Hayes and I still haven’t settled on a proper name for him, so for now he’s just Dog. I’ve been too scared to name him, worried someone might come crawling out of the woodwork and claim him.
We hung signs, checked online listings, posted on Facebook, even drove around looking for flyers, but so far no one’s come forward. At this point, I’m really starting to hope he might be ours.
As I lead the dog out through the garage, a sharp breeze makes me shiver. It’s unusually cool for early September. Luckily, I keep a faded Pink Floyd sweatshirt in the trunk of my car for emergencies. I grab it as we pass the car and zip it all the way up, pulling the hood over my head. People always think Southern California is hot and sunny year-round, but it can get seriously chilly, especially this close to the ocean.
Or maybe it’s just me.
My mother always says my blood wasn’t made for cold climates. I’m constantly begging to turn up the heater or layering sweaters, even in summer. She claims I’ll never survive a Northeast winter, that I’ll hate New York. Then again, she’ll say just about anything to keep me here. The woman has serious abandonment issues thanks to my deadbeat father.
I pause to stretch my hamstrings, bracing a hand on the car hood as the lingering pull from my earlier workout burns down my legs. Then I give the dog’s leash a gentle tug and lead him down the long driveway and out the front gate.
He trots eagerly at my side as we head toward the pedestrian sidewalk that lines the streets of Hayes’s prestigious private community. These hills are home to some of Laguna Hills’s wealthiest residents—tech titans, real estate moguls, even a few Hollywood stars—and it shows. Towering heritage oak trees rise on both sides of the road, immaculately pruned and decades old. The pavement is flawless. Not a single pothole or piece of trash in sight.
There are some great hiking trails here, too. Quiet. Shaded. Just secluded enough to feel like your own secret world.
After a few minutes, we reach the entrance to my favorite one, a path that leads all the way down to the beach. I unhook the dog’s leash so he can roam freely beside me. This trail is usually packed on weekend mornings, but by early evening, most people have cleared out. It’s why I prefer coming at dusk, even though my mother’s always warning me not to go places alone this close to dark.
My mother has always been a bit… obsessively cautious.
She doesn’t think anywhere is safe, not even a private trail in one of the most exclusive, well-protected neighborhoods in all of California. And I’m not talking about the usual stuff most mothers worryabout—kidnappers, serial killers, random creeps. Nope, my mother’s fears run far deeper.
More… fantastical.
Ever since Amber and I were little kids, our mother has warned us about another world—a realm of shadows that exists right alongside our own. She calls it the “Underworld” and claims it’s like a darker, twistier version of Alice’s Wonderland. A hidden place, brimming with dangerous magic and full of ancient, powerful gods and monsters, the stuff of nightmares. Superhuman beings with the strength of a thousand men and the ability to live forever.
She always said Amber and I were “special”—though she never said how—and that if the wrong people ever found out about us, they’d come and drag us into the Underworld. This wasn’t just some made-up cautionary bedtime story to keep us in line, like the Boogeyman or Krampus. She genuinely believed it.
Back in elementary school, she made us wear these ridiculous black tourmaline bracelets to ward off evil and tucked protection pouches made of special yarrow flowers under our pillows to keep us safe from “spiritual danger.” They actually smelled kind of nice—like rosemary and oregano—but were so bulky it was hard to sleep on them.
It wasn’t until sixth grade that I realized this wasn’t normal. None of the other kids wore spelled crystal jewelry or kept emergency magic sachets in their backpacks. And their parents definitely didn’t talk about deadly imaginary worlds.
I blame my father—whoever, wherever he is.Mom said he was the one who first told her about the Underworld. He’s the one who got her to believe.
When we were growing up, Amber and I used to ask about him all the time.
Who was he?
What was he like?
Mom would feed us scraps, but never enough to truly satisfy our curiosity. She shared little details, like how he had the same dark hair and fair skin I did. That he was athletic and strong and fast. Smart and well-read. But no matter how much we pestered, she’d never tell us anything important, like why he left us or where he went.
Her answer was always the same: we were too young to understand. One day, when we were older, she’d explain everything.
Eventually, we stopped asking.
Suddenly, a deep, thunderous bark jerks me out of my thoughts, and the dog bolts from my side. Ears pinned, teeth bared, he charges straight toward the overgrown woods to our left.
“Shit—Dog!”
I take off after him, cursing myself for letting him off leash. This is our third time on the trail this week—he’s been solid so far, no issues—but I should’ve known better. We’re still just getting to know each other.
“Hey! Come on!” I yell again, running to catch up.
Low-hanging branches whip against my legs as I tear through the woods after him. My sneakerscrunch over leaves and loose rocks, the ground turning rough and uneven underneath my feet.
A gnarled tree root juts out of nowhere, and I trip, crashing to the ground. I cry out, curling forward and clutching my leg, trying to breathe through the sting. Tears spring to my eyes, uninvited.
“Dog, stop—NOW!”
