Page 9 of Welcome to Blackbird Hollow
My mouth goes dry, and suspicion creeps into my chest. “Just visiting,” I say, chewing on my lower lip. “Needed a break from work.”
Janey eyes me with that sharp, quick intelligence I normally appreciate in people, though in this situation, I admit it makes me a little nervous.
“Well, welcome to Blackbird Hollow,” she says with a big smile, one eyebrow arching. “I’ll have your food out in just a minute.”
I thank Janey again, and she turns to go, spotting the couple at the door who apparently can’t read. She huffs so theatrically that I have to choke back a laugh, and then makes her way down the aisle toward the front of the diner.
By the time she slides a carafe of coffee and a plate of perfect, golden, fluffy pancakes in front of me, a lot of the local-seeming folks at the counter have finished their meals, and more customers like the middle-aged couple have arrived. In the booth next to me, a group of people a few years younger than me who dress like Aston and his friends are discussing how excited they are to experience something so “authentic.”
I slather my pancakes in butter and syrup and fix myself a cup of coffee from the carafe. I’m surprised when it’s almostas good as Amir’s brew. It’s a little different—more molasses, less spice, with a deep note of chocolate. There’s part of me that wants to stay and soak in the atmosphere, but the diner’s starting to get a bit crowded. I don’t want to hold up an entire booth, and all the different sounds and voices are flustering me a little, anyway. I leave cash on the end of the table—with a generous tip for Janey, of course—and slip through the door.
The sun seems to have burnt off some of the mist, and it’s markedly warmer now. I barely need my coat and unwind my scarf from my neck, throwing it over my arm instead. The streets are busier, too—lots of people in expensive hiking gear stopping to take photos on disposable cameras. I try my best to blend in with them so I can have a better look around.
A few doors down, there’s a fancier café with a little outdoor eating area. There’s even a tiny dog in someone’s purse set atop a curling wrought-iron table. I pass by a laundromat, which is busy, and then an admittedly charming general store. It’s the kind of place that my parents—well, the people my parents turned into—would spend a stupid amount of money on a special kind of maple syrup or something.
It’s becoming apparent that Blackbird Hollow is not a town where it’s hard to tell who belongs and who doesn’t. There’s a fairly marked difference between locals and visitors. Conveniently, I’m dressed like a local, which hopefully gives me a little more cover. I have no idea if Sector is even looking for me, but better safe than sorry, I suppose.
My steps slow as I pass a botanica—a real one, by my estimation, with herbs hung to dry in the windows. Faded gold lettering on the glass spells out “Lúna & Daughters.” My curiosity wins, and I step closer, peering into the shop. I find dark hardwoods, heavy cabinets, and a towering back wall filled with apothecary jars.
“Interesting,” I murmur before continuing my way up the hill, my gaze catching on a strange symbol etched into the bottom of the botanica’s dark green door. No, notthatstrange—not to someone like me.
My heart climbs into my throat, my chest tight with anticipation. The deep breath I force into my lungs smells like incoming rain and last night’s bonfires.
I’ve seen the symbol before. A few times before, actually. I’ve seen it in photos of a stone circle the government says never existed—probably because they destroyed it—where it was carved into one of the altar stones. In the grainy photographs from a national park, chiseled into the trunk of a towering oak tree where a six-year-old child was foundtwo yearsafter she disappeared in the woods, well-fed and in perfect health, talking about the pretty winged person who took care of her. And once, etched into a set of stairs to nowhere, smack-dab in the middle of a massive swamp outside the city OrthCon calls home.
I found those stairs right before Sector found me, I think.
I swallow. My heart thuds against my ribs. Trying my best to look like I’m moseying, I move across the sidewalk to one of the large trees that line the pathway. Leaning against its trunk, I pull my map of Blackbird Hollow from my pocket, turning it over. I dig around in my pockets for a short stub of a pencil, and then copy down the symbol, my fingers trembling all the while.
And then I’m gone, shoving the crumpled paper back into my pocket. I tail the end of a large group of undergrad-aged kids, keeping my head down. To my advantage, the sun seems to have lost its battle, and the mist is beginning to creep back in. Even the quiet residential blocks near the hotel are busier now, people wandering around, pointing out architectural details. I weave through them, hands in my pockets, doing everything in my power to stop myself from breaking into a full-out sprint.
Cookie was right. I was right.
Thereissomething here.
Chapter 6
Wyatt
Dawn might come a little later as the year dies, but Fern runs things on a tight schedule. Bleary-eyed, I stumble through the house letting her out, the back door in the kitchen open to the cold morning air. It’s still dark outside, and there’s a few of Them lazing about in the center of Their ring of toadstools as I grind the coffee.
Fern’s gone into pounce mode, and as I start the coffee maker, I scold her. “Leave Them be, girl.”
She sneezes purposely at the vicious little creatures, but They all laugh, still drunk on Their revelry. Fern turns her nose up at them, does her business right outside Their circle, and then trots back into the house. If she thinks she’s offended the pixies, she’s wrong. They cackle even harder. The noise is infectious, and I laugh along with Them, scratching the wolfdog’s ears as she leans against me.
I scramble some eggs for us both, then give Caden a ring as I wash the dishes. He doesn’t answer, so I leave a message on his machine, letting him know I have his mail and groceries both, and that I’ll bring them out before lunchtime.
He answers before I hang up, his voice slow with sleep. “Jesus fuck,” my little brother says in greeting. “Sun’s not even up.”
It’s a task to keep my molars from grinding together. Doc asked me to cut it out at my last checkup, and I’m trying. “You hear me about bringing your stuff by?”
“Yeah,” Cade answers with a yawn. “Come by after lunch, though.”
I pause, gathering myself. I’ve given Caden the benefit of every doubt for a year, since the wolf bit him. I’ve locked him up every month. I’ve done all his shopping, gotten all his mail. I’ve run around after him like a damn servant because he’s my kid brother, and being turned did a number on him.
“Why’s that? You got something big going down today?” I ask.
“Don’t give me a hard time about this,” Caden replies, an edge of irritation in his voice. In the background, a voice says, “Who’s calling so early, baby?”
