world I know nothing about.


    But¡­ Clem said he¡¯d gotten the chest from a family friend. Got¡ªas in stolen? Or¡­ given?


    If it¡¯s the latter, that means they set me up to be murdered.


    The warning in my parents¡¯ letter rings through my mind like a death knell. We didn¡¯t know who to trust.


    I scurry around the bend onto Whispering Pine Road, the busiest street yet. Several performers hold those odd S-shaped instruments in hand, shrouding the entire street in thick green haze. The low-pitched melancholic drumming hums in my ears like a stubborn fly. I want nothing more than to escape the crowd, to find somewhere quiet where I can think¡­ like my family¡¯s manor¡ª


    ¡°Riley!¡±


    I moan. I forgot about Patrick.


    ¡°What was that all about?¡± asks Patrick, panting as he falls into stride beside me.


    ¡°No clue,¡± I lie.


    ¡°He said something about your necklace.¡± He turns his head for a better look at me, then trips over an uneven stone.


    I pretend not to notice. I don¡¯t want him to see the cold sweat creeping down my temples.


    ¡°Are you all right?¡± Patrick asks, catching back up to me.


    ¡°Yes, sorry. Um.¡± I swallow. ¡°If you want to head to your mother¡¯s now, I can manage from here¡ª"


    ¡°That¡¯s all right,¡± says Patrick. ¡°I can show you where to go.¡±


    ¡°No, really, I don¡¯t want you to get into trouble¡ª"


    ¡°It¡¯s fine. My mom will understand.¡±


    I inwardly groan. Patrick has an aunt who works in this Birth Registry office. If he discovers I¡¯m not from Aurelia, he might turn me in. And haven¡¯t I already given him too much reason to be suspicious?


    Thinking fast, I say, ¡°I need to use the bathroom.¡±


    Patrick blinks. ¡°Oh, well, want to go in here?¡± He points to a nearby pub.


    Glancing up at the sign to make sure it isn¡¯t the Blind Banshee¡ªthis one¡¯s the Bottomless Cauldron¡ªI dart to the door.


    ¡°Right, I¡¯ll wait out here!¡± Patrick calls after me.


    I step inside and immediately freeze to goggle at the scene before me. Every inch of wall space is tricked out with red skull lanterns and disturbing wall hangings in the form of large spiders and gruesome monsters. A strange strawlike material that looks an awful lot like black human hair hangs from the ceiling. Looming in the center is a giant black cauldron, larger than me, a red vapor rising from the top and engulfing the air.


    The pub makes Hook Tavern seem refreshingly normal, even with its demonic hook. Unlike Hook Tavern, every seat is occupied by patrons, most of whom looking as though they¡¯ve been there all night.


    I maneuver around clusters of tables toward the back exit, passing straight by the bathrooms¡ªone labeled Ghouls, the other Goblins¡ªand to the back door. Once outside, I creep along a narrow alleyway to the busy street ahead and peer around the corner; Patrick is huddled under the awning to shelter from the rain but is busy fiddling with a small mirror in his hands. While he¡¯s distracted, I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt and step forward just as a group of people pass, blending into the throng. I feel a tug of guilt for ditching Patrick. After all, he¡¯s done nothing but help me. But he¡¯s asking questions, and I can¡¯t risk him discovering that I¡¯m an outsider.


    As I near the top of the street, the crowd starts to thin. Then I find myself standing alone at a dead end, nothing in front of me but a small forest of tightly bunched trees.


    Where¡¯s Melody Lane?


    I squint through the rain and spot something: a narrow cut of red-brown earth burrowed between the creaking trees. The trail looks as ominous as the one in Echo Forest, with thick white mist cloaking the air, making it impossible to see more than a few feet in. That can¡¯t be it¡­ can it?


    Sure enough, as I approach the path, I catch sight of a faded sign nailed to a nearby tree: Melody Lane. My heart sinks, and I find myself wishing I hadn¡¯t ditched Patrick.


    Taking a deep breath, I start down the narrow path, tightly knotted trees rising on either side so that the branches form a sort of tunnel over me. I stay on guard, feet at the ready for any sign of danger. But apart from the rain trickling down the leaves, all is still. It isn¡¯t long before the pathway opens into a vast clearing. Nearby, a sign hangs sideways off its hinges. I tip my head to make out the figures: 9 Melody Lane.


    A rush of triumph sweeps through me. I¡¯ve found it! Then my gaze lifts beyond the sign. The triumph morphs into heavy dread.


    Just beyond a pair of rusted iron gates with skull-shaped finials is a vast estate that looks like something out of an old horror film. Heavy gray fog floods the grounds. Aside from a single thriving willow, clusters of dead trees scatter the property, leaving behind bare branches that reach to the sky like giant, disfigured skeletal hands. The yard¡ªif you can call it that¡ªis overgrown and weedy, as though it hasn¡¯t been disturbed in decades.


    At the top of a hill, standing tall and menacing, is the manor itself. It might have once been grand and beautiful, but it now bears all the signs of age and neglect. Dark stains are caked on the walls, and thick wild vines twist along the house, snaking into broken windows. And perhaps it¡¯s my imagination, but the home seems to sag a bit. As though it gave up long ago and is trying to collapse in on itself, but the unyielding walls won¡¯t let it.


    I frown. It feels like some horrible joke gone wrong. Were it not for the words James Family Estate emblazoned clearly in gold above the gates, I would be certain I have the wrong house.


    Before my imagination can go too far in picturing what awful thing¡ªor things¡ªmight be lurking in a family estate that¡¯s been abandoned for nearly two decades, I force myself forward. The gates creak open easily at my touch.


    I¡¯ve barely taken two steps when something stops me dead in my tracks. A message appears before my eyes on a wooden welcome sign nearby¡ªa sign that was blank seconds ago¡ªas though being scratched out with an invisible pen:


    Enter, fiends and foes,


    but better be quick on your toes.


    For terror lies in this place,


    all things you¡¯d best not face.


    I warn: you may never depart.


    These grounds are not for the faint of heart.


    So enter if you dare,


    but, visitor¡­ beware.


    Ash gathers in my mouth as I stare at the foreboding message, the dread in my stomach now so thick it feels palpable¡ªa heavy weight crushing my organs. Who¡ªor, better yet, what¡ªjust wrote that?

 Haunted Happenings

    I take a step back. And another. Until I¡¯m standing outside the gates once more. I turn around, about to leave¡­ when I stop myself. What choice do I have? There¡¯s nowhere else for me to go. I spent fifteen years hating my parents for abandoning me. I used to think nothing would ever change that¡ªthat no reason would ever be good enough to justify what they did.


    But what if there was a good reason? What if they didn¡¯t simply forget about me? Am I really going to pass up a chance to see my family home?


    With everything in me screaming not to, I journey back through the gates, more determined now.


    I¡¯m not sure what exactly I hope to find. I want to know what happened to them, of course. I want to know how they felt about me. But in this precise moment, something else is driving me. I want to know them. And while I realize that will never be possible, at least not in the most literal sense, I can find other ways to feel some connection to them. I can look at pictures, search for clues as to what they were like. What mattered to them. Whether I¡¯m anything like them at all.


    As I trudge up the sloping path, my skin crawls with the uneasy sense that something¡¯s watching me. I twist around, gaze sweeping across the yellowed vines of the large willow tree. A chill skitters down my spine. Something¡¯s in there, I can feel it. For a long moment, I stand there, on edge, preparing to bolt back to the gates when whatever it is inevitably jumps out. But aside from the leaves swaying in the wind¡­. nothing. No movement. No sound.


    Maybe I¡¯m just paranoid. With the look of this place, who can blame me?


    Eventually, I continue up the path. Two gargoyles flank the front door, sharp claws clutching the stone wall. Their gazes follow me as I climb the stairs, my apprehension deepening with each step. I halt at the door. Nothing to do now but open it.


    My hand trembles as I reach for the knob. But as my fingers tighten around it, a bright blue light illuminates the door¡¯s entire perimeter. With a startled yelp, I leap back. The glowing light disappears as suddenly as it came on.


    I wait. When nothing else happens, I tentatively touch the knob again, first with a single finger, then my hand. This time, no glowing light appears. Twisting the handle, I¡¯m surprised¡ªand a bit sorry¡ªto find it unlocked. As I push, the door screeches a long, drawn-out complaint, as though resentful of being opened after so many years left undisturbed.


    The noise dies away, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. Before me is a dark, empty foyer, floor so thick with dust that you can¡¯t tell whether it¡¯s wood or tile.


    When nothing jumps out, I cross the threshold, wrinkling my nose at the pungent smell of mothballs and mold. I shine my torch in front of me.


    Spiders scurry across sweeping, elaborate webs and vanish, retreating into cracks in the walls. The floorboards groan as I edge forward, upsetting decades¡¯ worth of dust. I stifle a sneeze in the crook of my arm.


    I step cautiously into a parlor off the foyer. A low, steady ticking fills the room, coming from a large grandfather clock in one corner with missing clock hands. A huge fireplace borders the far wall, facing a long chesterfield sofa that looks about as comfortable as a big rock¡ªprobably came from Comfort Row. Emblazoned on a gold plaque boldly above it is the James family crest. I approach it and brush my fingers along the motto Astra inclinant, sed non obligant. Below, in smaller print, is its translation: The stars incline us, they do not bind us.


    I sense movement nearby, my gaze falling on the Comfort Row couch. Its cushions stir slightly, as though it were breathing. My heart lurches, and I back quietly from the room.


    My attention is drawn farther up the foyer to a door that¡¯s ajar. I peer inside. It¡¯s a circular, oak-paneled study with a large redwood desk in its center. Behind the desk, an open chest overflows with dusty papers and books. I push the door open and cross to the chest for a closer look. The papers are actually letters. I finger through them. The majority are from two people called Oliver and Ruby Hook. My mouth goes dry. The owners of Hook Tavern¡ªthe family friends entrusted with my location.


    I pick up the topmost letter from Oliver.


    Arthur, Wendy¡ª


    Need to show you both something. Very important. Meet me tonight at the Old Library.


    I start to read another when a heap of dust inside the chest suddenly stirs. Only then do I realize it isn¡¯t dust at all. Well, not only dust. Six tiny legs jut out and scuttle across the chest, before leaping at me. I¡¯m too shocked to move, and it lands on the letter in my hands, besetting both it and me with thousands of dust particles.


    With a yelp, I stagger away, blinking my vision clear of the dust collecting in my eyes, and hitting my head on a shelf behind me in the process. Am I wrong, or did the dust creature just snicker?


    I leap back into the foyer, slamming the door behind me. My watery gaze cuts to the front door, torn between leaving or exploring further. Curiosity wins out in the end. Swallowing my fear, I climb the steps of the main stairwell, staring into the dark depths above. The second-floor landing reveals a long corridor with a line of closed doors. I look down it, wondering where to start.


    A creaking sound breaks the silence. My head whips toward the noise, breath catching in my throat as one door opens wide of its own accord. Against my brain¡¯s better judgement, I approach it slowly.


    When I look inside, my fear is forgotten.


    It¡¯s the room I was most desperate to find. The reason I dared to enter a haunted manor in the first place.


    Somehow¡­ I know its theirs.


    My parents¡¯ bedroom is large, furnished with an ornate cedar armoire and a four-poster bed draped with a rich burgundy canopy. At the far wall, a floor-length window bows outward in a crescent, hugging a cushioned reading nook burrowed within. Several articles of clothing are strewn across it.


    I look from the clothing to the blankets bunched in a pile on the bed. A breeze licks up my spine.


    I¡¯m finding their bedroom exactly as they left it. Why has no one been here since?


    Something catches my eye. A red leatherbound journal resting on a side table. I walk over and open it. The handwriting inside is neat but smaller and straighter than my father¡¯s pen.


    This is my mother¡¯s journal.


    A strange emotion tugs at my heart as my fingers brush over the words.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    January 20


    Pollux has been acting up again. We held a small party for Arthur¡¯s birthday this weekend and arrived home to find the place ¡°decorated,¡± though it might as well have been done by a wild ogre. We had to explain to intrigued friends why a fish tank was used as a punch bowl. And then a dust mutt somehow ended up on Alistair¡¯s head. It took everything to get him calmed down¡ªArthur had to buy him a new suit. It¡¯s a wonder I¡¯m still sane.


    I suppose Pollux finds himself funny. I know he has to occupy himself somehow, but I wish he would take up another hobby. Like knitting. I think he¡¯s very lonely. I hope he¡¯s able to move on soon. I¡¯m not sure how that all works, but I¡¯ll talk with him when I see him again in October.


    Hodge has been doing a wonderful job on the hedge¡ª


    I leaf through the pages to the back of the journal.


    September 15


    Things have been so busy. The Council is running Arthur ragged. He and the other guardians were sent out the past three nights in a row. I miss tagging along, but it¡¯s too dangerous now I¡¯m so far along. On a positive note, I¡¯m due in just a few weeks and we¡¯ve finally agreed on a name. We are going to call her Riley Artemis.


    Artemis. My chest tightens, a vice grip clenching my heart, as I repeat it aloud, tasting the three syllables on my tongue. Artemis. I didn¡¯t even know I had a middle name. Hell, before last night, I doubted whether James was even my real last name. What else don¡¯t I know about myself?


    Now all we have to do is babyproof the manor¡ª


    A chuckle bubbles out of my throat. I imagine a heavy sigh as my mother wrote that. This doesn¡¯t sound like the entry of someone resolved to abandon their baby.


    I skip ahead to the final entry.


    September 24


    We had a nice dinner party with Bobak and Hodge last night, now that the dust has settled on Slater¡¯s arrest. I think we all needed that after last week, especially Arthur. The Council has him preoccupied. He thinks something is off with the Elders. I don¡¯t see much reason for concern. I mean, really, it¡¯s never taken much to ruffle their feathers. At last year¡¯s masquerade, Atticus accidentally stepped in a puddle of sick on the floor. I¡¯ve never seen anyone¡¯s face turn so red.


    Arthur disagrees. He thinks something¡¯s up. There¡¯s an Elders meeting tomorrow, and he¡¯s determined to find out what¡¯s going on.


    An unsettling feeling crawls into my belly, taking root, nesting there¡ªone that has nothing to do with being in a haunted manor. I don¡¯t think it¡¯s a coincidence that I was brought to Stornoway Community home just one week after this entry. What did my father discover? Did it have to do with the danger my family was in? Or with the earlier note from Oliver Hook?


    I¡¯m willing to bet both.


    A rustling noise comes then and I track it to the closet, where a gray sheet¡ªalthough it might have once been white¡ªhas been tossed carelessly over the door. Clutching my mother¡¯s diary to my chest, I creep forward and peek through the crack.


    My breath hitches as I spot the culprit. Black, furry¡ªthe size of a large dog. Only this isn¡¯t a dog, but something¡­ else. Its black fur hangs disheveled in matted tufts, and it stands on two thick feet, long curving claws hugging the floor. It¡¯s distracted, gnawing on a red cashmere coat, its razor-edged teeth glinting like small spears with each angry chomp.


    I step back and cringe when I land on a loose floorboard. The loud creak pierces the silence, and the creature¡¯s hunched form shoots up. My gaze catches on its hands, elongated by claws the size of its fingers, as it drops the coat, gleaming red eyes now homed in on me. Its new and improved meal, mere feet away.


    A guttural snarl slips past its jagged teeth. Then¡­ it launches.


    Screaming, I rip the sheet off the closet door, unveiling a grimy, full-length mirror¡ªwhich I think might be trying to speak to me, if such a thing were possible, but I couldn¡¯t make out anything over my hysterical screaming as I throw the sheet over the creature. It trips in the bundle of cloth, giving me time to bolt around it for the exit. A harsh tearing noise slices the air, warning me that the creature is already free.


    As I run, something round and flaming, the size of a bracelet, whirls through the air at me. With a yelp, I duck aside, and the thing bounces away toward the creature, which backs off, momentarily distracted.


    My foot catches on the threshold, and I crash hard into the hallway, knees banging into the floor. I twist around frantically to find the creature, now recovered, nearly to the door¡ª


    I ram my eyes shut, seconds away from being mauled to death¡ª


    The door slams of its own accord, and the loud boom that follows jerks me like a physical blow, knocking my eyes open, as the creature inside bangs into it. Shaking more than I ever have in my life, I scramble toward the stairs, a symphony of snarling and clawing and pounding from behind the door playing in my ears.


    But at the stairwell, my limbs stiffen. A rhythmic thumping is coming from the bottom, growing louder with each thump! as something large and heavy¡ªand probably not human¡ªclunks up the stairs.


    With a faint whimper, I turn and sprint in the opposite direction, passing the door that the creature is still pounding on. I¡¯m relieved that, despite having very capable hands, it doesn¡¯t seem to understand the concept of a doorknob.


    I reach the end of the hall just as the thing steps onto the landing at the opposite end. This creature is larger than the first, with scaly skin and black beady eyes that immediately fasten on me. Growling, it bears down like a bear and charges at me, quick as its chunky limbs allow.


    In a growing panic, I scurry down an adjacent hall and arrive at a set of boxy steps that I hope leads to the ground floor. Halfway down, a snicker echoes from beneath the stairs.


    I look down right as the step beneath me disappears, and then I¡¯m sliding along something smooth and cold, like a metal tunnel. I scream, groping around in the darkness as I try and fail to stop myself.


    ¡°No!¡± I yell, as I lose my grip on my mother¡¯s journal.


    After what feels like ages, a faint blue glow appears below me. Next second, I tumble out of the tunnel and onto a cold cement floor. I lie there, hardly breathing. I¡¯m in some sort of cellar. But instead of storing wine or old furniture, this one is home to a host of plants of all different types and sizes and colors. Nearest me is a bizarre plant with long wispy tendrils that glow bright blue. Beside it is a red and yellow plant as large as me. Its pointed center opens and closes rhythmically, as though it¡¯s breathing.


    Something creaks behind me and I flinch, whirling around to see a door yawning open, as though by a phantom breeze. I release a shaky breath when a stairwell comes into view. I climb to my feet, legs wobbling, and start for the door.


    Then I pause, remembering my mother¡¯s journal. As I bend to pick it up, something long and slimy steals around my ankle like a python. And then I¡¯m on my back, being dragged away, the rough cement floor scraping into my back muscles. I let out a fresh scream of horror when I see that a thick slimy tentacle has slithered out of the center of the red and yellow plant and attached itself to my ankle, pulling me toward the plant, which opens a huge mouth as though preparing to swallow me whole.


    Frantically I yank at the tentacle, thrashing uselessly. It won¡¯t budge. If anything, it tightens its hold. I¡¯m a leg¡¯s length from the plant. An arm¡¯s length. I jam my eyes shut, awaiting my fate¡ª


    A high-pitched shriek fills the room. The death grip on my ankle disappears. My eyes snap open; the shrieking is coming from the plant. Something has chopped the tentacle in half.


    I don¡¯t stick around to see what. Abandoning my mother¡¯s diary, I scramble for the exit, circumventing the other plants, giving them as wide a breadth as possible. I fly up the stairs, thanking the stars when they led me into some kind of rotting scullery room with a window overlooking the grounds. And beside it¡­ a door. Not the door I came through, but I don¡¯t care at this point. All I want is to escape the manor determined to kill me.


    I throw it open and race out into the damp, misty air. I¡¯m behind the manor, the grounds like a vast, open moor. In the distance, just beyond a small pond, a jagged cliff drops off to the blanket of pearly gray sea in the distance.


    I hurry down the dampened slope, sliding at the halfway point, and land in a large, muddy puddle at the bottom of the hill. As I stand up and brush myself off, a collection of large, narrow rocks comes into view, packed together beneath a copse of trees straight ahead. Just beyond stands a small crumbling building that looks like a crypt. With a jolt, I realize the rocks are tombstones.


    James Manor has its own private cemetery.


    ¡°No wonder this place is haunted,¡± I say weakly, scanning the graves. There must be generations of family buried there. And oddly enough, it¡¯s the only portion of the grounds that appears to have been maintained.


    My ears pick up voices, growing closer. I turn just as three figures in matching brown uniforms walk out from behind a knot of trees. Before I can throw myself behind an overgrown bramble bush nearby, one of the figures points in my direction.


    ¡°There she is!¡±

 The Birth Registry

    ¡°Hands up, girl!¡± The woman who speaks has long blond hair and narrow eyes and is flanked by her companions. The badge on her uniform reads Officer Davina Tash.


    Trembling, I raise my hands to ear level.


    ¡°Name?¡± asks Officer Tash.


    I open my mouth, but it¡¯s as though my voice box has vanished. What should I say? Do they suspect who I am? That I¡¯m an outsider? But¡­ how? Did that bartender tip them off?


    ¡°Well?¡± barks the woman.


    ¡°I, um, I¡¯m Riley.¡±


    Officer Tash looks at one of her companions, who sighs and pulls a notepad from his pocket.


    ¡°Surname?¡± he asks, sounding bored.


    ¡°Uh¡­ Hook.¡± It¡¯s worth a try, right?


    The officer merely scribbles down the information. Huh. So they don¡¯t know who I am. If that¡¯s the case, then how did they know I was here in the first place?


    ¡°Miss Hook, are you aware that you¡¯re trespassing on private property?¡± asks Officer Tash.


    ¡°Um, no¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh really?¡± She crosses her arms. ¡°Do you live here?¡±


    A pause. Technically, I own it. ¡°Not really.¡±


    ¡°Then indeed, that is what we call trespassing,¡± says Officer Tash dryly.


    ¡°But it¡¯s abandoned,¡± I point out.


    ¡°That¡¯s of no consequence,¡± she says, with a nasty smile. ¡°We¡¯ve had quite enough of you kids trying to break into this place.¡±


    ¡°Should we check the house for vandalism?¡± asks the third officer.


    ¡°Are you daft?¡± says Officer Tash. ¡°No one has been able to enter this house in over a decade. Honestly.¡±


    I frown. What? The front door wasn¡¯t even locked.


    The man¡¯s cheeks tinge pink. ¡°I forgot, all right?¡±


    ¡°Now,¡± says Officer Tash, turning back to me. ¡°Trespassing will not be tolerated. You¡¯re coming with us.¡±


    ¡°Is that really necessary?¡± drawls the second officer. ¡°Why not let her off with a warning?¡±


    That would be great, thanks.


    But Officer Tash silences his proposal with a fierce glare. This officer is clearly on a power trip. ¡°We will file a formal violation report at the town hall.¡± Her gaze returns to me. ¡°Now then, hand out.¡±


    I blink, then hold out a hand uncertainly. There¡¯s a flash of bright purple, and a thin black band appears around my wrist. My eyes widen.


    ¡°Only a precaution,¡± says the second officer gently as he takes in my expression, apparently mistaking my shock for distress. ¡°To keep you from using magic against us.¡±


    Well, they needn¡¯t have bothered.


    I trail after the group, unable to believe my day. First, I was nearly killed by a vampire, then, I was assaulted by a giant hook, and after that, I was chased by who knows what in my family manor. Now, I¡¯m being arrested.


    As we approach the gates, faint laughter, delicate and airy, almost like wind chimes, registers in my ears, carrying on the wind. I glance around, gaze landing once more on the willow tree, but still, I see nothing there.


    Outside the gates, Officer Tash pulls out a glossy silver object about the size of a lighter. She clicks it open, and a long thread of black vapor rises from the top. I watch curiously as it billows before us like a dark cloud, swirling and shifting in the air, a pocket of night devouring the daylight¡­ until, to my absolute horror, it takes the shape of a towering shadowy wraith. Two impossibly long, cloaked arms branch out, enveloping us in its dark embrace. And then¡­ everything disappears.


    Including my body.


    Once again, I¡¯m nothing more than a ghost being pulled through endless dark space, devoid of gravity, those wispy tendrils of silver spotting the distant blackness. I can¡¯t breathe, can¡¯t move, can¡¯t see the others.


    Moments later, my feet hit solid ground and I¡¯m reunited with my body. My eyes pop open, and I find myself staring at the town hall building from earlier.


    As we pass through the tall, wrought iron gates, the snarling cheetah-esque gargoyles prowl alongside us, sniffing at our ankles. I shudder. The heavy doors open as we approach, revealing a large atrium with a high vaulted ceiling.


    We walk toward a desk at the far wall. Sitting on a bench nearby is a bored-looking teenage boy clad in a collared shirt and polished loafers. As we draw nearer, he looks up with sapphire blue eyes that remind me vaguely of my own. He takes in my damp, mud-stained clothing, his brows rising.


    ¡°Good morning,¡± says Officer Tash, speaking to a slouching woman behind the desk, its surface littered with papers, wrappers, and dirty mugs.


    The woman jumps, straightening herself. ¡°Morning, Officer Tash,¡± she says, flashing a strained smile.


    ¡°We caught this one trespassing at the James Estate,¡± says Officer Tash, handing her the citation. ¡°We need to file a report.¡±


    ¡°Ah. Just a moment.¡± The woman leans over and pulls open a drawer. ¡°Now where is it¡­¡± she mutters, shuffling through the contents. She gives a disgruntled shake of her head and moves to the drawer beneath it, then the next.


    Officer Tash taps her finger against the surface of the desk in a methodical manner, watching the woman with a stiff expression.


    At last, after rummaging through six drawers, the woman emerges triumphant. ¡°Found it!¡± she announces, holding up a thick brown ledger for everyone to see. ¡°Now then, offense¡ªtrespassing,¡± she says, scribbling in the ledger. ¡°Penalty?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s a minor,¡± says Officer Tash. ¡°Order a fine of fifty scales and notify her parents. They¡¯ll need to pick her up here.¡±


    My heart lurches. Oh no.


    Officer Tash steps forward. With a second flash of purple, the black band around my wrist disappears.


    ¡°What is your name, dear?¡± asks the woman.


    ¡°Riley Hook,¡± I say, willing my voice to remain steady, confident. I sense movement nearby. The boy on the bench is watching me.


    ¡°And who are your parents?¡±


    ¡°Oliver and Ruby Hook,¡± I say. They¡¯re the only adults I know the names of in Aurelia. If they were friends of my parents, maybe they¡¯ll cover for me. Still, there is the small matter of them potentially wanting me dead¡­. In which case, they¡¯ll probably arrive with a friend of Clem¡¯s. But one problem at a time.


    ¡°And which village do you live in?¡±


    ¡°Um. Here. This one.¡±


    ¡°All righty,¡± says the woman in a singsong voice as she writes down this final detail. ¡°Why don¡¯t you wait over there while I¡­¡± Her voice trails off as she observes me more closely. Takes in my muddy, scraped clothing, and, no doubt, overall disheveled appearance. ¡°Oh dear, what happened? Why are your clothes so dirty?¡±


    My cheeks swell. ¡°I, um¡­ fell into a mud puddle.¡± After getting chased by countless monsters through my family¡¯s manor.


    The boy on the bench snorts. Everyone looks at him.


    He shrugs. ¡°Serves her right for trespassing.¡± His lips tug up in a malicious smirk, and I¡¯m strongly reminded of Mitzy Pendleton. ¡°And lying.¡±


    ¡°This doesn¡¯t concern you, Mikhail,¡± says the woman coldly, not hiding her clear dislike of this boy. ¡°I asked you to sit quietly while you wait for your dad to finish his meeting.¡±


    ¡°Well, when he arrives, perhaps I should tell him you¡¯re not doing your job,¡± he says, a smug expression on his face. He flicks his head in my direction. ¡°She¡¯s obviously lying.¡± I blanch. ¡°My father¡ªthe governor of Skeleton Grove, mind you¡ªknows everyone here. If you care to look in that oversized roster of yours, I think you¡¯ll find that the Hooks don¡¯t have a daughter.¡±


    My tongue goes dry as all eyes turn on me.


    ¡°Is that true?¡± Officer Tash turns that fierce gaze on me, sending a chill skittering down my spine.


    ¡°No,¡± I say, but I know my denial will do me no good. The woman is already thumbing through the pages of the roster.


    A moment later, she looks up at me. ¡°Oliver and Ruby Hook are listed here¡­ But you¡¯re not.¡±


    Officer Tash rounds on me. ¡°What is your name then?¡±


    I shoot a glare at the boy, whose smirk stretches wider. He is clearly enjoying the confusion he¡¯s created.


    ¡°Well?¡± asks Officer Tash, her tone clipped. ¡°If you¡¯re not going to cooperate, we will have to take extreme measures.¡±


    I gulp. What constitutes ¡°extreme measures¡± in this hellish place?Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    ¡°Very well,¡± says Officer Tash. ¡°I¡¯ll bring her to the Birth Registry Department to verify her identity.¡± She gives me another unpleasant smile.


    Nausea roils in my gut. The Birth Registry. For the briefest of moments, I consider making a break for the exit. But even if I made it, I have a feeling those snarling gargoyles outside aren¡¯t just for show.


    ¡°Follow me,¡± says Officer Tash. ¡°We have a private teleportation hub.¡±


    I sigh. My plan probably would have failed anyway, even without the horrible boy¡¯s interference.


    The officer opens a heavy steel door, revealing a large, cold room that smells strongly of rotting wood and smoke and reminds me vaguely of a cellar. A strange tall structure made of blackened wood looms in the center of the room. Hexagonal in shape with a tapered head and base, it looks a bit like an oversized coffin. Thick white vapor seeps through its cracks.


    Officer Tash presses her badge against a gray plate in the spot where I imagine a doorknob should be. The door creaks open, and white vapor billows out like heavy smoke, tickling my skin as it hits me.


    Through the haze, the officer motions me inside, and it¡¯s like stepping into a dense cloud. As though all the fog from Echo Forest has been condensed into a single cramped space.


    The officer follows me in and shuts the door. ¡°Aurelian Services Agency, Polaris,¡± she says.


    All at once, the mist clears and the walls vanish into space, wrapping us in a blanket of pitch blackness. For a moment, everything is eerily still, my quickening breath the only sound as panic rips through me. What if this thing doesn¡¯t work on outsiders?


    I have to come clean. ¡°Wait, I¡ª¡±


    Before I can finish my sentence, I¡¯m torn from my body and carried off, becoming one with the dark, endless space. Only now, I can see that it isn¡¯t actually space. Those strange pockets of silver aren¡¯t stars. They¡¯re closer than before. Hundreds of writhing silvery strands slipping through the blackness. No, they¡¯re something else entirely. But what?


    A disjointed hum of faint whispers and muffled moans gathers in my ears. And then, one of the silver strands drifts close by, right past me, almost through me¡ª


    It shifts then, its form twisting in the air, and looks right at me, staring through two deep, hollow pits. Unblinking.


    If I could, I would scream. No. This isn¡¯t space¡ªit isn¡¯t even our world. It¡¯s some sort of spirit dimension.


    The air finds its way back to my lungs as my feet hit the ground. Trembling, I throw out a hand to steady myself, and the surrounding walls become solid once more.


    I release a series of heaving breaths, utterly traumatized.


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with you?¡±


    I look up to find Officer Tash, who seems remarkably unfazed by the ordeal, eyeing me with a detached confusion.


    I open my mouth to answer her, but nothing comes out.


    ¡°Reconnection sickness?¡± she asks.


    ¡°Something like that,¡± I manage.


    ¡°You should have said something,¡± she says, voice annoyed as she steps away from me, clearly worried I¡¯m going to hurl all over her. ¡°We have a tonic for that.¡±


    I follow the officer into an atrium. It¡¯s similar to the town hall¡¯s, only twice as large and packed with people. We take a lift to the eighth floor before proceeding down several narrow corridors, eventually stopping outside a door with a gold plate that reads Birth Registry Department.


    Officer Tash opens the door and beckons me into a paneled room. While she goes to speak with the secretary, I¡¯m directed to a small waiting area. Alone with my thoughts, I bite my nails, imagining the worst. I¡¯m minutes away from discovering if my name is in the Aurelian Birth Registry. If it isn¡¯t¡ªand it probably isn¡¯t¡ªthey would wipe my memory and deport me. Then I¡¯ll never learn what happened to my parents. After today, I won¡¯t even remember their names.


    The secretary ushers Officer Tash to the door and bids her farewell. Then he turns to me. ¡°One moment, miss,¡± he says, then disappears down a hallway.


    My gaze flicks to the exit. How long will the man be gone? Should I make a break for it?


    Before I can decide, the secretary reemerges, a colleague in tow. ¡°This is the chief registrar,¡± he says, gesturing to a woman beside him. ¡°She and her colleague, Euston, have some questions for you.¡±


    The woman has a lined, stern face and tousled, tight gray curls that drop down to her shoulders. I catch a glimpse of the badge on her gray dress: Agnes Stiehl.


    Patrick¡¯s aunt Agnes. It must be.


    Euston is a hunched, balding man with large, owlish glasses and a dull expression.


    ¡°I will question her in the Archives Library,¡± says Agnes.


    ¡°Erm¡­ Agnes,¡± says the secretary. ¡°Waldon Lewis is here¡ªyou know, from the High Council. He needed to use the Archives Library. Perhaps you might find another¡ª"


    ¡°I won¡¯t bother him,¡± says Agnes, though her eyes flash. She beckons me with a single finger. ¡°This way, child.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not a child,¡± I say, before I can stop myself.


    The woman smiles at me unpleasantly. Without another word, she turns and strides down the hall, seeming confident that I will follow.


    As I trail her, Agnes ignores me and grumbles under her breath. ¡°High councilors, always waltzing in here like they own the place. Perhaps you might find another room¡ª¡± she mimics, while I stare, lips sucking themselves inward. ¡°Not on my watch¡ªthis is my domain.¡±


    Euston makes no indication that he is listening.


    Agnes throws open the door with the vigor of a wartime general preparing for battle.


    We enter a large room with several armchairs and a heavy polished table. Sturdy shelves line every inch of wall space, packed tight with books. A broad-shouldered man with a square jaw is seated in a quilted leather armchair sorting through papers. He looks up.


    ¡°Waldon,¡± says Agnes, with a curt nod. ¡°Terribly sorry, but I will need this room for an interrogation.¡±


    The man¡¯s gaze comes to rest on me. I stand awkwardly, wishing I could somehow disappear through the wall behind me.


    ¡°By all means,¡± he says, waving a hand toward the empty table.


    Agnes stares expectantly at him, clearly waiting for him to leave. When he doesn¡¯t move, she gives an irritated sigh and walks around the table.


    ¡°Take a seat, child.¡±


    I shrug off my rucksack and slump into a chair opposite her. In the center of the table, a black candle flickers inside a holder shaped like a severed hand. I grimace.


    Agnes clears her throat. I pull my gaze from the disturbing decoration.


    ¡°So,¡± she begins. ¡°I hear you¡¯ve been causing some trouble in Skeleton Grove?¡±


    I give a half shrug.


    ¡°What is your name, child?¡±


    ¡°Riley. And I¡¯m fifteen.¡±


    ¡°Good for you,¡± says Agnes, tone patronizing. ¡°Surname?¡±


    I sigh heavily. There are no lies I can tell that she will believe. No aliases that won¡¯t be promptly uncovered, just as the first was. Eventually, she¡¯s going to realize I¡¯m an outsider. And when she does, I will be kicked out of Aurelia.


    Well, might as well make it as difficult for her as possible before the inevitable happens. ¡°I can¡¯t tell you that.¡±


    Euston, who had been gazing vaguely out a half-moon window, looks around then, suddenly interested. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the reading man look over.


    ¡°You¡¯re only making matters worse for yourself,¡± says Agnes, leaning forward, forearms bracing on the table. A vein throbs in her temple.


    ¡°I doubt that.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s come back to that one,¡± says Euston, looking at the reddening face of his colleague as though it were a ticking timebomb. ¡°Who are your parents?¡±


    ¡°My parents are dead.¡±


    ¡°In that case, who is your legal guardian?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have one.¡±


    Euston raises a thin eyebrow.


    ¡°Enough of these games,¡± says Agnes, slamming a fist on the wooden table like a toddler. ¡°Get the book, Euston.¡±


    Euston presses his lips into a thin line, but nevertheless waves a hand; as he does so, a ring on the man¡¯s hand glints. It has the same stone as my own ring. A spark of bright purple momentarily dazzles me, and I almost don¡¯t duck in time as the largest book I¡¯ve ever seen comes flying over my head before landing with a loud thump on the table.


    Even upside down, I make out the golden letters at once. The Birth Registry.


    ¡°Let¡¯s see, first name Riley,¡± says Agnes, shoving open the book and flicking aggressively through its pages.


    I can do nothing but sit in silence, wiping my sweating palms against my jeans under the table.


    Finally, Agnes looks up. ¡°There are nine ¡®Riley¡¯s¡¯ in Aurelia. Five are under the age of eight; three are men. Clearly none of those are you. The other is a harpy, which judging by the lack of wings¡ª¡± I blink ¡°¡ªis not you. There is no sixteen-year-old Riley in the Registry.¡±


    Agnes clucks her tongue. ¡°What¡ªis¡ªyour¡ªname?¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s have a look in her bag.¡± Euston holds out his hand expectantly. When I don¡¯t comply, he waves a hand, and my rucksack vanishes¡­and reappears the next moment in his grasp.


    ¡°That¡¯s mine!¡±


    He ignores my outburst and opens the bag, then turns it upside down so the contents spill out. The torch. The chest. The sealed black book that brought me here. A bit of crumpled paper. A heap of squashed Reese¡¯s¡ªthe result of the numerous times I broke curfew to sneak into the kitchens. I found those yielded the best outcomes for bribes and trades with my peers at the community home.


    Immediately Agnes¡¯s gaze drifts to the bound black book. She snatches it up and turns it over in her hands. ¡°I know this.¡± She holds the book up, fixing me with an accusatory gaze. ¡°These are illegal. How did you get one?¡±


    The man in the armchair tips his head in our direction. The document in his hands is upside down.


    I gulp. ¡°It was given to me.¡±


    Eyes flashing, Agnes opens her mouth again¡ª


    ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± Euston reaches for the crinkled batch of stapled paper. He flattens it out. My failed history exam. The large F stands out in red ink and, beside it, my teacher¡¯s scribbled comment: You can do better. But then¡ª


    I pale.


    Agnes, who had popped over his shoulder, points at the top corner. ¡°Up there! What¡¯s that say?¡±


    Euston adjusts his large glasses. ¡°Riley James.¡±


    The blood seems to vanish from my veins. My parents¡¯ letter warned me to hide my identity. Emphasized with resounding clarity that I might be in danger if I don¡¯t. Why was I so careless?


    The man in the armchair stills, no longer even bothering to pretend sorting through papers.


    ¡°We have a name!¡± says Agnes triumphantly, flipping open the Birth Registry again with renewed vigor. She settles on a page and scrolls down the text with her finger.


    I hold my breath. This is it. Not long from now, I will be back in Scotland with no memory of the last twenty-four hours. No one at the community home knows who I am anymore. I would be starting somewhere from scratch.


    Making matters worse, my existence won¡¯t be a secret anymore. What if someone from Aurelia tries to kill me again? I won¡¯t even know to be on guard.


    ¡°James. Right here!¡± Agnes jabs a spot on the page so hard that I might have thought she was trying to kill a bug.


    ¡°There are several listed¡ªmost deceased. There¡¯s Alistair James¡ªhe has a son, but no daughter.¡± Her finger slides down. ¡°If you¡¯re fifteen, the only other couple who could have had you are Arthur and Wendy James. But they died on the ninth of October, fifteen years ago¡­¡±


    Cold ripples through me. My parents¡¯ letter was right. Our family was in danger. Critical danger, by the sound of it, for they died just eight days after abandoning me. Nine days after my birthday.


    ¡°She did say earlier that her parents had died.¡± Euston glances at me, though I¡¯m barely listening anymore.


    ¡°Yes, but there is no name listed,¡± says Agnes. ¡°They had no children.¡±


    Euston knits his brows. ¡°So... that means¡ª"


    ¡°¡ªshe isn¡¯t from Aurelia,¡± finishes Agnes, with the tone of someone who has just solved the world¡¯s most complicated game of Clue. ¡°Are you?¡±


    I feel all their eyes on me, including the man in the armchair. I try to swallow but my throat has long since dried up.


    I say nothing.


    She slams the book. ¡°I said, are you?¡±


    There is sudden movement to my left. The man in the armchair stands up, clearing his throat. ¡°Agnes. Euston. I¡¯m going to handle this from here.¡± His expression is impassive, but his voice rings with authority.


    Euston nods, then starts toward the door.


    ¡°Stay here, Euston,¡± she snaps, and Euston halts. Agnes jumps to her feet, arms akimbo and face flushed. She reminds me rather of a cartoon character. She clears her throat. ¡°Waldon. This is clearly a matter for the Registry Department. It does not concern the High Council. I will deal with it, per our policy, thank you very much.¡±


    I¡¯m mildly impressed to see Agnes talk back to the intimidating man.


    Waldon raises himself higher. ¡°Quite the contrary, Agnes. You forget your station within the government.¡± Agnes sputters something incoherent, but he speaks over her. ¡°As a member of both the High Council and the NIA, I believe this situation poses a potential national security breach.¡±


    Bile threatens to surge up my throat. National security breach? Oh god. What¡¯s going to happen to me now? A disturbingly vivid image of being chained up in a dark dungeon, forced to eat eyeballs and dodge monsters all day, surfaces in my mind.


    Waldon crosses to the door and opens it wide. ¡°Please excuse us.¡±


    Euston glances from Agnes¡ªwhose face is now so red and eyes so wild, that she looks rather mad¡ªup to the towering Waldon, who stands a good two feet over them all, composed but resolute. Then he pushes his oversized glasses back up his nose and ducks quietly from the room without a word.


    Agnes doesn¡¯t move. ¡°I direct this department, Waldon, how dare¡ª¡±


    ¡°Agnes, this is not an argument you are going to win, as you very well know,¡± he says, before giving the door a small shake. ¡°Please leave us before I call for security and have you removed from your own department.¡±


    For a moment, Agnes doesn¡¯t react. Then she rips the door from Waldon¡¯s grasp, stomps through, and slams it behind her.


    Unfazed as ever, Waldon walks to the table and sits in the seat that Agnes occupied moments before. My heart hammers against my rib cage as he picks up my failed history exam and stares at the top corner, an unreadable expression on his face.


    ¡°Riley James,¡± he repeats quietly. He sets the paper down, finally looking at me.


    I hold my breath.


    ¡°Incredible. I had no idea that Arthur and Wendy had their baby.¡±

 A National Security Problem Called Riley James

    ¡°You knew my parents?¡± I breathe, momentarily forgetting my situation.


    ¡°I did. Quite well, in fact,¡± he says. ¡°My name is Waldon Lewis. I am a witch, just as your parents were. It¡¯s one of the five orders in Aurelia.¡±


    ¡°And by ¡®witch,¡¯ you mean¡­¡±


    ¡°We do magic, yes,¡± he says. ¡°I knew your parents through the Council. I am a high councilor, you see.¡±


    I give him a blank look.


    ¡°Meaning I¡¯m a member of the High Council. It¡¯s the governing body of Aurelia,¡± says Waldon. ¡°We enact legislation. The Aurelian Services Agency¡ª¡± he gestures around us ¡°¡ªenforces said legislation.¡±


    ¡°So my parents were high councilors as well?¡±


    ¡°Not exactly,¡± says Waldon. ¡°Your father did work for the High Council, but in another capacity.¡±


    ¡°What capacity?¡±


    ¡°He was a different kind of agent.¡±


    I open my mouth, but Waldon holds up a hand. ¡°It¡¯s difficult to explain, and we have more pressing matters at hand.¡± His voice is gentle but firm. ¡°Now, please tell me where you were and how you managed to get to Aurelia.¡±


    I hesitate, unsure whether I ought to confide in him.


    ¡°You can trust me,¡± says Waldon, as if reading my mind. ¡°It¡¯s important that I know the full story.¡±


    I nod slowly. It¡¯s a bit late for secrecy anyway. This man already knows who I am. Maybe if I cooperate, he¡¯ll explain what happened to my parents. So I tell Waldon about the community home I grew up in and the man who attacked me and gave me the chest with the dust and the book. I leave out my parents¡¯ letter and the other items. Though the man claimed he could be trusted, I don¡¯t know him and see no reason to overshare.


    ¡°A vampire tracked you down?¡± says Waldon, eyes flaring.


    ¡°Yes.¡± I explain to Waldon what happened. ¡°But then I managed to escape with the chest. He fell off the fourth-story roof and snapped his neck, so he¡¯s probably dead. Or maybe the sunrise got him later.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a myth. Sunlight won¡¯t kill a vampire, but it does cause them immense pain,¡± says Waldon. ¡°A broken neck would have killed him though, just as it would anyone. How did he fall?¡±


    ¡°I used the dust on him,¡± I say.


    ¡°Ah, Forget-Me Dust,¡± says Waldon. ¡°Quite clever. That will have been Wendy¡¯s idea.¡± Then he reaches for the bound black book. ¡°And this will have been Arthur¡¯s.¡± He sighs. ¡°Well, this solves one mystery. This particular item was stolen from the High Council fifteen years ago.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s what brought me here.¡±


    ¡°Yes, it¡¯s called a flashport. They provide entry into various public points around Aurelia. But they¡¯re illegal, because they allow one to bypass the border that encircles Aurelia.¡± He sets the book down, his stunned expression mirroring my own. ¡°Quite meticulous planning on Arthur and Wendy¡¯s part. They covered all the bases. These items would have allowed you to return at any point if and when you were ready.¡±


    ¡°But why?¡± I ask. ¡°Do you know why they chose to have me outside Aurelia?¡±


    Waldon doesn¡¯t answer immediately. When he does speak, he appears to be talking just as much to himself as to me, as though trying to intuit for himself the reasons behind my parents¡¯ actions. ¡°I believe I do. You see, a few weeks before they died, the NIA received word of a prophecy about your family¡­¡± He pauses. ¡°It predicted their deaths.¡±


    ¡°The NIA?¡±


    ¡°The National Intelligence Agency,¡± says Waldon. ¡°It¡¯s a special branch within the High Council. NIA agents work on cases outside the scope of regional law enforcement¡ªthreats to national security and high-profile crimes, for instance.¡±


    I nod my understanding.


    ¡°Now, the public knew Wendy was pregnant,¡± continues Waldon. ¡°But after her due date came and went, your parents claimed they lost the baby. You. They told the Council you were stillborn. I imagine they did what they did as a precaution, so that your name would not appear in the Aurelian Birth Registry.¡± He gestures to the large, worn book on the table.


    ¡°But my father worked for the High Council,¡± I say slowly. ¡°Why didn¡¯t he at least tell them that I was alive somewhere?¡±


    ¡°I think Arthur and Wendy felt uncertain who to trust,¡± says Waldon. ¡°They did not want to take the chance of entrusting such delicate information to the wrong person.¡±


    ¡°Before Clem tried to kill me,¡± I say, ¡°he said something about¡­. someone getting blamed for my parents¡¯ deaths. Do you know what he was talking about?¡±


    ¡°Blamed,¡± scoffs Waldon, before pursing his lips. ¡°Riley, the man who killed your parents is named Hodge Davis. He was the caretaker at James Manor.¡±


    I blink. ¡°The caretaker? But why would he kill them?¡±


    ¡°Hodge was mixed up with the wrong crowd. His family had a reputation. One day, Arthur caught Hodge¡¯s brother, Slater, selling illegal poisons and had him arrested. Hodge wasn¡¯t happy. He poisoned them in retaliation.¡±


    A sudden tidal wave of emotions threatens to overwhelm me. This man Hodge is the reason I¡¯ll never meet my parents. The reason I grew up in a group home and felt abandoned all my life. The reason I spent fifteen years thinking my parents were awful people. And¡­ for what? To avenge a criminal?


    Even if Hodge was angry about his brother¡¯s arrest, wasn¡¯t murder still a bit of a¡­ well, overreaction? Why not just quit his job? Cut ties with my parents? Or, if he really wanted to be petty about it, ruin their hedge? Why did he have to kill them?


    ¡°Is Hodge a vampire too?¡± I ask, struggling to keep my voice even.


    ¡°No, Hodge is a werewolf,¡± says Waldon. ¡°Which is why I¡¯m rather perplexed that it was a vampire that tried to kill you. Vampires usually stick with their own. They¡¯re quite dangerous, and so, forbidden from leaving their region in the Shadow Canyons, per a pact with the Council¡­ the only exception is when one comes from a mixed-order family.¡±


    ¡°Where are the Shadow Canyons?¡± I can only hope it¡¯s far from Skeleton Grove.


    ¡°In the north, just beyond the Craggy Mountains,¡± says Waldon. ¡°Each order has its own region. Witches reside in the Misty Moors, werewolves in the Marshlands, and harpies in the Ravenstone Peaks.¡±


    ¡°Clem said he wanted revenge. The way he talked¡­ ¡± I say. ¡°He thought Hodge was innocent.¡±


    Waldon sighs. ¡°There¡¯s something you need to understand about werewolves, Riley. They can be rather volatile, and their bite causes temporary paralysis. It¡¯s best to stay wary of them. At times, they can be downright violent¡­ similar to vampires. You should have seen the riots after Hodge was arrested.¡±Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    ¡°Riots?¡±


    ¡°Riots, protests¡ªpeople can call it whatever they want.¡± Waldon waves a hand. ¡°It was an insult to the Council, is what it was.¡±


    I open my mouth¡ª


    ¡°We don¡¯t take murder accusations lightly, you know?¡± says Waldon, though he doesn¡¯t seem to expect an answer as he rants on. ¡°We investigated thoroughly, of course¡ªthe evidence against Hodge was overwhelming. Unmistakable. But even still, the werewolf community continues to deny the reality of the situation, ignoring all evidence, all facts¡­ choosing instead to question the Council¡¯s integrity.¡±


    I inhale to try again¡ª


    ¡°They keep insisting he didn¡¯t do it¡ªthat he was framed, and that the Council¡ª¡± Waldon breaks off, shaking his head as though the criticism is too blasphemous to even repeat. ¡°But this time the Council has given him the best defense possible, which should lay any lingering doubts to rest.¡±


    ¡°You mean the trial isn¡¯t over?¡± I ask, speaking quickly while I have the chance.


    ¡°He keeps appealing,¡± says Waldon. ¡°But he¡¯s on his last one now.¡±


    I nod slowly, fighting to keep my composure despite the raging storm rising inside me. This man took my parents from me. My parents. Aurelia. My entire heritage. And yet, he has the audacity to appeal his sentence.


    ¡°Well, I think that¡¯s enough for today,¡± says Waldon, before looking back at the paper in his hands and shaking his head. ¡°It is truly quite lucky I was here. Had the Registry Department been left to their own devices, you would not have been in Aurelia much longer.¡±


    My heart lurches as I¡¯m dragged back to the present. ¡°So I can stay? Even though my name isn¡¯t in the Birth Registry?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid that decision does not rest with me,¡± says Waldon. ¡°You see, only those born in Aurelia are able to do magic. So even though you were born to two witches¡ª¡±


    ¡°¡ªI¡¯m not able to do magic,¡± I finish, my voice hollow.


    ¡°Correct. And as you¡¯ve probably already noticed, Aurelia isn¡¯t like the rest of the world. In a country where everything from its ecosystem to the economy revolves around magic, it would not provide a very good quality of life for humans. Particularly when you consider the surplus of magical monsters living here. The very landscape is embedded with magic, and dangerous in its own right.¡± He pauses. ¡°It¡¯s why the humans must go through an extensive registration process to enter the mainland.¡±


    My eyes widen. ¡°But then, there are people here who can¡¯t do magic?¡±


    ¡°Yes, but only those born in Aurelia, belonging to the Human Order,¡± says Waldon. ¡°For their own protection, the humans live with their own kind on an island off the coast where the concentration of magical energy is lowest. They must obtain visas if they wish to come to the mainland for any reason, such as work, and need a sponsor with magical ability who will take responsibility for them while they are here, to look out for their safety.¡± He lifts an eyebrow. ¡°Now, I believe that ought to help you understand why the Council must enforce such strict policies surrounding noncitizens, correct?¡±


    I stare. Does he actually expect me to respond with an affirmative? Magical ability or not, Aurelia is supposed to be my home. The place where I belong. Is he really going to just step aside and let whoever makes these decisions send me away again?


    But he doesn¡¯t wait to hear my opinion.


    ¡°Speaking of which,¡± he continues, holding up the black book again, ¡°I¡¯m afraid I will need to confiscate this. As I said earlier, in the wrong hands, this book could cause a national security breach.¡±


    Mutely, I watch him pocket the book, feeling my heart vanish with it, my hope. If they deport me¡ªand they probably will¡ªI¡¯ll have no way of ever returning to Aurelia.


    Anger worms its way into my pores, and I shout curses at Hodge in my mind.


    ¡°Who gets to decide if I can stay?¡± I ask, throat raw, tight.


    ¡°The Witch Elder,¡± says Waldon. ¡°He would need to grant an exception.¡±


    ¡°Elder?¡±


    ¡°The Elders are the founders of Aurelia¡­ there are four of them, one from each of the magical orders. They oversee matters pertaining to their respective order.¡± Waldon finally seems to take note of my despondency, and his expression softens. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Riley. I know this isn¡¯t the news you wanted to hear. But unfortunately, the law is the law.¡±


    I say nothing. Law or not, it doesn¡¯t feel right. Even though I wasn¡¯t born in Aurelia¡ªhadn¡¯t even heard of the place until a day ago¡ªI have ties to it. A connection through my parents. Hell, I even own a house here. It¡¯s a murder house, sure, but a property I¡¯m entitled to nonetheless.


    ¡°Now then,¡± says Waldon, pushing back my belongings, ¡°we¡¯d best be on our way before Agnes has another fit.¡± He winks, as though trying to coax a smile out of me. I refuse to oblige him.


    ¡°Where are we going?¡± I ask dully, packing my things into my rucksack.


    Waldon raises an eyebrow. ¡°James Manor, of course. I will arrange a High Council meeting for tomorrow morning to discuss your situation. In the meantime, I thought you might like to spend some time at your family home. You ought to be fine for one night.¡±


    My fingers tighten on my bag. ¡°Um¡­ about that. I¡¯m pretty sure it¡¯s haunted. I mean, it is haunted¡ªit¡¯s full of these¡ªwell, I¡¯m not sure what they are, but they have lots of sharp teeth¡ª¡±


    But Waldon cuts me off, waving a hand. ¡°Ah, those are only household pests.¡±


    I stare. He knows I¡¯m not talking about mice, right?


    ¡°Abandoned dwellings tend to turn into breeding grounds for them,¡± says Waldon. ¡°Common nuisance for people returning from holiday. I¡¯m sure James Manor is crawling with them after being uninhabited for so long.¡±


    I blink. Nuisance isn¡¯t the term I would use to describe what is obviously a deadly threat. Would he call a mountain lion a nuisance too?


    ¡°You needn¡¯t worry,¡± says Waldon, with a smile I don¡¯t find at all reassuring.


    Maybe he just wants me dead. That¡¯s it. National security problem solved.


    ¡°We¡¯ll have Beast Control come out,¡± continues Waldon, standing up. ¡°Until then, there¡¯s an easy remedy.¡±


    Waldon turns to the armchair from earlier, where a pile of papers still lay scattered about. I catch sight of a newspaper headline that turns my blood cold. FIFTH DISAPPEARANCE THIS YEAR. But before I can read the caption beneath, Waldon stuffs it into his briefcase.


    We find Agnes pacing outside, muttering to herself.


    As soon as the door snaps shut behind us, she whips around. ¡°About time,¡± she says, her shrill voice following us down the hall.


    As we pass an open doorway, I spot Euston, hunched over a cluttered desk, placing what looked like earplugs into his ears. ¡°I¡¯ve had enough of you Councilors barging in like you own the place, barking orders. This is¡ª¡±


    ¡°Your department, I know,¡± says Waldon, turning to face the red-faced woman. ¡°My sincerest apologies, Agnes. We are just leaving.¡±


    Agnes narrows her gaze at me. ¡°What about the girl? Is she a spy?¡±


    I stare.


    ¡°I do not believe she is a spy¡ª¡± Waldon¡¯s mouth twitches slightly.


    ¡°She¡¯s not an Aurelian citizen, Waldon,¡± says Agnes. ¡°She will need to be deported per the long-held bylaws of your Council.¡±


    ¡°I thank you for reminding me of our own bylaws, Agnes. Your commitment to them is held in the highest regard amongst our members.¡±


    Agnes stands taller and puffs out her chest.


    ¡°The High Council will have to evaluate this matter further before taking action,¡± continues Waldon. ¡°In the meantime, I presume you will treat today¡¯s proceedings with utmost confidentiality?¡±


    Agnes looks affronted. ¡°This department has never had an information breach while I¡¯ve been in charge.¡±


    ¡°Very admirable indeed, Agnes.¡± Waldon gives her a small bow before crossing to open the door for me. I hurry into the hall, all too relieved to be leaving the Registry.


    As Waldon follows me across the threshold, an alarm sounded above the doorway.


    ¡°WALDON! It is forbidden to take documents from the Registry¡¯s Library¡ªgive them here! Give them here NOW!¡±


    Waldon pokes his head back inside, ¡°Not to worry, Agnes. I¡¯ll have them back first thing in the morning.¡±


    The door closes at the same time Agnes screeched again, ¡°ALBERS!¡±


    ***


    Waldon accompanies me back to James Manor, conjuring a container of food before he leaves and ensuring I¡¯m wearing my FireEye. As it turns out, the flaming bracelet from the chest is more than a bizarre fashion statement. It¡¯s actually intended to ward off house pests.


    I step cautiously into the foyer before edging my way through the cobwebbed halls. It isn¡¯t long before I have an opportunity to test out the FireEye. As I climb the stairs to the second-floor landing, a skittering noise sounds behind me. I barely catch a glimpse of something huge and scaly before it scampers off, half growling, half whimpering at the dazzling ring of orange-red flames blazing around my wrist.


    I take refuge for the night in my parents¡¯ bedroom. The monster that was in there earlier must have finally worked out the magic of a doorknob.


    I examine the room thoroughly, waving my FireEye into the closet and under furniture. Once I¡¯m convinced that nothing is lurking in the shadows, I settle into the window nook with a dusty blanket. I sit there for some time, wolfing down the food Waldon provided and watching as the gray sky turns grayer and eventually deepens into black.


    A numb, empty feeling smothers me like a heavy blanket. It¡¯s because of Hodge that I¡¯m alone in my family¡¯s manor right now. It¡¯s because of Hodge that I might be deported tomorrow. I wanted to know what happened to my parents. I wanted the truth. But now that I have it¡­ the realization of how different my life could have been¡­


    I suck in deep, heaving breaths through my nostrils to force back the tears threatening to spill, stopping the rush of emotion in its tracks.


    I doubt I¡¯ll be able to fall asleep in a haunted manor, but exhaustion wins out in the end. As I drift off, too tired even to move to the bed, I become vaguely aware of a welcoming warmth and a soft crackling sound. My eyes flicker open halfway.


    Flames have sprung up in the fireplace of their own accord.

 The High Council

    When I open my eyes, I find myself staring out a dewy window into the misty, gray-pink morning. It takes me a moment to remember where I am. Then the memory of it all floods my mind. I would believe this some long, weird dream were it not for the fact that I¡¯m clearly not at the community home anymore.


    I stand and cross to the closet. If I want the High Council to take me seriously, I need to look like I belong here. A large majority of the clothing inside has been torn and gnawed on, but I manage to find a few intact items that must have belonged to my mother. The size is the problem¡ªthe clothes look a little large.


    Out of options, I slide into a pair of black pants, hoping they won¡¯t look too baggy. I zip them up, but my fingers still, a shocked gasp escaping my lips, when they magically tailor themselves to fit my form exactly.


    Next, I find an olive sweater, hoping it will do the same. But as I move to pull it on, a new sight makes me pause. A strange tattoo marks my right forearm¡ªone that wasn¡¯t there before. A four-cornered endless knot with one loop encircling a small dragon. Bold and vivid. The mark I dreamed about on my birthday¡­ same as the one on the pendant.


    Unease pools in my stomach. Seeing no reason to draw attention to it until I understand its meaning, I tuck the pendant securely beneath my sweater and make sure that my sleeve fully covers the mark.


    ***


    ¡°We will travel by shadow imparter,¡± says Waldon after collecting me from the manor. He pulls a silver object from his pocket¡ªthe same item that Officer Tash used the day before.


    I¡¯m suddenly reminded of something. ¡°Mr. Lewis?¡±


    ¡°Call me Waldon,¡± he says.


    ¡°Right. Waldon. Um, the police said something when they arrested me¡ª¡±


    ¡°Scorchers.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°The authorities here are called scorchers.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Well, they said no one had been able to enter the manor in over a decade¡ª¡±


    ¡°Fifteen years, to be exact,¡± says Waldon, a sideways smile gracing his lips. ¡°But I¡¯m guessing you had no difficulty entering?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ no. The door wasn¡¯t even locked.¡±


    ¡°That wouldn¡¯t have mattered. Only the rightful heir would have been able to enter the place. Not even the Elders could get in. It¡¯s been quite the mystery¡ªuntil now.¡±


    Waldon clicks the top of the imparter, and a shadowy black wraith rises up like before, its long arms shrouding us in darkness. Once again, my soul is sucked from my body and pulled through an endless void, a familiar sense of horror burrowing through me as those writhing strands of silver¡ªwhich I now know to be spirits¡ªswarm the distance.


    And then I¡¯m reunited with my body, the trip much quicker with the shadow imparter than the teleportation hub or flashport.


    ¡°Why does anyone bother with a teleportation hub when they could just use those?¡± I ask, as Waldon pockets the imparter.


    ¡°The oil inside is expensive,¡± says Waldon. ¡°And only good for about three trips, depending on the distance. Plus, only those aged eighteen or older are allowed to operate one.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because shadow imparters can be temperamental,¡± says Waldon. ¡°Disastrous even. They only work for places you¡¯ve already been to. That¡¯s why the telehub is the best option for the majority of people. Of course, there are self-steered carriages, if one prefers the scenic route. But I can¡¯t imagine who has time for that nowadays.¡±


    He motions behind me. ¡°Wingate Castle¡ªheadquarters of the High Council. We¡¯re now on the northern edge of the Misty Moors region.¡±


    I turn. My jaw goes slack.


    A thousand windows poke through the walls of the largest castle I¡¯ve ever seen. Though it looks several centuries old, its structures are as sturdy and striking as ever. Numerous spires and turrets dot the sky, rising so high that only their shadowy outlines are distinguishable through the haze. Its stone walls have darkened with age so that it blends quite fittingly with the backdrop of the cloudy gray sky. A dozen winged forms circle its turrets, sweeping through the sky like oversized bats.


    One lands on a bridge ahead of us, sharp claws digging into the railing. A gargoyle¡ªthis one resembling an angry winged troll with teeth like knives. I gulp as it narrows its gaze at us.


    Waldon leads me to a covered stone bridge that stretches across a deep ravine, where a gray-blue river rushes a hundred feet below. It connects the castle with a smaller stone building behind us, which I think is a telehub.


    ¡°Those are the Craggy Mountains,¡± says Waldon, pointing to the immense, lofty range of jagged gray rock blanketing the horizon. Between two summits, the sun is attempting¡ªand failing¡ªto peek out from behind the sea of gray clouds.


    We climb a set of stone steps to the arched entrance, and Waldon presses a badge to the door. It opens into a long corridor lined with mullioned windows on one side and flaming lanterns on the other. My gaze circles around, soaking everything in like a child seeing the world for the first time, as Waldon ushers me down a labyrinth of stone passages.


    ¡°This is the Hall of Emeritus,¡± he says, as we arrive at a corridor accentuated with a plush red rug. Large portraits crowd every inch of wall space on either side. ¡°These are late politicians who once served the High Council. They were later awarded membership to the Order of Emeritus for some extraordinary contribution. It¡¯s the highest honor a politician can hope to achieve.¡±


    Judging by his voice, Waldon clearly hopes to one day earn a spot on the wall.


    We stop at a door at the end of the hall. Waldon turns to me. ¡°We¡¯ll be meeting today with the high councilors of the Witch Council¡ªrepresenting the Misty Moors. Each order¡¯s region is divided into twelve territories, with one high councilor elected to represent it as governor. Ready?¡±


    Insides squirming, I nod, and Waldon opens the door. I follow him into a large, echoing meeting hall. Its walls flicker orange with every crackle of fire in the monstrous fireplace at one end. A dozen high-backed chairs flank a long table, the majority occupied with people chatting quietly amongst themselves.


    ¡°That¡¯s Atticus Wolcott,¡± says Waldon, nudging me. ¡°He¡¯s the Witch Elder.¡±


    I follow Waldon¡¯s gaze to a man sitting at the head of the table. He has sharp features and hard stone-gray eyes. His lips are angled down in a frown, and he¡¯s the only one sitting in silence.


    So this is the person who will decide my fate.


    ¡°He seems upset,¡± I say out of the corner of my mouth.


    ¡°He always looks that way,¡± says Waldon.


    At that moment, Atticus¡¯s stony gaze flicks to us. He raises an impatient eyebrow.


    ¡°Shall we?¡± says Waldon.


    I follow Waldon to the table, my face heating as the room evaporates into silence, all gazes rising to settle on us as we sit down.


    Waldon clears his throat. ¡°Thank you all for coming today. I apologize for the short notice. I have someone here for you to meet.¡± I look down, focusing on a thin scratch on the table¡¯s surface as the weight of everyone¡¯s gazes pins me down. ¡°This is Riley James, daughter of Arthur and Wendy James.¡±


    There is a sudden outbreak of movement and murmurs. And I can¡¯t help it¡ªI glance up. The reactions are mixed: Most exchange significant looks of shock or disbelief; a man with bright orange hair has frozen as though in a stupor, one eyebrow etched high above the other; a strong-jawed woman with thick dark hair knotted in a wild bun is peering at me with an intelligent, curious gaze, as though looking straight through me. Opposite her, Atticus sits very still, a hard expression on his face. His frown has deepened.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    ¡°The daughter of Arthur and Wendy?¡± Atticus repeats slowly, lips barely moving. ¡°It¡¯s absurd. Surely you, Waldon, of all people do not believe this?¡±


    I decide I don¡¯t much like Atticus.


    ¡°It¡¯s her, Atticus,¡± says Waldon, unfazed. ¡°They confirmed her identity at the Registry Department yesterday.¡±


    ¡°But, Waldon,¡± says a man beside Atticus¡ªclad in an immaculate green suit with thick, trimly cut dark hair and a pointed nose. ¡°Arthur told us she was stillborn.¡±


    ¡°And yet, Alistair, here she is in the flesh,¡± says Waldon. As everyone looks to me again, I resume staring at the table. ¡°Riley has been in Scotland all this time¡ªthe Stornoway Community Home on the Isle of Lewis.¡±


    ¡°How did she manage to get here?¡± someone asks.


    Waldon recounts the attack and the chest and its contents, including the flashport. Atticus¡¯s expression sours.


    ¡°But how was her identity confirmed if she¡¯s not in the registry?¡± asks another councilor.


    Instead of answering her, Waldon turns to me. ¡°Could you please retrieve that exam from your bag?¡±


    I blink, before leaning down to fumble through my rucksack. I tug the exam out from under the chest, accidentally ripping it in two in the process. I stiffen as the sound slices through the hall.


    I curse under my breath before straightening. Face burning, I hand both halves to Waldon with an apologetic look.


    ¡°She had this in her bag when it was confiscated,¡± says Waldon, pushing it across the table to a fellow councilor. ¡°She was trying to conceal her identity, but as you can see, her name is written clearly at the top corner there¡­ nope, on the right half.¡±


    Face now so hot it could probably fry an egg, I sink deep into my chair as my failed history exam makes its way around the room. If only I could have predicted this moment, I might have studied harder.


    When it comes around to him, the man with orange hair laughs jovially. ¡°I don¡¯t like history that much, meself,¡± he says with a thick accent, winking at me.


    I slump lower in my chair, head almost level with the table. When the exam¡¯s returned to me, I stuff it furiously into my bag.


    ¡°Waldon, with all due respect, that exam could have been faked,¡± says Atticus, stroking back his dark hair.


    ¡°The girl has no knowledge of Aurelia, Atticus,¡± says Waldon, frowning. Apparently, this isn¡¯t going as planned. ¡°She was able to enter James Manor. No one but the true heir of Arthur and Wendy could have done so, as we all know.¡±


    Atticus clears his throat. ¡°Fine. But the child cannot stay here. She was not born in Aurelia and therefore has no magical capability whatsoever. If she is not in the Birth Registry, then she is not considered a citizen. That is our law.¡±


    My heart lands in my stomach. That¡¯s it? Atticus isn¡¯t even going to consider other options?


    ¡°I realize that, Atticus. But surely given the circumstances¡ª¡±


    ¡°Arthur and Wendy made their choice,¡± says Atticus, lips thinning. ¡°Besides, she will be safest outside of Aurelia.¡±


    The room falls silent. Waldon nods stiffly. I can tell he feels sorry for me. Just not sorry enough to appeal further.


    ¡°Arthur and Wendy wanted her to have the choice to come here, Atticus,¡± says the strong-jawed woman with dark hair, staring down Atticus from the opposite end of the table. ¡°That much is evident from the flashport they gave her.¡±


    ¡°Are you forgetting that Arthur stole that item from the Council? Its use outside of Aurelia is illegal, and for good reason. He knew that. What if it had fallen into the wrong hands and our country had been infiltrated by outsiders?¡± Murmurs of agreement around the table. ¡°He tricked us all, Athena,¡± says Atticus softly.


    ¡°Can you blame him?¡± asks Athena. ¡°Look at the circumstances. Arthur and Wendy didn¡¯t know who to trust, so they took matters into their own hands to ensure their daughter¡¯s safety. You can¡¯t possibly fault them for that. It¡¯s clear they always intended for her to know her true home.¡±


    ¡°It does not matter what Arthur and Wendy intended,¡± says Atticus, raising his voice. ¡°It is our laws that matter here. They are in place for a reason, as you very well know.¡±


    ¡°That law is meant for someone of no magical ancestry or connection to Aurelia.¡± Athena doesn¡¯t raise her voice, but it nevertheless commands a degree of authority. ¡°Riley James is a descendant of one of the most esteemed families in Aurelian history. Aurelia is her birthright.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps that would have been true if Arthur and Wendy had not chosen to break countless laws in their effort to deceive the High Council.¡±


    ¡°Just because you¡¯re angry that Arthur and Wendy hoodwinked you, Atticus¡ª¡± a collective intake of breath around the table ¡°¡ªdoesn¡¯t give you the right to take it out on their daughter.¡±


    ¡°Aurelia is a dangerous place, particularly for someone of no magical ability,¡± says Atticus, his face reddening. ¡°Would you condemn her to the life of the Human Order?¡±


    On either side of the table, the gazes of the others dance back and forth in unison between Atticus and Athena, as though watching a competitive game of ping-pong.


    ¡°She would not go to live on Phantom Island,¡± says Athena. ¡°She would stay at James Manor where she belongs.¡±


    ¡°And who would supervise her? The High Council has more important things to do than babysit a child.¡±


    ¡°She is not a child,¡± says Athena. ¡°I¡¯m sure the girl is well aware by now that there¡¯s a danger to staying in Aurelia. She deserves a choice in the matter.¡± Before Atticus can interject, Athena turns her amber eyes on me. ¡°Riley, do you want to stay in Aurelia or return to Scotland?¡±


    Everyone except Atticus, who is glaring daggers at Athena, turns to me.


    ¡°I want to stay,¡± I say clearly.


    Athena smiles at me.


    Atticus slams a fist on the table. ¡°I will not allow it,¡± he snarls. ¡°She has no magical ability. We would have to assign a Council member as her legal guardian. We would have to educate her¡ªit¡¯s not as though she could simply enroll at Grimlock. It would be an inappropriate use of the Council¡¯s resources.¡±


    ¡°An inappropriate use of Council resources?¡± A quiet fury laces Athena¡¯s voice. ¡°Looking after the daughter of a man who served this Council for most of his life? Someone who would have done anything to protect the very people in this room?¡±


    Several members murmur their agreement.


    Atticus forces a smile, though it looks very much like a grimace. ¡°Arthur¡¯s actions as Witch Guardian were admirable. The best way to repay him is to ensure his daughter¡¯s safety. She will not be safe in Aurelia¡ªnot when she has no magic to defend herself.¡±


    Athena opens her mouth¡ª


    ¡°This is not up for debate,¡± says Atticus, with an air of finality. ¡°She cannot stay.¡±


    Silence falls on the room.


    My heart leaves my chest.


    ¡°But there¡¯s a Human Order,¡± I blurt out desperately. ¡°There are others here who can¡¯t do magic¡ª¡±


    Atticus turns his stony gaze on me. ¡°Unlike you, Miss James, their names are in the Birth Registry. Do not speak about that which you don¡¯t understand.¡±


    ¡°But no one there knows who I am anymore,¡± I say, hating when my voice cracks. ¡°I used Forget-Me Dust.¡±


    ¡°You can be re-introduced,¡± says Atticus, with a lazy wave of his hand.


    Start from scratch? After having my memory wiped? He can¡¯t be serious. Only¡­ he is. I swallow, looking around the table. Though I¡¯m met by looks of pity, no one else intervenes on my behalf. Next to me, Waldon avoids my gaze. It appears that this man, Atticus, holds a power in the Council that will not be overruled. If not for him, I could have stayed in Aurelia.


    No¡­ if not for Hodge.


    And suddenly, all I see is red, my nails biting into my skin as I clench my fists under the table. It¡¯s because of him that I¡¯m in this situation. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. I repeat this over and over in my head.


    My new mantra.


    Athena is breathing heavily as she stares¡ªno, glares¡ªat Atticus, no longer making an effort to contain her anger. ¡°You will not take away her memory of this, Atticus. It would be cruel. She deserves to keep the knowledge she has learned of her parents and where she is from.¡±


    ¡°You propose returning her outside with full knowledge of Aurelia? You would prefer to put our nation at risk? As a High Councilor, you ought to know better, Athena,¡± says Atticus.


    ¡°She could sign an oath,¡± says Athena, lips tight. ¡°Just as our own citizens do when they leave the country. One of us can bind the document after she signs it.¡±


    Atticus does not look happy but doesn¡¯t dispute further. He leans back in his chair and waves a dismissive hand in Athena¡¯s direction. ¡°Well, get on with it then.¡±


    Athena exhales and stands, chair scraping noisily against the floor. Everyone waits as she leaves the room.


    My eyes burn, and I blink furiously. How can I return to life at the community home knowing what I know now? It¡¯s almost worse than the blissful ignorance that would come from having my memory wiped. Almost.


    Athena returns a few minutes later with a coil of yellow paper in hand. She rolls out the scroll, then picks up a black pen that matches her polished black nails. The room is silent except for the sound of pen against paper as Athena scribbles in blanks, pressing much harder than necessary.


    As I watch her, I remember something. The mystery pen from the chest. The label said to use it in case of an emergency. Well, this is an emergency, isn¡¯t it? Is it possible my parents foresaw this hurdle in their grand plan?


    Athena stops writing and passes the document down the table.


    I need to do something. As the document travels from hand to hand, an idea hatches in my mind. It might not work. I might be wrong¡­ but I have to try. There¡¯s nothing to lose and everything to gain, if my theory is correct.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Riley,¡± says Waldon, pausing with the scroll in his hands. Written at the top of the page are the words Oath of Secrecy. ¡°We will need your signature at the bottom here. Once you¡¯ve signed, we will discuss details of your departure.¡± He doesn¡¯t meet my eyes as he passes me the contract and pen.


    Taking a deep breath, I pull the contract to me, strategically moving it so that the pen on top rolls off the edge of the table, to the floor. The clatter echoes around the room. ¡°Oops, sorry,¡± I mutter, praying that the others will attribute the fumble to nerves.


    Heart racing, I bend down in the guise of picking it up¡ªand then, use that moment to extract the one from within my open rucksack. Thanks to my earlier search for the exam, I know exactly where it is. As I straighten, I nudge the other pen farther under the table with my foot.


    Slowly, I lift the pen above the signature line, hand trembling as I wait for someone to shout, to rip the pen away. But there¡¯s only tense silence. No one noticed the swap. I sign my name, not knowing what¡ªif anything¡ªto expect.


    ¡°Now, I will bind¡ª¡± Waldon¡¯s voice breaks off.


    A thread of purple flows from my signature. The contract rises of its own accord, hovering just above the table as the thread twists and coils, roping itself around the document in a flurry. The bound scroll falls back onto the table, quite still.


    I look up uncertainly. My eyes first find Athena, whose lips are stretched wide in a triumphant smile. Then I look sideways at Waldon, who¡¯s staring at the scroll, his expression a blend of shock and satisfaction. Around the table, the others share similar looks of disbelief. The orange-haired man across from me mutters ¡°Ha!¡± under his breath.


    Atticus is the only one who appears outright angry, staring hard at the document as though it has personally insulted him.


    ¡°Well, that settles it then, eh?¡± says the orange-haired man. ¡°The girl¡¯s a witch after all.¡±

 The Oath of Secrecy

    An outbreak of discussion ensues.


    ¡°But her name isn¡¯t in the Birth Registry.¡±


    ¡°She wasn¡¯t born in Aurelia.¡±


    ¡°How can this be?¡±


    ¡°How, indeed,¡± echoes Atticus quietly, lips stretched thin and white, clearly furious that my parents found a loophole in the system. Or so he thinks.


    A long silence stretches as everyone looks around the table.


    ¡°A mystery we may never understand,¡± Athena says pleasantly, clapping her hands together. ¡°As is the case with most things concerning magic, lest we forget.¡±


    ¡°Indeed,¡± says Waldon, still eyeing the scroll.


    ¡°So¡­ I am a witch?¡± I repeat.


    ¡°The oath bound itself upon your signature. That means¡ª¡± Waldon scratches his nose ¡°¡ªthat you must be able to do magic.¡±


    I was right then. My parents must have predicted a situation like this would arise when I returned to Aurelia, so they¡¯d provided me with a failsafe.


    I keep my expression neutral and furtively move the pen to my lap. Did it really fool everyone? It seems too good to be true. Too easy. But as I glance around the table, no one questions it¡ªnot even Atticus.


    ¡°Which means, Riley, that nothing is holding you back from remaining in Aurelia,¡± says Athena, shooting a smug look at Atticus, as if daring him to try.


    There¡¯s a flash of purple, and the scroll disappears from the table and a second later materializes in Athena¡¯s hand. ¡°Well then,¡± she says, tone matter-of-fact, ¡°as there is no longer a need for her departure¡ª¡± she tears the scroll down the middle, and it vanishes in a puff of smoke ¡°¡ªI would like to discuss how we will proceed.¡±


    ¡°Well, as Riley is underage, she will need a legal guardian,¡± says Waldon.


    ¡°I would like to volunteer,¡± says the man beside Atticus. ¡°I am certain my brother would have wanted her to remain under the care of family.¡±


    ¡°Family?¡± I repeat.


    ¡°Yes, Riley, this is Alistair James,¡± says Waldon. ¡°Arthur¡¯s brother. He and his son are your last remaining family in Aurelia.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ you¡¯re my¡ª¡±


    ¡°Uncle, yes,¡± says Alistair, giving me a rather formal smile.


    I don¡¯t return it. If this man is my uncle, why didn¡¯t he fight for me to stay?


    After a beat of awkward silence, I ask, ¡°Will I not be staying at James Manor then?¡±


    ¡°I think Arthur and Wendy would have wanted you to stay in your family home,¡± says Alistair. ¡°My son and I can take up residence there. We don¡¯t live far¡ªit should be an easy move.¡± He turns to Waldon. ¡°I¡¯ll have her added to the village roster in Skeleton Grove.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Alistair,¡± says Waldon. ¡°Next, I think, we ought to begin her magic training.¡±


    I blanch. Oh no.


    ¡°We can enroll her for the Ibis term at Grimlock,¡± Waldon continues, ¡°but she would benefit first from private lessons to get her up to speed. I would be happy to tutor¡ª¡±


    ¡°Waldon,¡± interrupts Atticus, finally looking up from the table, which he¡¯d been frowning at. ¡°You¡¯re quite busy as it is with the NIA. Speak with Horsewood¡ªhe can tutor her here.¡±


    ¡°Allow me,¡± says Athena. ¡°He ought to be in his study.¡± She rises from her chair and leaves the room.


    Atticus stands as well. ¡°Well then, as high councilors, I think we all have more pressing matters to attend to than acclimating a schoolgirl into society. This meeting is dismissed.¡± He glances sideways at my uncle. ¡°Alistair, a word, if you will.¡±


    Atticus strides across the room to the exit. I flinch when the door slams shut. Alistair rises more slowly, glances at Waldon.


    ¡°I¡¯ll make sure she gets back to the manor safely,¡± says Waldon.


    Alistair nods, then follows after Atticus.


    The orange-haired man leans forward, elbows digging into the table. ¡°Don¡¯t mind Atticus,¡± he says in his thick accent. ¡°He doesn¡¯t take well to surprises. He¡¯ll come ¡¯round.¡± He flashes me a smile, displaying a row of crooked teeth. ¡°My name¡¯s Ernie Poon.¡±


    ¡°Nice to meet you,¡± I say.


    Waldon and Ernie remain at the table, conversing quietly, while the others filter out of the room. Many stop to introduce themselves to me, though I promptly forget their name as soon as the next person comes up.


    A few minutes later, the door swings open, and Athena strides back in, followed by a tall, brawny man with a thick mane of graying hair and a matching beard.


    ¡°Riley, I didn¡¯t get a chance to properly introduce myself earlier,¡± she says, stepping forward. ¡°I¡¯m Athena Walburga.¡± Then she turns to her companion. ¡°And this is my colleague, Alpheus Horsewood. He heads the Guardian team. Alpheus has offered to train you in magic.¡±


    The man raises a thick eyebrow at Athena. ¡°Offered?¡±


    Athena shoots him a stern look before turning back to me. ¡°Alpheus has a background in experimental magicks. He has a broader knowledge of the many nuances concerning magic than most High Council members. He will ensure that all bases are covered.¡±


    Horsewood narrows his eyes at me, as though sizing me up. ¡°What is it that you¡¯ve accomplished so far then?¡±


    Ernie lets out a low chuckle from across the table.


    ¡°Um¡­ nothing,¡± I say, sucking in my lips.


    Horsewood clenches his jaw, turns to Athena. ¡°She¡¯s done no magic at all? Not even Class One spellwork?¡±


    ¡°Correct,¡± says Athena, with a pointed look. ¡°You will need to start from the beginning.¡±


    ¡°How convenient of you to leave that detail out,¡± says Horsewood, before turning back to me. I gulp. ¡°I¡¯ll be in touch soon to brief you on the logistics.¡±


    ¡°¡®Brief you o¡¯ the logistics,¡¯¡± chuckles Ernie, as Horsewood prowls out of the room. ¡°He remembers he¡¯s talkin¡¯ to a teenager, not the NIA, right?¡±


    ***


    Waldon gives me a tour of Wingate Castle and then escorts me back to Skeleton Grove. It storms all afternoon while we run errands. First he takes me to the local telehub and shows me how to use it. Then he brings me to the bank, where my parents¡¯ money is signed over to me. The funds had been moved to a cemetery trust upon their deaths¡ªmy parents¡¯ sneaky way of ensuring that something would be left for me if I ever returned. It isn¡¯t until Waldon explains the currency that I comprehend the amount of wealth I¡¯ve inherited. There are two units of currency in Aurelia: onyx claws¡ªwhich hold the most value¡ªand ruby scales. Most everyday items can be bought with scales. I struggle to rip my shocked gaze from the amount of claws listed on the bottom of the bank statement, which informs me that I¡¯m the Aurelian equivalent of a millionaire.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    After the bank, we visit the Graveyard, a large department store, where I buy a pocket mirror¡ªAurelia¡¯s version of a cell phone¡ªand other necessities. The fact that clothing and shoes magically tailor themselves to fit the wearer makes the task of shopping¡ªsomething I¡¯ve never really had the freedom nor the money to do myself and have now learned that I don¡¯t enjoy¡ªmuch quicker.


    Before returning to James Manor, Waldon suggests we stop for lunch. I follow him into the Viper¡¯s Tongue, the pub with the famous dragon blood soup. Inside, it bustles with voices and the clatter of dishes. The aroma of malt hangs strong in the air.


    Waldon places the order while I seek out a table. A short while later, a server carries over two bowls shaped like human skulls, brimming with the steamy red soup that smells sweet and savory and spicy all at once.


    I wrinkle my nose. ¡°Um¡­ it¡¯s not really dragon¡¯s blood, right?¡±


    There¡¯s little that would surprise me anymore.


    ¡°Most surely it isn¡¯t,¡± says Waldon, mouth twitching. ¡°We do, however, eat dragon meat. It¡¯s a true delicacy here. Though I would caution you against hunting down your own food. They¡¯re quite tough to catch really¡­ much more likely to catch you first.¡±


    I choke on a spoonful of soup. ¡°So they¡¯re real? Dragons, I mean?¡±


    ¡°As real as you and I.¡±


    The sky has darkened into dusk by the time Waldon walks me back and leaves me at the edge of Melody Lane. As I follow the trail, listening to the rain trickle through the canopy overhead before pattering along the ground, muddying the path, my afternoon euphoria is replaced by gut-wrenching anxiety, as though the darkening sky is unveiling the reality I¡¯d temporarily forgotten. What good will a pocket mirror and all my new belongings be once the Council uncovers my secret? The special pen from my parents bought me an extended stay in Aurelia. Everyone thinks I have magical ability. But eventually it will be deemed a fluke.


    A noise in the forest startles me. Slowly, I turn¡­ and see movement in the loose leaves coating the forest floor. Something is shifting beneath the overgrown grass.


    A moment later, a large black cat emerges from the bush. It halts several paces away and stares at me through wide, unblinking eyes that gleam like bright emerald pools. They have an overwhelming unnatural glow to them that makes the black pupils almost indiscernible. ¡°Shoo!¡± I say, unnerved by its stare. When it doesn¡¯t move, I step backward toward the gate, eyeing it uneasily. The cat follows, prowling forward, looking increasingly like a shifting shadow in the growing darkness, marked only by its unblinking green eyes.


    Is this a normal cat? Shouldn¡¯t it be scared of me? Clearly, it isn¡¯t, for it continues its slow approach.


    Losing my nerve, I turn and hurry through the gates. Halfway to the manor, I look over my shoulder. No sign of the cat.


    The door to the manor is ajar, a line of yellow light illuminating a hodgepodge of boxes strewn across the front steps. More line the foyer walls inside.


    ¡°Hello?¡± I call uncertainly, my voice bouncing off the walls.


    The pointed nose of Alistair James pokes around a corner. Seems he¡¯s wasted no time moving in.


    ¡°Welcome ba¡ª¡±


    ¡°How were you able to get in?¡± I ask, forehead creasing.


    Alistair blinks. ¡°Oh, well, you broke the seal on the house when you entered yesterday.¡± He points to a small pile of tombstone-gray paper bags squashed between two stacks of large boxes. My Graveyard purchases. ¡°Those came for you while you were out.¡± A moment of awkward silence. ¡°I decided to get settled today, as I have several important meetings tomorrow. My son, Mikhail, is around here somewhere. I suspect he¡¯ll be down shortly.¡±


    I yelp then as something swoops down from a high stack of boxes, dark wings fluttering through the air with the speed of a bat, before landing on Alistair¡¯s shoulder. I stare at it. Why do so many people have pet birds in Aurelia?


    ¡°This is Lenox,¡± says Alistair.


    ¡°He¡¯s¡ª¡± I start, unsure how to express my impression of the odd bird. I normally love any type of pet, but this one seems no less creepy than the stray cat outside. ¡°Large,¡± I finish weakly.


    Footsteps come running down the hall, and then a thin, panting woman steps into the foyer. She has mousy hair and the lightest of eyebrows, which blend so much with her alabaster skin that, at first, I don¡¯t see them at all. Her simple gray dress is a marked contrast to Alistair¡¯s luxury forest-green suit.


    ¡°Ah yes¡ªthis is Prunella,¡± says Alistair. The woman gives a small curtsy. ¡°She is our maid. She¡¯ll be living here at the manor as well.¡±


    The woman passes between us to the stack of boxes and hoists one up. She sways for a moment under its weight and readjusts her grip.


    ¡°Can¡¯t she use magic to lift the boxes?¡± I ask, watching the poor woman stagger off.


    ¡°No. Prunella is a human,¡± says Alistair. ¡°Ah, which reminds me.¡± He sticks his hand into the front pocket of his suit and hands me a scroll. ¡°Horsewood asked me to give you this. You¡¯ll start lessons with him first thing tomorrow.¡±


    Swallowing, I unroll the scroll and a metal badge lands in my palm.


    Meet me tomorrow morning at ten o¡¯clock in the Reading Room. Use the badge to enter Wingate. Do not be late.


    Prunella returns, forehead glistening in sweat. She goes to collect another box.


    ¡°Can I help?¡± I ask her, feeling sorry for the woman.


    Alistair answers instead. ¡°Yes, thank you. Just follow Prunella up.¡±


    I blink incredulously, pursing my lips. When he says nothing further, I grab a box and climb the stairs after Prunella. I nearly trip over a familiar bundle of burgundy blankets lying in a heap on the second-floor landing.


    Then I see the room that Prunella walks into and freeze, despite the rapid loss of circulation in my arms. The sheets and blankets have been switched out. Furniture moved around. Closet emptied. I¡¯m in such a stupor that I don¡¯t hear Alistair walk in until he¡¯s standing right beside me.


    I drop the box, not caring if anything fragile is inside.


    ¡°My parents¡¯ room?¡± I say loudly, blood searing through my veins. ¡°There must be a dozen bedrooms in this place, and you chose theirs?¡±


    Alistair turns, a look of mild shock overtaking his features. Prunella glances between us and, clearly sensing danger, ducks from the room.


    ¡°My apologies,¡± says Alistair, placing a hand on his chest. ¡°I had no idea it would bother you.¡±


    ¡°I just got here,¡± I say hotly. ¡°I want to go through their stuff.¡±


    ¡°Rest assured nothing has been thrown out,¡± says Alistair in a smooth voice. ¡°Prunella merely packed the items away.¡±


    I gape at him, seething.


    Alistair continues, ¡°It¡¯s just, you see, Arthur was my brother. Call me sentimental, but I felt drawn to his old room. Surely you can understand¡­¡±


    I clench my fists. I¡¯m certain that the room being the largest in the manor was also a strong determining factor. But I hold my tongue. Alistair and his son are my only remaining family, and I don¡¯t want to start off on a bad foot.


    The thought has barely crossed my mind when a familiar voice calls down the hall. ¡°Father?¡±


    I stiffen, my back going ramrod straight. Where do I know that voice from? I can¡¯t quite place it, but it nonetheless inspires a boiling fury in my bones.


    ¡°Father, did you ask Prunella to¡ªoh.¡± The boy from the town hall who nearly got me deported appears in the doorway. He seems to recognize me at the same moment I recognize him.


    ¡°There you are, Mikhail,¡± says Alistair. ¡°Please meet your cousin, Riley.¡±


    Mikhail composes himself. ¡°Pleasure,¡± he says, his tone affected.


    Despite the fact that we¡¯re cousins, I don¡¯t think we bear much resemblance, apart from our eyes. He¡¯s tall. Hollow cheekbones. Neatly parted dark hair framing an oblong face. Like his father, he¡¯s clad in luxurious attire, from his navy blazer to his polished shoes. A large gray bird with dark blue eyes rests on his left shoulder


    ¡°I¡¯m certain you two will have much in common,¡± says Alistair, to which we both raise an eyebrow. ¡°Mikhail will also be turning fifteen later this month. Now, I must find Prunella.¡± He brushes past us.


    ¡°Oh, won¡¯t you tell her to unpack my room?¡± Mikhail calls after him.


    Then there¡¯s silence as we stare at each other. My eyes flicker to the bird on his shoulder. He follows my gaze.


    ¡°This is my familiar, Drax,¡± says Mikhail. I want to ask what a familiar is, but also don¡¯t want to appear stupid in front of Mikhail. So I file it away in my mind, alongside the ever-growing log of questions I have about this strange country. ¡°My father told me they almost deported you.¡±


    I narrow my eyes. ¡°Thanks to you.¡±


    ¡°He also told me that you can¡¯t do magic.¡±


    ¡°I just got here,¡± I say, though my heart thumps. ¡°I¡¯m starting lessons tomorrow.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, well, your name isn¡¯t in the Registry,¡± says Mikhail. ¡°So it should be impossible for you to do magic.¡± A pause. ¡°My father thinks Athena Walburga tampered with that oath when she went to get it.¡±


    The blood leaves my face.


    Mikhail shrugs casually. ¡°Guess you¡¯ll find out tomorrow though, won¡¯t you?¡± He pauses at the doorway. ¡°Oh, also, I do hope you don¡¯t mind, but I¡¯ve claimed the larger bedroom nearest the stairs on the third floor.¡±


    My mood is fouling fast. Neither Mikhail nor Alistair thought to check before picking a room. The manor is mine, after all.


    I force a smile. ¡°Then I should warn you, the third floor is one of the more haunted spots in the house.¡±


    Mikhail rolls his eyes. ¡°It¡¯s only the house pests, and my father has already arranged for Beast Control to come out first thing tomorrow.¡±


    ¡°Yes, well, I slept in here last night and heard rattling and moaning coming from the room just above.¡± A beat. ¡°You know¡­ the large one by the stairs?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re lying.¡± Mikhail sneers, though he now looks unsure and perhaps a little pale.


    As soon as he¡¯s gone, my insides squirm uncomfortably. Mikhail¡¯s wrong¡ªbut not completely. Athena didn¡¯t tamper with the oath.


    I did.


    What will happen to me once the truth is revealed?

 Magic Problems

    That night, I lie awake for a long while, thoughts oscillating between my worries over the oath and a dull, aching sadness about my uncle and cousin. I hoped, more than anything, to find family here. But in all my fantasies, they were worlds apart from Alistair and Mikhail.


    And it¡¯s all thanks to Hodge that they are here right now instead of my parents.


    ¡°I hate him. I hate him. I hate him,¡± I whisper over and over to the darkness, as though it might answer back. And this time¡­ I can¡¯t stop it. Tears slide down my cheeks, dampening the roots of my hair, and soon, I¡¯m muffling sobs with my pillow so that Alistair and Mikhail don¡¯t hear.


    The words echo in my mind until I fall asleep.


    When Prunella knocks on my door to announce breakfast, I drag myself up and glance outside. The bedroom I chose faces the hilly grounds behind the manor, which are currently so thick with mist that I can¡¯t even make out the sea in the distance. It¡¯s as though all the color has been leached from the world, leaving behind a vast veil of gray.


    I change quickly, then go downstairs.


    I¡¯m nearly to the dining room when I hear a noise from my father¡¯s den. Peeking through the crack in the door, I see Alistair rummaging through a desk drawer.


    I throw open the door, which has the desired effect. Alistair jumps back and hits his head on a dusty lampshade behind him.


    ¡°Good morning,¡± he says stiffly, brushing the dust from his hair. ¡°Did you sleep well?¡±


    ¡°What are you doing?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m looking for a key to the chest,¡± says Alistair, gesturing to the chest behind the desk. ¡°You don¡¯t happen to know where it is?¡±


    I shake my head slowly. Strange. The chest was unlocked when I first arrived. ¡°What do you want out of it?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m looking for your mother¡¯s journal actually,¡± says Alistair. ¡°I know Wendy kept one, and I thought it would be nice to read¡ªfor sentimental purposes, of course. You haven¡¯t come across it?¡±


    ¡°Nope,¡± I lie, though this reminds me that I dropped it in the cellar after nearly becoming plant food. Alistair has already taken my parents¡¯ bedroom. He isn¡¯t getting my mother¡¯s journal too. ¡°But that chest was open when I was in here the other day.¡±


    Alistair fixes me with a stern look. ¡°Riley, I can assure you that I am not as gullible as my son. And I would appreciate it if you would stop telling him ghost stories. He nearly had Prunella move all his things to another bedroom before I talked some sense into him.¡±


    With that, Alistair leaves the room.


    Gritting my teeth, I follow him into the dining room, where Mikhail is already seated at the far end of a long oak table. While Alistair joins his son at the head of the table, I sit at the opposite end and cross my arms, silently fuming.


    Prunella enters carrying a tray with three plates.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± I say as Prunella hands me a plate. Runny eggs and blood sausage.


    Just then, a mound of dust scuttles across the dining room floor. Alistair raises a hand and, with a spark of purple, it¡¯s gone, a trail of dust left in its wake.


    ¡°Prunella, you really must do something about those wretched things,¡± says Alistair, throwing a disgusted look at our surroundings. ¡°The infestation won¡¯t clear up until this place has had a proper clean.¡±


    ¡°What are they?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Dust mutts,¡± says Alistair. ¡°They¡¯re fond of causing mischief but are otherwise harmless.¡± He waves a dismissive hand, then finishes his breakfast quickly and stands. ¡°I¡¯m off to the Council. Riley, you remember your magic lesson this morning with Horsewood?¡±


    My stomach jerks. I try to ignore the way Mikhail¡¯s lips curve into a smirk.


    ***


    After breakfast, I leave the manor for my magic lesson. As I pass the large willow tree, I again hear the faint echo of wind chimes. I stop and examine the tree. I could¡¯ve sworn that two eyes like dark puddles just appeared deep within the trunk. And with my gaze focused on the spot, I can make out the faint outline of a narrow head.


    The dark eyes blink, flashing eyelids made of bark. This time, I¡¯m sure of what I saw. Tentatively, I close in, reaching out to¡ª


    ¡°Hands off!¡±


    With a yelp, I recoil as though I¡¯d been shocked.


    A creature emerges from the trunk. It¡¯s short, with a green body and a mop of thick matted leafy hair, like the vines of the willow tree.


    ¡°You can¡¯t just go around poking people in the face!¡± it says in a high-pitched voice that rings through the air.


    ¡°Sorry, I didn¡¯t realize anyone was, um, in that tree¡­¡± I tilt my head. And then before I can stop myself, I say, ¡°You don¡¯t look like a person.¡±


    The creature narrows its eyes.


    I gulp. ¡°Sorry, I don¡¯t mean to be rude¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a dryad,¡± it drawls.


    ¡°Ah.¡± I stare blankly. ¡°And, um, what are you doing here?¡±


    ¡°I live here.¡± The dryad pats the tree with a dirty, clawed hand.


    My forehead rises. ¡°In the tree?¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± it says, with a tone that implies this was a stupid question. ¡°The life of a dryad is tethered to its tree.¡±


    ¡°So¡­ you can¡¯t leave?¡± I ask. ¡°Like ever?¡±


    ¡°No. My spirit is attached to this tree,¡± says the creature, gazing fondly at it. ¡°If I ever left, it would die. As would I.¡±


    ¡°Do you have a name?¡±


    ¡°Tilly. I already know who you are,¡± it adds, when I open my mouth. ¡°I¡¯ve been watching you.¡±


    I blink, unnerved. ¡°Oh, erm¡­¡±


    ¡°And if you don¡¯t get a move on, you¡¯re going to be late to magic lessons,¡± say Tilly.


    I curse and sprint for the telehub, glancing at my watch as I go. It¡¯s nearly ten o¡¯clock, and Horsewood doesn¡¯t strike me as the patient type. It isn¡¯t until I¡¯m stepping into a portal that I wonder how Tilly knew where I was going. Can dryads read minds?


    Inside Wingate Castle, I run down a number of labyrinthine corridors and stairwells, desperately trying to recall the path that Waldon and I took the day before.


    Nearly ten minutes and several wrong turns later, I finally find it. When I open the door, Alpheus Horsewood is seated at the table, fingers steepled in front of him.


    ¡°Do you have a problem with punctuality?¡± asks Horsewood, without looking up.


    ¡°I¡ªsorry,¡± I pant. ¡°Won¡¯t happen again.¡±


    Horsewood finally turns to look at me, surveying me beneath his bushy brows. ¡°Kindly ensure it doesn¡¯t. I¡¯m a busy man.¡± I nod. Horsewood clears his throat. ¡°Good. We may begin at last. Sit down.¡±


    I sit across from him and clasp my hands together to stop their trembling.


    ¡°I see that you are already wearing a signet ring,¡± says Horsewood. ¡°Has someone explained to you its significance?¡±


    I shake my head.


    ¡°Well, you see, magic is the art of drawing on the magical energy that exists far beneath Aurelia¡¯s surface and manipulating it in a way that achieves the desired ends of the user. A signet ring serves as a necessary conduit for channeling that energy. The stone that witches use is the amethyst crystal.¡± He gestures to my ring. ¡°It allows us to conjure and control inanimate objects by use of purple magic. The other three magical orders use different stones.¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because their magic is different,¡± says Horsewood. ¡°The ability to perform certain magic depends on the presence of a special gene, unique to each order. Werewolves have the power to physically influence living beings through green magic. This is referred to as ¡®manipulation.¡¯ Vampires can influence emotions through blue magic, called ¡®projection.¡¯ And harpies control air through yellow magic, known as ¡®aeromancy.¡¯¡±


    ¡°So¡­ witches can¡¯t perform any of those spells?¡±


    ¡°Correct,¡± says Horsewood. ¡°Without the right gene, no amount of study or practice would enable witches to manipulate living bodies like werewolves can or emotions like vampires can. Just as neither of those orders can conjure something from nothing like we can.¡±


    ¡°What sort of things can witches conjure?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s easier to go over what cannot be conjured,¡± says Horsewood. ¡°Aside from Aurelian currency, there are two limitations. We cannot conjure anything that¡¯s alive nor anything imbued with a magical property. Make sense?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Good. Now, before we begin, there¡¯s one more thing we ought to discuss,¡± says Horsewood. ¡°You might have noticed by now that witches typically attract magical partners, called familiars. This usually happens when you¡¯re a teenager, but can occur at any point in a witch¡¯s life. For some, it may not happen at all, though this is rare. I presume you do not have a familiar yet?¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°Where do I find one?¡±


    Horsewood raises a thick brow. ¡°You do not find it. It finds you.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± Interesting. ¡°Well, what do they look like?¡±


    ¡°A familiar comes in the form of a firedrake. They are a breed of dragon,¡± Horsewood says. Then, upon seeing my face, he clarifies, ¡°Small dragons. It¡¯s a special breed.¡±


    My mind goes to the strange dragonlike birds I¡¯ve seen around. Those must be familiars.


    ¡°You see, through something called impression, where a familiar tastes your blood and vice versa, a familiar establishes a permanent bond with their chosen witch, tying its own life to theirs. It¡¯s this bond that gives familiars a telepathic connection with their partner, so that they can almost always find their witch¡ªeven spy for them.¡±


    I gape at him. ¡°How does that work?¡±


    ¡°With a special spell,¡± says Horsewood. ¡°It allows a witch to see through the eyes of their familiar, so long as they are within a certain proximity.¡±


    ¡°What else can they do?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Well, aside from running errands for their witch and assisting with complicated spells, familiars also hold mild healing powers that can help to restore their partner¡¯s strength¡ªit¡¯s particularly effective against the ill effects of magic use. They¡¯re also prized shapeshifters that can assume most animal forms. You¡¯ll find they are quite coveted in Aurelia.¡±


    ¡°Where¡¯s your familiar?¡± I ask, looking around the room.


    ¡°Sleeping, probably,¡± says Horsewood, his lip twitching. ¡°Familiars aren¡¯t allowed inside public places like schools and businesses, except in private offices.¡± I open my mouth, but Horsewood holds up a hand. ¡°We can discuss familiars in greater depth once you¡¯ve bonded with one. For now, we have a lot to go over.


    ¡°We¡¯ll start with Class I spells,¡± says Horsewood. ¡°This is beginner magic. Once you¡¯ve mastered that, we will move on to Class I.¡±


    ¡°How many classes are there?¡±


    ¡°Five,¡± said Horsewood. ¡°Each progressing in the level of difficulty. Class One spells involve manipulating existing objects. Class Two involves conjuring or summoning tangible objects, and Class Three involves conjuring energy sources, such as fire, light, and energy shields. Class Four and Five spells are almost entirely combative in nature and are extremely complex. It¡¯s unlikely we¡¯ll get to those anytime soon.¡±


    I rub my sweaty palms on my pants. What will Horsewood do when he realizes I can¡¯t do magic? Will he assume something went wrong with the oath?


    ¡°Now, magical prowess comes from three things¡ªknowledge, practice, and a controlled mind. This last one is imperative. You can study the art to your heart¡¯s content, but if you are unable to control your emotions, you will find yourself unable to control your magic.¡±


    With that, Horsewood places a pencil in the center of the table and motions for me to rise.


    I stand up, my trembling legs barely supporting me. Perhaps if I fuss enough, they might allow me to live out my life on the island with the Human Order.


    ¡°Now, with your mind, I want you to tell this pencil to move,¡± says Horsewood. ¡°The word you are looking for is motus.¡±


    ¡°Am I supposed to say it aloud?¡±


    ¡°For now,¡± said Horsewood. ¡°While you are learning, it will help you focus your attention. In time, you¡¯ll find that verbal diction is not necessary, as you can achieve the same results by merely thinking the spell in your mind.¡±


    ¡°Motus,¡± I say.


    As expected, nothing happens.


    ¡°That¡¯s all right,¡± says Horsewood. ¡°As I said before, magic requires focus and control. Try again, with more authority this time. Do not break eye contact.¡±


    ¡°Motus.¡±


    Once again, nothing.


    ¡°As you¡¯re saying the spell, are you also believing that it will work?¡± Horsewood asks.


    No, because I¡¯m a fraud. ¡°Um. Sort of.¡±


    ¡°¡®Sort of¡¯ isn¡¯t enough. Belief is just as vital as intent where magic is concerned,¡± says Horsewood. ¡°Let¡¯s try something else. Close your eyes.¡±


    I do as directed.


    ¡°Take a moment to clear your mind of any feelings of doubt. Fill it instead with an image of the pencil moving into the air, around the room, wherever you direct it.¡±


    I attempt to trick myself into believing I¡¯m a witch. My staying in Aurelia depends on it, after all. I wish I had some way to fake it, just once.


    ¡°Now, open your eyes and repeat after me: I am a super powerful witch, and I can fly this pen out of the ditch.¡±


    I fight the urge to roll my eyes. In a barely audible voice, I repeat the stupid children¡¯s mantra.


    ¡°Excellent, let¡¯s try again.¡±


    I glare at the pencil. ¡°Motus!¡±


    Nothing.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you try touching the pencil?¡± suggests Horsewood. ¡°Feel the wood in your hands¡ªestablish some connection with the object.¡±


    Feeling stupid, I do as I¡¯m told and pick up the pencil, quelling the urge to snap it.


    ¡°Good. Now try again.¡±


    ¡°Motus,¡± I say for the fourth time. Then a fifth. A sixth. The only thing that happens is my eyes begin to water. I blink, rubbing at them.


    Finally, Horsewood sighs. ¡°Just give it time. Magic is difficult. It¡¯s an art, and it takes an enormous amount of both knowledge and practice to master. It is not as simple as merely saying a spell or waving a hand.¡± He takes out a folded note and hands it to me. ¡°Please give this to your cousin. It¡¯s for his next lesson.¡±


    I pocket it. ¡°You¡¯re giving Mikhail magic lessons too?¡±


    ¡°In a sense,¡± says Horsewood. ¡°As head of the guardians, I¡¯ve been working to prepare Mikhail for his upcoming induction as the Witch Guardian.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± I ask.


    ¡°They didn¡¯t tell you?¡± asks Horsewood. ¡°I¡¯m speaking of the Guardian¡¯s Legacy, of course, which has existed in Aurelia for centuries. There¡¯s a chosen guardian for every order, and the legacy continues down a family line. It¡¯s been in the James family for some time. The title is an honor.¡± He pauses. ¡°Your father was the last guardian for the Witch Order. Mikhail will become the next when he attains the age of fifteen in a matter of weeks. He¡¯s confirmed that he¡¯s getting the dreams. We¡¯ve been priming him for the role so that he¡¯ll be ready to begin his duties immediately.¡±


    I think back to when Waldon told me about my father being a different type of agent for the Council. This must be what he meant.


    I bid Horsewood farewell and take the telehub back to Skeleton Grove. As I meander down Melody Lane, I anxiously twist my signet ring, trying in vain to ignore the dread roiling in my stomach. I¡¯m sure Atticus will deport me if it¡¯s discovered that I tricked the oath. When it¡¯s discovered. After today¡¯s disastrous lesson, I can¡¯t help feeling it won¡¯t be a long way off.


    A rustling noise yanks me from my thoughts. I glance sideways into the dense thicket. A bush quivers as something moves through it. I skid to a halt. Whatever is in there halts as well.


    When nothing jumps out, I continue walking. The rustling resumes, moving parallel with me through the thick patches of undergrowth. I freeze again, squinting into the forest, heart thumping. Through a sparse patch of foliage, I finally see it. A large snake with two green eyes that glow in the shadows.


    Sucking in a breath, I stand still as a statue, fearful of startling it. For a moment, it simply watches me. Then it slithers slowly toward me. Instinct takes over, and I bolt, sprinting as fast as I can the rest of the way. I¡¯m wheezing by the time I reach the front steps.


    If only I didn¡¯t have to pass through a forest full of hostile creatures every time I walk to and from the manor.


    Shouting breaks out inside the manor then, jolting me. I ease open the door, where I¡¯m met with the pleasant sound of Alistair¡¯s voice ringing through the house.


    ¡°¡ªyou expect me to believe that the washer did this?¡± He¡¯s livid.


    ¡°I swear, sir. I put them in the wash as always, and when I came back, they were like that.¡±


    ¡°These are my best clothes! I ought to fire you for this¡ª¡±


    I follow the voices to the dining room, where I find Alistair, face purple, on one side of the table and Prunella on the other, in tears. Between them lies a bundle of clothes. No¡­ wait. I look closer. Maybe they were clothes once, but they certainly aren¡¯t anymore. Now they¡¯re a pile of shredded and tattered rags.


    Expensive rags.


    Mikhail stands in the background, lips pressed tightly together, clearly trying hard not to laugh. His familiar, Drax, is perched on his shoulder. I eye it enviously.


    Alistair¡¯s furious gaze fastens on me as the door closes with a snap. ¡°You!¡± he blusters, rounding on me. ¡°You did this.¡±


    ¡°I¡ªwhat?¡± I ask, bewildered by the accusation.


    ¡°This!¡± he bellows, pointing at the pile of shredded clothes. ¡°You wanted to get back at me for taking your parents¡¯ old bedroom, didn¡¯t you?¡±


    My skin grows hot. ¡°I did not! I¡¯ve been gone all morning. I just got back¡ª¡±


    His eyes narrow. ¡°You clearly did something to the washer before you left¡ªcursed it or¡ª¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t even know where the stupid thing is!¡± I say, cutting him off. ¡°And I couldn¡¯t even levitate a pencil today, let alone curse a bloody washing machine.¡±


    Alistair takes several deep breaths through his nose as he studies my face.


    I cross my arms. ¡°Ask Horsewood if you don¡¯t believe me. I¡¯m sure he¡¯d love someone to vent to right about now.¡±


    Alistair huffs, turning again to Prunella. He jabs a finger at the pile of tatters. ¡°Clean this mess up,¡± he orders, then marches from the room.


    Once he¡¯s gone, Mikhail snorts. ¡°You couldn¡¯t levitate a pencil? I could do that before I was five.¡± He lowers his voice. ¡°You know what that means, don¡¯t you?¡± Mikhail sneers, before strutting toward the door. He¡¯s halfway there when he trips over his own feet and falls.


    It¡¯s my turn to snort. I pull the note from my pocket and drop it on the floor next to him. ¡°From Horsewood.¡±


    Mikhail clutches it and grunts as he climbs back to his feet. He shoots me a dirty look and throws open the door.


    I step toward Prunella. ¡°Let me help you with that.¡±


    Prunella brings over a bin, and I begin tossing in the scraps. A round silver pin in the mess catches my eye. It looks expensive. In my fury at Alistair, I deliberately throw it into the bin with the shreds.


    ¡°I promise I didn¡¯t do anything to the washer,¡± I say, hoping that Prunella doesn¡¯t think I¡¯m to blame for the trouble she¡¯s in.


    ¡°I know,¡± says Prunella. ¡°He just¡­ he¡­ It¡¯s no matter. I¡¯m used to it.¡±


    The words spill out of me before I can stop them. ¡°Why do you work for him?¡±


    Prunella looks at me. ¡°I help support twin nieces back home.¡±


    ¡°By home¡­ you mean¡ª¡± I wrack my brain for the name of the human settlement ¡°¡ªPhantom Island?¡±


    Prunella nods. ¡°There¡¯s a lot of poverty there. Not much in the way of employment.¡±


    I can only imagine how bad it must be if the best option is working for Alistair.


    ***


    I return upstairs and fall backward onto my bed, sighing heavily. Things aren¡¯t going at all like I hoped. I thought I¡¯d finally feel a sense of belonging in Aurelia. As it turns out, I¡¯m just as much of an outsider here as I was at the community home.


    Still, there was one small satisfaction from today.


    I smile faintly, thinking of the mysteriously locked chest and Alistair¡¯s destroyed suits. Whatever¡¯s haunting the manor likes my uncle and cousin about as much as I do.

 Grimlock School of Interdisciplinary Magicks

    The next two weeks do little to lift my mood. I¡¯ve yet to manage so much as a spark of magic in my lessons with Horsewood, who I can tell is losing patience. Making matters worse, Mikhail seizes every opportunity to taunt me over my magical failures, often wondering aloud what the Council will do once they discover their mistake. Though part of me wants to hit him when he does this, another part knows that he¡¯s voicing my very own fear.


    Outside of magic lessons, I spend my free time exploring James Manor. Now that Beast Control has cleared out the household monsters¡ªdespite what anyone says, pest is far too light a term¡ªthe house feels mildly safer. Though not so safe that I would dare walk the halls without my FireEye. I still hear occasional scurrying and thumping from dark corners and stairwells and have little doubt that the monsters in the house still outnumber the people.


    James Manor itself is a very unnatural house. There are stairwells that lead to nowhere. Hidden nooks behind paintings. Doors with nothing behind them. On the third floor, there¡¯s a room that causes me to lose my train of thought every time I go inside. Another makes me so sleepy that it¡¯s all I can do to leave before sinking to the floor for a nap. Motivated by my dislike of Alistair, I even brave the plant cellar again to reclaim my mother¡¯s journal before he can find it.


    Odd incidents continue to crop up. Fires go out of their own accord. Furniture switches itself around when Alistair moves to sit somewhere. Windows fly open during torrential downpours. Rugs drag themselves out from beneath Mikhail¡¯s feet. These events terrified me at first. But as time went on, I couldn¡¯t help noticing that these small attacks happen only when my uncle and cousin are around.


    Indeed, there have been multiple instances in which random doors have inexplicably locked themselves when Alistair tries to open them¡ªincluding his own bedroom door. Yet, when I try the same door soon after, it opens with ease. One morning, Alistair was late for a meeting with Atticus because he couldn¡¯t leave the manor and had to find me for help.


    Mikhail hasn¡¯t fared much better. On multiple occasions, I¡¯ve witnessed him tripping over nothing in particular while walking around the manor. I initially attributed this to clumsiness, but after the same thing happened a third, then fourth time¡ªwhen he was clearly watching where he was going¡ªI knew something else was at play.


    Outside the manor, the welcome board continues to change its message at random, and while I regularly receive friendly greetings, my uncle and cousin are welcomed with a much different vocabulary.


    These events have all but confirmed my earlier theory: whatever is haunting the manor seems to have a vendetta against my uncle and cousin.


    But the small boost this knowledge gave my spirits is squashed flat when, after another futile lesson with Horsewood, Waldon informs me that I¡¯m due to start school the following week. And the real shocker?


    School in Aurelia takes place at night.


    So, at sunset on Monday, I change into my new school uniform. A navy vest over a white collared shirt, a plaid skirt, and a purple gardy¡ªa type of tie in the signature color of one¡¯s order. Then I start downstairs for dinner, stomach so knotted that I can¡¯t even bring myself to properly laugh when I pass a bathroom where an eager-to-help mirror is harassing Mikhail.


    ¡°You missed a spot, dear¡­ just there¡­¡±


    Through the crack in the door, I spot Mikhail shaving his face in the mirror.


    ¡°Stop moving. You¡¯re messing me up¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m only trying to help¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡ªtold¡ªyou¡ªto¡ªshut¡ªup!¡±


    ¡°Well now,¡± says the mirror, tutting. ¡°If you would only work with me, rather than against, we might fix that hairy face of yours¡ª¡±


    ¡°Shut up!¡± roars Mikhail. But then his eyes catch mine in the mirror¡¯s distorted reflection. Cheeks turning pink, he slams the bathroom door. The mirror scolds him on the other side.


    When I enter the dining room, Alistair is at the table scanning a newspaper. The front page shows a picture of a thin, pale man with hollow, sunken cheeks and a carpet of matted black hair. The headline above catches my attention: HODGE DAVIS APPROVED FOR FINAL APPEAL, TRIAL TO BEGIN IN NOVEMBER.


    My heart stumbles. For the first time in days, I forget all about school as anger makes a swift and salty return, flooding every pore in my body, consuming every sense.


    No¡­ not anger. Rage.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    I glare hard at the picture, trying to burn a hole through it with my mere gaze, my brain screaming all manner of curses and insults at the man as though he might hear me.


    The door flies open so forcefully that it slams into the wall, and I start. A scowling Mikhail with a rather nasty cut on his cheek stomps into the room, Drax swooping in after him. Alistair sets the paper down and raises a brow at his son.


    ¡°I hate this place,¡± complains Mikhail, plopping down in a chair next to his father, arms folded in a tight pretzel across his chest. His uniform is similar to mine: dark gray trousers with a white button-down shirt and a purple gardy beneath a navy vest.


    Drax rubs his reptilian head against Mikhail¡¯s cheek as though to comfort him. Mikhail in turn trails a delicate finger down Drax¡¯s long, narrow throat¡ªthe only one capable of drawing out any sort of affection from Mikhail.


    As Prunella enters with our plates, Alistair turns to his son. ¡°Mikhail, I will need you to accompany your cousin to Grimlock. You can show her where to go.¡±


    Mikhail¡¯s face falls. So does mine. The knot in my stomach tightens again, and the newspaper article is pushed from my thoughts.


    We eat in silence. Since my appetite has abandoned me, I sit there twirling my spoon in a circular motion through my soup, anxiety pressing higher with each tick of the clock.


    I¡¯m going to be the only student at a magic school who can¡¯t do magic. Even Horsewood seemed to pity me at our last lesson.


    A loud splatter rips me from my thoughts. Alistair¡¯s glass of red wine has toppled over, drenching his plate and pouring liquid into his lap.


    ¡°Flipping fangs¡ª¡± says Alistair, swiping angrily at his luxury suit with a napkin.


    Perhaps it¡¯s down to the hysteria I feel welling up inside but¡­ I can¡¯t help it. A bubble of laughter escapes my throat. I try to pass it off as a cough, but when I look up, Alistair¡¯s glaring hotly down the table at me.


    ¡°Prunella,¡± he calls, gaze never leaving me. The woman emerges at once from behind the door to the scullery. ¡°I need a refill,¡± he says, holding his glass over his shoulder.


    The fact that I never seem to be the target of these mysterious episodes has not escaped Alistair. Still, he¡¯s stopped trying to blame me, thanks to my magical ineptitude. Even he can no longer deny that the manor is indeed haunted¡ªand, more important, that the ghost doesn¡¯t like him.


    ***


    ¡°So tell me,¡± says Mikhail as we leave the manor, stepping out into the hazy night. ¡°What do you think the other students will say when they find out you can¡¯t do magic?¡±


    Heat flares at my ears. This very question has been plaguing me all weekend.


    ¡°After all,¡± Mikhail continues, ¡°even if the other orders didn¡¯t have their own inferior magic, at least they wouldn¡¯t be completely useless, what with wolfing out or sprouting wings and all. But a witch who can¡¯t do magic? Now that¡¯s just pathetic.¡± He shrugs. ¡°But then again, maybe it¡¯s not your fault. Maybe you¡¯re not a witch, after all. Eventually the Council will have to consider that possibility, don¡¯t you think?¡±


    I stare straight ahead, trying to ignore him.


    ¡°I mean, you haven¡¯t even attracted a familiar,¡± Mikhail goes on, when I don¡¯t say anything. ¡°I wonder if they can sense your incompetence¡ªow!¡±


    I look down; a lumpy gray rat with bulbous green eyes has scurried across the path and sunk its sharp teeth into Mikhail¡¯s ankle. I jump away, then look closer¡­


    There¡¯s something familiar about those green eyes.


    ¡°Wretched thing!¡± says Mikhail through gritted teeth, kicking it off.


    We continue walking in silence. Mikhail limps along, grimacing in pain, which seems to have shut him up, much to my relief. But it¡¯s short-lived when, midway down the wooded path, it begins to rain.


    ¡°Oh no,¡± says Mikhail in mock concern, looking up at the night sky, its stars shrouded behind a thick cover of clouds. ¡°Do you mind conjuring an umbrella for us?¡±


    My lip curls.


    Mikhail drags a hand down his face. ¡°Oh, that¡¯s right. You can¡¯t. Not to worry.¡± He makes a show of skillfully waving his hand in a circular motion. ¡°Evoco umbra.¡± In a blaze of brilliant purple, a large umbrella fans out over our heads and follows us as we walk, as though some puppeteer were guiding it with invisible strings. ¡°Good thing I¡¯m here,¡± says Mikhail, looking smug.


    We make our way onto Whispering Pine Road, where people huddle beneath umbrellas much like our own.


    ¡°You know, you¡¯re awfully quiet tonight.¡± Mikhail sniffs the air. ¡°Nervous over your first day at Grimlock?¡±


    ¡°Enough,¡± I snarl.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay, I would be too,¡± he says, as we weave our way down the busy street. ¡°It¡¯s a wonder the Council is sending you to Grimlock at all. A school on Phantom Island seems much more appropriate.¡±


    A few minutes later, we arrive at the telehub.


    ¡°Teleport to Grimlock,¡± says Mikhail, stepping into his own portal. ¡°I¡¯ll meet you there.¡±


    Somehow, I don¡¯t think he will.


    Though I still don¡¯t find teleporting in any way enjoyable, it¡¯s becoming a bit less harrowing with each trip. I¡¯m not sure whether this is due to my panic lessening or if I¡¯m becoming accustomed to being temporarily dead twice a day.


    When I arrive at the Grimlock telehub, students are emerging from a circle of coffin-shaped portals. I¡¯m unsurprised to find that Mikhail has indeed left without me. I follow the herd to the exit, trying to stay calm. I¡¯ll need to figure out where to go on my own¡ªwhich, if personal experience has taught me anything, seems to be a dangerous endeavor in Aurelia.


    As I step outside, I find myself in the middle of an extremely foggy forest. Gnarled trees and branches loom overhead like long boneless arms, throwing shadows in the yellow glow of the oil lanterns lighting the path. Having expected a normal building¡ªat least, normal by Aurelian standards¡ªI think this a very odd location for a school.


    At the end of the path, I come to a stranger sight still. Carved within the mammoth trunk of a giant sequoia is the sallow, veiny face of a haggard-looking witch¡ªthe kind of witch I¡¯m accustomed to seeing in movies, with a long hooked nose, narrowed searching eyes, and a wide lipless mouth that stretches ten feet high by way of an entrance. Above the hideous face, scratched into a block of wood, are the words Grimlock School of Interdisciplinary Magicks.


    ¡°Riley?¡± says a familiar voice.


    I turn. Patrick Goodwin is there, gawking at me in much the same way I was at the school entrance.

 The Hags Mouth

    Patrick takes in my uniform. "What are you doing here?"


    ¡°I just enrolled,¡± I say, stomach twisting at the memory of ditching him two weeks prior.


    ¡°Oh,¡± says Patrick, stepping closer. ¡°But I thought you were homeschooled?¡±


    My face burns. ¡°Um. Not anymore¡­¡±


    ¡°What happened to you the other day? I waited outside that pub, but you never came out.¡±


    The fact that he seems more curious than accusatory makes me feel worse.


    ¡°Right, sorry about that,¡± I say, scratching the base of my neck. ¡°That was because¡­ well¡­¡± My identity no longer being a secret, I tell him the truth. My real name. How I was born outside of Aurelia. How the Registry Department almost deported me. How I¡¯m not actually sure I should be at a magic school right now. Though Patrick makes several bewildered expressions¡ªsomething I¡¯m also doing a lot of these days¡ªhe doesn¡¯t interrupt until I¡¯ve finished.


    ¡°So that¡¯s why you didn¡¯t know about kelpies or the Hellhound Gang!¡± says Patrick. ¡°I wondered¡ªyou were acting so odd and cagey and stuff, and, I mean, everyone knows that band. But I never would have guessed¡ªwow¡­¡±


    ¡°Yeah¡­ Sorry for leaving like that.¡±


    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you just say you wanted to be alone?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t want to hurt your feelings.¡±


    A wry smile. ¡°So you thought ditching me was better?¡±


    I suck in a breath. ¡°In hindsight, no. I¡¯m sorry. After you told me about the Birth Registry, I panicked.¡± A pause. ¡°I met your aunt at the Registry Department by the way. Agnes, right? She tried to deport me.¡±


    To my surprise, he says, ¡°Frightening, isn¡¯t she? Mom can¡¯t stand her.¡± Just then, the haggard witch from the school entrances cackles, an unnerving, high-pitched sound that peals through the night. Patrick motions to the opening. ¡°Class starts soon. Do you know where to go?¡±


    ¡°No. My cousin ditched me.¡± I give a crooked smile. ¡°I suppose that¡¯s karma.¡±


    Patrick laughs. ¡°I can show you around.¡±


    I nod gratefully and follow him to the entrance, which he terms the Hag¡¯s Mouth. It only now occurs to me how attractive Patrick is¡ªtall, with smooth skin, angled features and dark hair framing his face like a crescent moon.


    ¡°What about that friend you were going to meet?¡± asks Patrick as we walk through the Hag¡¯s Mouth. ¡°Was that someone your parents knew?¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­ that was a lie.¡±


    Silence.


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Um, sorry, but I sort of lied about¡ª¡± I tug on my earlobe ¡°¡ªwell, everything.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± A beat. His face screws up in thought. ¡°So does that mean your favorite color isn¡¯t really green?¡±


    But my attention is drawn elsewhere as we enter a large clearing where a labyrinth of red mulch pathways intertwines, lit by flaming lights poking out of the ground. Storm-gray fog lingers around us like heavy smoke, making it impossible to discern our more distant surroundings.


    ¡°Why is everything so foggy?¡± I ask. Aurelia makes the Scottish Isles seem almost tropical by comparison.


    ¡°Oh. Well, the more magical energy buildup there is, the more it affects the weather,¡± says Patrick. ¡°And with so many students casting and botching up spells every day, there¡¯s more accumulation here than other areas.¡± He sweeps a hand around our surroundings. ¡°Believe it or not, this is Grimlock on a good day. Term¡¯s only just starting.¡±


    Patrick leads me along a narrow river that snakes through the campus, its center illuminated by a row of flickering torches that alternate slowly between shades of purple, green, blue, and yellow¡ªthe colors of each order¡¯s magic. We pass a group of chatting students, a few of whom have large, black, eagle-like wings jutting from their shoulder blades. Large, pointed ears flank their narrow faces, and their fingers resemble long claws. I make a conscious effort not to stare. Though I¡¯ve heard about them, I had yet to see a harpy in Aurelia.


    ¡°It¡¯s really strange, going to school at night,¡± I say, tripping over a tree root. ¡°And in a forest.¡±


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s not like they could build the school near an inhabited village.¡±


    I look at him in question.


    ¡°Sometimes the magical buildup gets really out of hand,¡± says Patrick. ¡°When that happens, it triggers all sorts of adverse events.¡± Reading my blank expression, he clarifies, ¡°Magical disasters. It gets a bit dangerous when the energy balance goes out of whack¡ªand it takes ages for it to sort itself out again.¡±


    ¡°What about monsters and stuff though?¡±


    ¡°Well, the only way in is through the Hag¡¯s Mouth, and a long tongue comes roping out to swallow up anything nonhuman that tries to get on campus.¡± My eyes flare, and Patrick shrugs. ¡°Sometimes she misses, and something gets through. But she¡¯s usually pretty reliable.¡±


    ¡°Interesting security system,¡± I murmur.


    We walk around a bend and come face to face with a giant black spider the size of a small car creeping along the edge of a white sea of gossamer, the web stretched between two trees. Startled, I jump back with a yelp¡ªand land on Patrick¡¯s foot. It¡¯s several seconds before I realize that the spider isn¡¯t real. ¡°Is that supposed to be a Halloween decoration?¡± I ask, after apologizing to Patrick.


    ¡°Oh, no,¡± says Patrick. ¡°That¡¯s the Grimlock mascot.¡±


    ¡°A spider?¡± After a second, I nod appreciatively. I kind of like it.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± says Patrick, examining its web thoughtfully. ¡°I think it¡¯s meant to be some odd metaphor about creativity and the value of hard work.¡±


    We reach a rickety bridge with rope rails.


    ¡°Careful to avoid that spot,¡± says Patrick, pointing a ways up. ¡°There¡¯s a board or two missing. I found that out the hard way last year during Lotus term and fell into the river.¡±


    I squint in the darkness, eventually seeing the shadowy spot. I step carefully over it. The last thing I need is to show up on my first day unable to do magic and sopping wet. On the other side of the river, Patrick nods to an old stained building with a dragon sculpture looming over the front wall, a cascading waterfall flowing from its mouth into a small pond. Thousands of glossy purple and black shingles mimic scales so that the roof strongly resembles a dragon¡¯s skin.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    ¡°That¡¯s the Witch¡¯s Lodge,¡± says Patrick. ¡°Each order has their own building on campus.¡±


    I follow Patrick behind the waterfall and through an arched entrance. Flames crackle in my ears as we make our way down a drafty splintering corridor, either side lined with rusting torch brackets. Eventually we reach a door labeled Registrar where we join a line of students. Before long we¡¯re standing before a bulky oaken desk, behind which sits a bespectacled woman.


    ¡°Names?¡± she asks.


    ¡°Patrick Goodwin.¡±


    The woman thumbs through a stack of papers and hands him his course schedule. ¡°Next?¡±


    ¡°Riley James.¡±


    ¡°Oh¡­¡± says the woman, awareness dawning on her face. Clearly they¡¯ve been expecting me. ¡°Just a moment, dear, the High Magistra wants to meet you.¡± The woman disappears through a door behind her.


    I look at Patrick.


    ¡°The High Magistra¡¯s head of the school,¡± says Patrick, reading the question on my face.


    The woman reemerges with a tall, stocky woman whom I presume to be the High Magistra. Bouffant red hair frames her square, fleshy face.


    ¡°Miss James, is it?¡± she asks, her voice a booming drum that fills the room. ¡°The Council informed us of your unique situation. Follow me, please.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll wait for you,¡± says Patrick.


    ¡°Thanks,¡± I say, before adding with a wink, ¡°I promise I¡¯ll come back.¡±


    I¡¯m led into a cramped office with a heavy rectangular desk.


    ¡°My name is Winnie Thatcher,¡± she says, sitting down and motioning for me to do the same. ¡°As High Magistra here at Grimlock, I wanted to personally welcome you to our school. Are you familiar at all with how things work here?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Not to worry, dear, it¡¯s all very straightforward,¡± says Magistra Thatcher. ¡°Grimlock has three eight-week terms per year¡ªIbis in the fall, Mandala in the winter, and Lotus in the spring. Each term, you¡¯ll take one module from each of four core disciplines¡ªDemonology, Alchemy, Legends and Lore, and Applied Magicks. Modules within the first three are taken by all students, regardless of order. Applied Magicks, on the other hand, are order-specific modules. As a witch, you¡¯ll take conjuration classes in this building alongside fellow witches. Keep in mind that familiars are not allowed at school.


    ¡°Now, it is my understanding that magic is still very new to you. However, the Council wants to accelerate your learning. They want you placed in age-appropriate modules. Therefore, you¡¯ll start in Level II studies. They believe that, with the extra tutoring you¡¯re receiving, you¡¯ll catch on quickly enough.¡±


    ¡°Right,¡± I say, shifting my gaze downward.


    She pushes a yellow notecard toward me. ¡°Here is your course schedule. All of our teaching fellows have the title of master, owing to their magister degrees.¡±


    I look at my schedule.


    <table style="border-collapse: collapse; width: 64.2563%" border="1">


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td style="width: 8.93246%">8pm</td>


    <td style="width: 18.5185%">Conjuration</td>


    <td style="width: 20.915%">Gary Loomis</td>


    <td style="width: 51.634%">The Witch''s Lodge, room 14</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td style="width: 8.93246%; text-align: left">9pm</td>


    <td style="width: 18.5185%">Legends & Lore</td>


    <td style="width: 20.915%">Dennis Fogarty</td>


    <td style="width: 51.634%">The Ghoulery</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td style="width: 8.93246%">10pm</td>


    <td style="width: 18.5185%">Demonology</td>


    <td style="width: 20.915%">Gladys Halleen</td>


    <td style="width: 51.634%">Saraswati Tower, room 1411</td>


    </tr>


    <tr>


    <td style="width: 8.93246%">11pm</td>


    <td style="width: 18.5185%">Alchemy</td>


    <td style="width: 20.915%">Lugar Bancroft</td>


    <td style="width: 51.634%">The Pit, lab 9</td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    Back outside the registrar¡¯s office, Patrick surveys my course schedule while the administrator goes to collect my textbooks. ¡°Oh, excellent, we¡¯ll have Conjuration and Alchemy together,¡± he says. ¡°I¡¯ve got reverse sections for Lore and Demonology, so we¡¯ll just miss each other. You¡¯ll want to be careful to speak up with Master Loomis, he¡¯s going a bit senile. Oh, and Master Halleen¡ª¡± He sucks in air between his teeth. ¡°She can be a bit of a¡ªwell, she¡¯s kind of spiteful. Sort of fitting that she teaches a class about demons and monsters. We all call her Master Halloween. Never be late for her class if you can help it.¡±


    Judging by his expression, I get the impression he¡¯s recounting from personal experience.


    ¡°Master Fogarty can be a bit theatrical at times when he¡¯s teaching a legend he¡¯s particularly fond of,¡± continues Patrick. ¡°It¡¯s entertaining though. He¡¯s my favorite. And Master Bancroft¡ªwell, he¡¯s a bit of a drunk. We all forget he¡¯s there sometimes, and I think he does too.¡±


    The woman returns, dumping four thick books in my arms: Handbook for Witches, Lost Legends of Aurelia, Hell¡¯s Spawn, and A Beginner¡¯s Guide to Alchemy.


    Patrick glances at his watch. ¡°We¡¯d better hurry. Class starts in two minutes.¡± I follow Patrick up a flight of stairs to room 14. At least thirty students are already seated in several rows of desks.


    ¡°We¡¯ll have to split up,¡± says Patrick.


    I feel grateful when he takes the empty seat at the front of the classroom. But then my gaze lands on the last open desk, right next to¡­


    Mikhail.


    Groaning, I force my feet to move.


    ¡°¡ªless than two weeks away now,¡± Mikhail¡¯s smug voice grates in my ears as he boasts about something to the girl in front of him.


    The girl¡¯s mouth forms a wide O. ¡°Are the dreams as strange as everyone says?¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± Mikhail¡¯s cheeks tinge pink. ¡°Yes¡­ yes, very much so¡­. They¡¯re exhausting, but it¡¯s part of the burden I¡¯ve been chosen to bear¡ª" He breaks off and cocks an eyebrow as I sit down¡ªclearly surprised I found my way to the Witch¡¯s Lodge in time for class.


    ¡°Glad you made it, cuz,¡± says Mikhail. ¡°Must have missed you at the telehub.¡±


    ¡°This is your cousin?¡± asks the girl, giving me a once-over. She¡¯s pale, with a heart-shaped face and a curtain of long brown hair bunched in tight, corkscrew curls. ¡°The one who can¡¯t do magic?¡±


    Mikhail nods, and the girl snickers. I ignore them, glancing longingly at the clock. A few minutes past eight. Class should have started by now¡­


    As if he heard my silent prayer, a bald man with a spindly neck and large ears saunters into the room. Master Loomis gives us a lipless, apologetic smile and says in a nasally voice, ¡°So sorry¡ªforgot what room we were in.¡± He walks to the front table and opens a book. ¡°We¡¯ll start off with a review of summoning spells. That is, summoning objects through the air. Summoning is recognized as a secondary, simpler form of conjuring, because it involves working with a preexisting object¡­¡± Master Loomis drones on for the better part of the hour, reading almost word for word from the textbook and pausing several times to readjust his glasses.


    I struggle to stay focused, blinking every time my eyelids threaten to shutter, afraid to miss anything that might help me.


    ¡°Now, as one might expect, the larger or more complex the item, the harder it is to conjure,¡± says Master Loomis. ¡°The same is true with summoning, although one must also consider distance. The farther away or less visible the item, the greater the magical energy required. The base term for summoning is Revoco. Go on and say it.¡±


    The class repeats Revoco in unison.


    ¡°Very good. Now, to summon a book, the spell becomes Revoco liber,¡± says Master Loomis. He places a book on the desk. ¡°Would anyone like to demonstrate?¡±


    The class is silent for several moments until¡ª


    ¡°Riley said she would, sir,¡± says Mikhail loudly. I inhale a horrified breath. The girl in front of Mikhail snorts. At the front of the class, Patrick stiffens.


    ¡°Ah, wonderful. Apologies, I must not have heard¡ªI¡¯m deaf in one ear, see.¡± Master Loomis points to one of his large ears. ¡°If you would stand and¡ª¡±


    ¡°Um. I didn¡¯t actually volunteer, sir,¡± I say, shooting a death glare at my cousin. ¡°I don¡¯t think I can¡ª¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that? Just a bit louder, dear,¡± says Master Loomis, hand cupping his good ear.


    ¡°I said, I don¡¯t think I can¡ª¡± I repeat loudly, my face on fire.


    ¡°Nonsense, it¡¯s not so difficult. Go on, give it a try,¡± encourages Master Loomis.


    Everyone looks at me, and I draw myself up on shaking legs. I try to swallow, but my mouth has turned to sandpaper. I lock my eyes on the book at the front and raise a trembling hand. Peeling my tongue from the roof of my mouth, I manage, ¡°Revoco liber!¡± It comes out like a strained gasp.


    Nothing happens. Master Loomis has me repeat the words slowly, then try a second and third time, while Mikhail stifles laughter behind his fist.


    ¡°Not to worry, dear, some spells take a bit longer to get down pat,¡± says Master Loomis.


    I sink low in my chair. If there was any magic I wish I could perform in this precise moment, it would be to make myself invisible.


    ¡°Would anyone else like to try?¡± asks Master Loomis, looking around.


    ¡°I would, sir,¡± says Mikhail, standing up. He raises a hand and, pointing expertly toward the book, says, ¡°Revoco liber.¡± A bright flash of purple. The book rises in a smooth motion, before speeding obediently into his outstretched hand.


    ¡°Well done, Mr. James,¡± says Master Loomis, with a lipless smile. ¡°Very well done.¡±