I stack a few dead branches to mark my place, then make my way along a thin path snaking through the forest floor.
Of course. Another zigzag.
“Yeah, no thanks,” I mutter, about to turn back—then I see it. A slanted roof, thatched and weathered. Beneath it, whitewashed stone.
A house.
Someone actually lives out here.
Then a thick, smoky tang of burning peat hits me. The scent tugs at something deep in my bones. Whoever they are, they’ve got a fire going. Which means warmth. And dryness.
I don’t have a choice. I’m completely lost. I need directions back to the inn. Better yet, maybe I can use their phone to call a taxi. I’m blowing through my funds, but screw it. This is an emergency.
But you can’t take the New York out of the girl. Just in case these people are shifty, I double-check that my mom’s ring is secure under my shirt. Sadly, that and two soggy five-pound notes stuffed in my sweater pocket are all I’ve got worth stealing.
I shake out my filthy dress, square my shoulders, and step toward the door.
But as I lift my hand to knock, doubt stops me cold.
The place is barely a house—it’s more of a shack. The thatched roof sags with damp, and the door is so low I’ll have to duck to enter. The whitewash, long faded, is a dingy shade of gray. Mildew traces intricate patterns along the stone, marking years of leaks. Black patches cling to places the sun has never touched.
It’s not too late. My fingers uncurl, ready to pull back.
Then—a sheep bleats. The sudden sound startles me, but it’s so familiar, so absurdly normal, that I let out a breathy laugh.
This is just some farmer. Just like Poppa.
That settles it. I knock.
I’ll tell them I come from a farming family, too. They’ll take me inside, fuss over me, probably insist I sit by the fire. Ican almost feel the weight of a scratchy plaid blanket settling over my shoulders.
They’ll almost certainly offer me tea. Or whisky.
No, teawithwhisky. For once, I won’t argue. I can feel the burn of it already, heat unfurling from my throat down to my toes.
As I wait for them to answer, I shuffle backward for another look. It’s not a shack, just a cottage. Quaint, almost storybook.
The knob turns. Smiling, I step closer.
The door creaks open. For a moment, nothing happens. Then a gust of air lashes out, cold and wrong. A shiver races up my spine. It’s dark in there. My smile falters.
I don’t want this anymore.
I try to turn, but my legs are numb. A chill rolls through me, like my heart is pumping ice water instead of blood. The world tilts, and my vision doubles, warping at the edges. The doorway splits. Re-forms. Splits again. Sound becomes hollow, like my skull is a vast, empty cavern.
Is this fainting?
Terror seizes me, bringing a last, sharp shot of awareness. I gulp for air, but it’s like breathing through wet cloth. Fractured images come to me: an opening door, low-burning flames, shadows stretching across walls, a man looming in the doorway. Firelight flickers behind him, the only glow in the darkness. Instead of feeling warm, the thick, smoky air catches in my throat.
Time stutters and slows as I pitch forward, black spots blooming in my vision. I catch myself on the doorjamb. Splinters gouge my palms as I slide down, the wood dragging past in slow motion.
My knees slam into the floor, the jolt sparking one lastember of awareness. I flail, try to turn, but my body is dead weight.
My hip hits next. Then my shoulder.
My head—I’m going to crack my skull. Panic spirals through me, dredging up a long-forgotten memory. Ice skating on frozen lakes.Tuck your chin, girl.
I try, but my body has gone slack. I hold my breath and brace for impact?—
