Chapter One
July 2048 - Birchdale, The Shifter Alliance
Alashiya was tornfrom sleep by a catastrophe a century in the making.
The shockwave of all her wards being breached at once shook the crumbling foundations of her house, knocking photos off walls and bolts of fabric onto the floor. The scent of magic clung to the back of her throat like congealing blood as she surfaced from the easy nothingness of sleep with a gasp. For the span of several frantic heartbeats, the air was dense with residual energy, making it almost impossible to breathe. It covered her skin in a sticky residue that evaporated almost as quickly as she perceived it.
When the magic faded, it left her cold and trembling. The lush heat of the summer night was just a memory as she threw off her thin blankets. It’d been a long time since she’d dealt with a threat. Though her body remembered what to do, her limbs struggled to keep up as she stumbled around in the dark.
Her breath sawed in and out of her lungs as she strained to hear in the awful quiet. Even the normal night noises, always so cacophonous in the summer, had gone silent.
Every instinct screamed at her to run. She had no weapons, nooffensive abilities. It was a nymph’s natural inclination to put distance between themselves and a threat. They were fantastic runners and could hide themselves in the wilderness with ease.
But running came with its own risks, as she knew well. Sometimes running saved your life, but it just as often led to a death further up the road.
The sound of a crash from the direction of the barn nearly made her scream. Alashiya clapped a hand over her mouth and pressed herself against the nearest wall. Her windows were heavily obscured with thick, handmade curtains and moss to regulate the temperature, but if she dared to peer through the tiny gap between the fabric and the wall, she could make out the dark shape of the dilapidated barn across the sloping yard.
At first, she couldn’t spot anything unusual. The moon was hidden behind a dense layer of clouds, which were no doubt biding their time until they could unleash the full torrent of a summer storm on the land. Even with her exemplary night vision, it was hard to see anything at all.
The noisehadcome from the barn, she thought, but it hadn’t sounded like someone breaking in. It sounded more like someone had driven a truck through it. The idea wasn’timpossible.Every year, some drunk hunter or hiker did something stupid like that in town. The result was typically a rescue from the local rangers and a very high bill.
But after her last unpleasant encounter with a group of hikers, she’d reinforced the wards that obscured the entrance to her property. Any vehicle, if that was indeed what had hit her barn, would’ve had to first find the gate and then come down the overgrown main road to do so.
I would’ve felt that,she decided, gut churning.I would’ve felt the moment they crossed over the property line. So either they appeared out of thin air, or…
Her gaze traveled up toward the roof of the barn. The high peak, meant to allow snow to slide easily off, had begun to slump a little as the building aged and fell into disrepair. She’d watched ithappen over the course of a century and knew the shape of it like she knew her own face.
Even far across the yard, swathed in near-complete darkness, she could tell that it had changed.
A little bit of her fear eased as confusion set in. Her heart rate began to slow. Had something fallen from thesky?The vivid memories she had of her land being trespassed all involved men melting out of the trees or sauntering down the road. Some beings could fly, of course, but she’d never met one, nor even seen one pass through town. Winged people tended to avoid flat land, she’d heard, and Birchdale was nothing if not flat.
Maybe it’s not an intruder at all.Another knot of unease unraveled in her belly.
She stood perfectly still against the wall for some time, her gaze glued to the shape of the barn. The heady rush of adrenaline eased back. She stood there for so long, her bones began to ache from the tension of pressing herself against the wall.
Night sounds resumed. There was no movement in the dark. No crunch of summer-wild vegetation underfoot. The door to the barn didn’t swing open, though she could allow that she might not have been able to see it even if it did.
The longer she stood there, the more it seemed like she had imagined the whole thing. She might’ve believed it, too, if she didn’t feel the residualzingof her wards settling back into their proper arrangement, or taste blood on the back of her tongue.
Going back to sleep was out of the question. Calling for help wasn’t an option, since she hadn’t had a working phone for years, and running to her nearest neighbors wasn’t either, seeing as they were elderly. She could slip from the house and risk making for the woods on her own, reliving memories best left buried, or she could confront whoever orwhatevercrashed into her barn.
Her choices were all terrible, but doing nothing was untenable.
In the end, it came down to a fundamental question: If it really was an intruder, did she want to die like her grove?
Alashiya swallowed a sour mouthful of bile.No,she thought,if there’s someone out there, I’m not going to be hunted down and slaughtered in the dark.
It went against every instinct, but she unpeeled herself from the wall. It was lucky that she’d moved nearly everything into one room when her grandfather passed. It saved on wood for the stove during the winter and it meant that her steel fabric scissors were close by.
Hastily throwing on her boots and a thin cover-up, she shoved a flashlight into her pocket and gripped the scissors in her right hand. She kept her mass of curly hair tied back at night, but tendrils escaped to tickle her clammy cheeks as she forced her legs to carry her across the creaky wood floor.
Her left hand shook as she unfastened the antique lock.Maybe it’s a meteor,she tried to convince herself. Wasn’t that more likely than someone flying through the roof of her barn?
Despite her heavy boots, Alashiya’s footsteps were light on the mulch that blanketed the paths through her garden. During the growing season, the area was so lush with life that it was nearly impossible to walk through — a chaotic jumble of symbiotic plant life she depended on to survive. The plants, who normally hummed with pleasure and demands at her nearness, were disconcertingly quiet as she passed them.
Her home sat on a slight hill above the barn, where some enterprising farmers had once kept cattle but which her grove had begun to convert into communal housing. There was little wind that night, but the air was thick with moisture. Born and raised on the land, she knew in her bones that a storm was on its way.
She didn’t use her flashlight as she silently picked her way around her labyrinth of a garden, fearing that it would alert any potential intruders to her approach. With every step she warred with herself. Why was she doing this? Was it a product of trauma or misplaced pride? What could she do against an intruder, armed with little more than a pair of sewing shears?
