If you’d told me twelve months ago that my little town would be hosting an annual “Cryptid Carnival,” I’d have laughed in your face and then poured whiskey in my coffee to dull the absurdity. And yet, here we are—Main Street strung with fairy lights, food trucks lined up in the square, and half the town walking around dressed likeKursk.
I lean against the library’s brick wall, arms crossed, watching a trio of teenagers stomp past wearing green body paint, tusks made out of papier-mâché, and flannel shirts two sizes too big. One of them bellows, “I AM THE ORC OF THE VEIL!” in a voice crack that makes me snort into my cup of cider.
Kursk stands beside me, deadpan. “That is not what I sound like.”
“Oh, it’sexactlywhat you sound like,” I tease, bumping his shoulder with mine.
He grumbles, tusks catching the glow of lanterns, but I can see the corner of his mouth twitch.
Worse still are the Vorfaluka costumes. Some college kids from Albany have draped themselves in black sheets with glowsticks taped to their faces, shrieking in high-pitched falsetto as they chase kids around the carnival games. One little girl screams, delighted, then pelts them with a candied apple.
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. “This is what we survived for?”
Kursk shrugs. “Better than pretending it never happened.”
He’s right. As much as I want to groan at every fake tusk and glittered-up cloak, it’s easier than silence. Laughter beats fear.
Peggy Sue wanders over, cheeks flushed, hand-in-hand with someone I don’t recognize. A tall man in simple linen robes, long hair braided with beads, and an aura of calm that makes the chaos around him look like background noise.
“This is Rowan,” she says, practically glowing. “He’s… a druid.”
“From where?” I ask, sipping my cider.
“Out of town,” Rowan answers smoothly, voice like moss and riverwater. He nods to Kursk. “I’ve heard much of you.”
Kursk narrows his eyes but nods back. Later, when they walk away, he mutters, “If he turns out to be a shapeshifter, I’m gutting him.”
“Romantic,” I say, laughing into my sleeve.
Meanwhile, Burnout has reinvented himself yet again. He rented the old gym on Oak Street and painted the walls black with silver runes. The sign outside readsSlayer Yoga: Breathe Loud, Stretch Hard.I peeked in last week—mats laid out, incense burning, and Burnout leading a class of middle-aged women through downward dog while blasting “Raining Blood.” It shouldn’t work, but the room was packed.
Booger, predictably, is still a menace. Last month he got himself arrested for impersonating a county official—he’d stolen a reflective vest and started directing traffic outside the carnival like he owned the place. The deputy was not amused.
“Do you know who I am?” Booger had shouted as they cuffed him.
“Not a county official,” the deputy deadpanned.
Kursk had to march into the station with me trailing behind. He loomed over the sheriff, staff in hand, and growled, “This fool is under my protection.”
The sheriff raised an eyebrow. “Yourwhat?”
“Orcic character witness,” Kursk declared, dead serious.
Somehow, unbelievably, it worked. Booger walked out free, grinning like a fool. He hasn’t stopped bragging about having an “orc lawyer” ever since.
Now, standing here at the carnival with Kursk’s hand brushing mine, I breathe in the scents of fried dough, kettle corn, and woodsmoke. The sounds of laughter, bad heavy metal covers, and children screaming in joy rise into the night. Lanterns sway overhead.
It’s ridiculous. It’s messy. It’s Walnut Falls.
The hawk comes at twilight.
I’m shelving returns when I hear it—wings like leather drums beating against the air. The sound rattles the panes of the library windows. I step outside into the cooling dusk and there it is, circling low over the roof, its feathers glowing faint silver in the fading light.
Not a real hawk. A spirit one. I know because the air around it crackles, and its eyes burn with embers instead of pupils. It screeches once, sharp enough to make my teeth ache, then dives.
I don’t flinch when it lands on the railing, talons burning faintly without scorching the wood. In its beak, an envelope sealed in wax stamped with the sigil I’ve only seen in visions: the wolf and spear of Chief Rand.
“Message for you?” I ask softly.
