The air was crisp enough to bite, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and dying leaves that made Hollow Pines feel like a postcard from someone's idealized childhood. Mist clung to the edges of the Evernight Forest, turning the treeline into something soft and mysterious, like the world was wrapped in gauze.
I was maybe halfway to town, mentally debating whether Mom's “good cheese” directive meant the expensive stuff or just not the plastic-wrapped singles, when I noticed him.
A man standing at the edge of the forest, perfectly still in that way that made my photographer's eye take notice. At first glance, he looked like any other local—tall, wearing a long coat that swept nearly to the ground, dark hair that caught what little light filtered through the mist.
But there was something wrong with the picture. Something that made my steps slow and my pulse kick up in warning.
Maybe it was the way he stood, too motionless, like he was a photograph that had been pasted into the landscape instead of actually existing in it. Or maybe it was how the mist seemed to curl around him differently, like even the weather was giving him space.
Whatever it was, every instinct I'd developed during my years away was screaming at me to cross to the other side of the road and pretend I hadn't seen him.
Instead, like the brilliant decision-maker I was, I kept walking straight toward him.
The man lifted his head as I approached, and I got my first clear look at his face. Sharp features that belonged on a Renaissance sculpture, pale skin that looked like it had never seen sunlight, and eyes that seemed to glow faintly green in the shadows cast by the forest canopy.
Beautiful, in the way that predators were beautiful. Dangerous in the way that made you want to step closer even when your brain was screaming warnings.
“Beautiful afternoon for a walk,” he said, and his voice was silk wrapped around steel, carrying an accent I couldn't place and harmonics that seemed to resonate in places voices shouldn't reach.
I forced a casual nod, trying to ignore the way his presence made my skin crawl. “Just running errands for my mom. You know how it is.”
The man smiled, and it was the kind of expression that looked right but felt wrong, like someone had taught him the mechanics of human emotion without explaining the feelings behind them.
“Strange, isn't it?” he continued, taking a step closer that put him directly in my path. “How quickly things change in a small town. One day you're just another face in the crowd, the next you're at the center of stories that have been decades in the making.”
The words sent ice sliding down my spine, because there was something in his tone that suggested he knew exactly what stories he was talking about.
“I'm sorry, do I know you?” I asked, my grip tightening on the grocery list.
“Not yet,” the man said, and there was something in his tone that made it sound like a promise. “But I know you, Nathaniel Harrington. I know you've been asking questions, learningtruths about this place that most people spend their whole lives never seeing.”
The use of my full name made my mouth go dry. Because I hadn't told him my name, had never seen him before in my life, and the only people who called me Nathaniel were my parents when they were seriously pissed at me.
“Look, I don't know what you're selling, but I'm not interested,” I said, taking a step back and trying to remember if I'd passed any other cars on the road, any witnesses who might notice if I disappeared into the mist.
The man's smile widened, showing teeth that were too white and too sharp.
“I'm not selling anything,” he said. “Just offering perspective. You've learned so much recently, haven't you? About the family you've chosen to align yourself with. But there's so much more you don't know. So many questions you haven't thought to ask.”
My heart was hammering against my ribs now, because there was no way this stranger could know about Evan, about what I'd witnessed and accepted. Unless he'd been watching. Unless he was something more than human himself.
“What do you want?” I asked, abandoning any pretense of casual conversation.
“To open your eyes,” the man said. “The Callahans have ruled this place for generations, but power like theirs comes with a price. And that price is usually paid by people like you—outsiders who get caught up in games they don't understand.”
Before I could ask what the hell that was supposed to mean, headlights swept across the road. A pickup truck rumbled past, and I turned to wave at the driver, hoping they might slow down and offer some human company.
When I looked back, the man was gone.
Not walking away, not disappearing into the trees like a normal person. Just gone, like he'd been absorbed into the mistand shadows, leaving nothing behind but the scent of something wild and wrong and the echo of words that made my chest tight with unease.
I stood there for a long moment, heart racing and hands shaking as I tried to process what had just happened. Because that hadn't been normal, had it? Normal people didn't appear out of nowhere, know things they shouldn't know, and then vanish like they'd never existed in the first place.
Normal people didn't make you feel like you'd just been marked by something hungry.
By the time I reached the market, I'd almost convinced myself that I'd imagined the whole encounter. Stress and the emotional adjustment of learning about the supernatural world—it would be perfectly reasonable for my brain to start conjuring mysterious strangers who knew more than they should.
Almost convinced.
