A bit of a walk was clearly an understatement, especially after a long night spent escaping a murderous vampire and then stumbling through a dark, trap-infested forest. It’s a long journey to the village.

It’s lucky that I ran into Patrick. The path splits several more times, and most of the wooden signs at these junctions that had, I presume, once provided helpful directions, are illegible on account of having either faded or otherwise had huge lopsided chunks taken out of them, as though some passing sharp-toothed animal mistook them for food. If left to my own devices, it’s doubtful I would have made it out of Echo Forest alive.

But unfortunately for me, Patrick is extremely chatty and seems to be operating under the notion that any bit of silence is a wasted bonding opportunity.

“What have you guys got planned for today?” His chipper voice and jaunty walk seem a bit out of sorts in this lethal place.

“Who?” I ask, sighing at his relentless effort at conversation.

“You and your friend in Skeleton Grove.”

“Oh… um—nothing really… we were just going to… um—you know, do this and that,” I ramble, cringing at how dull I sound. Even to myself.

Patrick whirls around to face me—so abruptly and with such enthusiasm that I jump back, startled. “I know! You guys should go see the Hellhound Gang!”

“Hellhound Gang?”

He opens his mouth to respond, but a loud sneeze erupts instead. “Sorry.” He wipes his nose with his sleeve. “I have terrible allergies.”

Indeed, Patrick sneezes almost as much as he talks.

“Anyway, I meant the band. They’re performing at the festival tonight in Skeleton Grove.”

“Uh, all right, yeah,” I say noncommittally, tugging at my earlobe. “Maybe we will. Thanks for the tip.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then—

“Wait!” Patrick’s eyes bulge. I hold my breath. “I was planning to go with a friend tonight! We should all go together.”

“Oh. Yeah, that would be really fun, but um, I just remembered we were going to… um, watch a m—” do they have movies here? “—I mean… have dinner with her parents tonight.” Better. A universal activity.

“Oh, too bad.” A pause. “What’s your friend’s name? If she lives in Skeleton Grove, I might know her.”

“Mitzy Pendleton,” I say, uttering the first name that pops into my head and then trying hard not to wince at the thought of being friends with the real Mitzy Pendleton.

“Hm… Doesn’t ring a bell. Does she go to Grimlock?”

I open my mouth, about to ask what Grimlock is, but stop myself. Something tells me this question would trigger suspicion. “No.”

“Oh. What school does she go to then?” asks Patrick conversationally.

“She’s…” I rub my temple. Hard. My brain’s starting to hurt. “Um, I’m not sure…”

Patrick gives me a funny look.

“I mean, she’s homeschooled, you see,” I say quickly.

“Oh. Odd.” A pause. “What school do you go to?”

I steal a glance at Patrick, worried that his prying questions are a sign that he’s becoming suspicious. But as I study his face, the bright, innocent curiosity I see there reassures me that I’m safe. For now.

I scratch my chin. “I’m… uh, homeschooled too.”

“Oh.” A beat. “What’s that like?”

Thankfully Dooner chooses this moment to fly off and I duck out of the way with a yelp.

“He’s just going to hunt,” Patrick informs me. Then asks, “Where’s yours?”

I blink. Twice. “Um… also hunting.”

It continues like this for what feels like hours. Patrick, if not a little naïve, is naturally charming and gregarious, never without something to ask or say. “How old are you? Do you have siblings? What do your parents do? Do you like sweet or savory? Or both? What’s your favorite color?” Under other circumstances, I might have enjoyed talking with Patrick. But as it happens, I’m running out of vague responses and plausible lies.

It’s a relief when the trees grow sparse and the path widens. Moments later, we step beneath an arched sign reading Skeleton Grove and onto a sloping cobbled road, as heavy with fog as the forest. It’s old and pocked, with large cracks and hollow pits holding small pools of rainwater. Stone cottages with sagging gable roofs fall into each other along either side of the street, which twists and curves up a high hill. It’s eerily empty. Were it not for the dim yellow glow emitting from paneled windows and smoke escaping the occasional chimney, I would have assumed it was a ghost town.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

We turn onto a few more residential streets. The sound of voices reaches my ears and grows louder as we walk, and eventually we enter a buzzing village square where dozens of crooked wooden pubs and crumbling stone shops are clustered tightly together.

“Where does your friend live?” asks Patrick.

I don’t reply. Once again, the keen sense of having been dropped into a surreal dream—or nightmare—threatens to overwhelm me. On display in and around eerily decorated shop windows are an odd assortment of some of the strangest items I have ever seen: cursed daggers; oracular spying skulls; charmed tarot cards; gleaming crystal pendulums; jars crawling with black spiders; and tall cannisters trapping sharp-toothed creatures that glare at us, their gazes following us as we move. One shop touts spelled mirrors that insult passersby with rude, unsolicited opinions on all things appearance, including hair styles and fashion choices.

Across the street from us, standing near a shop advertising consultations for treating hexes, a performer is playing a shabby, patched instrument. It resembles an S-shaped harp, but the sound it emits is more like the dull, low-pitched hum of a pipe organ at a funeral. As the woman strums the strings, thick green smoke escapes its crown and fuses with the fog, engulfing the street in a ghostly haze.

“Riley?”

I register Patrick’s voice as though from a distance. I blink. “Sorry. What?”

“I was just asking where your friend lives.”

“Oh, right. Mitzy.” I search my memory quickly. What’s the street again? It started with an M, didn’t it? “Melody Lane. She lives on Melody Lane.”

Patrick frowns. “But the only thing that road leads to is James Manor—”

My heart soars. I’ve found it!

“—and that place is wicked haunted.”

My heart plunges to the ground. “Haunted?” I swallow. “With what?”

“Ghosts?” A shrug. “Dunno. But kids are always daring each other to enter the grounds. Some friends dragged me there last Halloween. We didn’t even get past the gate. We saw the lights flicker on, then smoke started coming out of the chimney, and I swear it looked like someone was walking inside behind the curtain. But that should be impossible, because everyone knows it’s been abandoned for over a decade.” He shudders. “That place gives me the creeps.”

My jaw slackens. Wonderful.

“You’re sure your friend said Melody Lane?”

“Um. She actually said near it,” I say, feeling sick.

“Ah, so she probably lives on Whispering Pine Road, then. It turns into Melody Lane at the end. It’s not far from here. But it is uphill.” Patrick makes a face at the slanted street ahead. “Wanna walk or take the telehub?”

“Definitely walk.” What on earth is a telehub?

Probably deadly—whatever it is.

Patrick only grins. “Right, I forgot. Avid hiker.”

I follow Patrick up a labyrinth of sloping streets, each one a little steeper than the last. Shadowy alleyways and desolate stairwells occupy the narrow crevasses between buildings. There are no cars, but throngs of people saunter by in every direction, most dressed in darker shades of black, olive, gray, midnight blue, and burgundy. Women wear a variety of clothing: silk cravat blouses, leather skirts over black tights, wide-brimmed hats, wool overcoats, and fur-trimmed capes. Men sport velvet brocade vests over black button-downs, wool caps, and thick sweaters beneath embroidered tailcoats. The style as a whole has a Gothic aesthetic to it. Quite a few people have birds similar to Patrick’s on their shoulders or flying overhead.

I’m suddenly very aware of my blue jeans and bright hoodie—and lack of a pet bird.

My gaze dances around as we walk. The shops and pubs all sound a bit grim: the Dragon’s Claw, the Razor, Slugs & Grubs, the Hornet’s Nest, Potion in Motion, Matilda’s Mystics. A pungent, spicy aroma fills the air outside the Viper’s Tongue, a tavern advertising its legendary dragon blood soup. We turn onto an adjacent street and pass a shop called Comfort Row. I think this sounds refreshingly normal until I see that the furniture being advertised looks anything but comfortable, including pinching chairs and—I grimace—a chaise longue reupholstered in human skin.

“That’s… Whispering Pine… up ahead,” says Patrick between heavy pants as we slog up the steepest street yet. Despite my pounding heart and aching leg muscles, I’m secretly glad for the terrain. Patrick can’t continue his onslaught of questions if we’re both gasping for breath.

Once we’ve reached the top, my gaze is drawn to an imposing dark building that dwarfs all its neighbors. A pair of black wrought iron gates open onto a gravel path that leads to the entrance, splitting midway around a fountain in the center. Identical stone gargoyles—bearing a striking resemblance to a pair of vicious, hungry cheetahs with razor-sharp teeth, wings, and batlike ears—guard either side of the gates. But most disturbing of all, they move, pawing angrily at the platform on which they prowl and snapping warnings at other pedestrians around us who venture too close.

I frown. Even without the monstrous gargoyles, I’ve never seen a building look so uninviting.

“That’s the town hall,” says Patrick, following my gaze. “My aunt Agnes used to work there. But then she got promoted to the Birth Registry Department at the Aurelian Services Agency in Polaris.” He gives a long sigh. “She never shuts up about it at family reunions.”

I stiffen. “The Birth Registry?”

For some reason, the term chills my blood.

“Yeah,” he says slowly, watching me. “You know… the document that inscribes the name of every person born in the country?”

I slap my forehead to stave off the weird look he gives me. “Oh, that!” Then, schooling my features into neutrality, I ask, “So, um, what sort of work does your aunt do in that department?”

“Lots of dull document filing and paperwork. Can’t understand why she enjoys it—I think I’d pull my hair out.” He cocks his head. “Though sometimes she works on cases of unlawful entry into Aurelia, which could be interesting.”

My tongue goes dry, heavy. “Unlawful entry?”

“Yeah… I mean, obviously the borders are designed to prevent outsiders from finding the place. But that doesn’t stop some citizens from trying to smuggle in new friends or lovers they met while traveling abroad.”

“And… what exactly do they do with outsiders?” I ask, hoping he can’t hear my skittering heart.

“Well, they wipe their memories, of course. Then have them deported.”

I have to remind myself to breathe. Am I an outsider? Maybe I have parents from Aurelia, but that doesn’t mean I was born here. In fact, I’m nearly certain I wasn’t. I remember the look of disbelief on Clem’s face when he said my name. The whole reason my parents brought me to Scotland was to hide my existence. They wouldn’t have had me in Aurelia if there existed a book that would inscribe my name and spoil their cover-up.

I know the truth as intuitively as a baby knows how to swallow after birth.

I am an outsider.

Will Patrick turn me in if he finds out? He seems nice enough, but I can’t take chances. I need to get away from him. Now.

“I think I can manage from here…” I begin, as the sign for Whispering Pine Road comes into view ahead. But as I look sideways, my voice trails off.

Patrick is nowhere in sight.