My stalker is back.

I’ve been seeing him for days now. At the Butt of Lewis lighthouse tour over the weekend. Yesterday at the local arcade. Then again today at the library across the street. Now he’s here, at the Stornoway Children’s Community Home—the place I’ve called home my whole life. I dismissed the first two appearances as coincidence. It’s a small island, after all. But there’s no mistaking his waxed green overcoat and sharp, pale cheekbones as he stares at me.

Someone bumps into me. Hard.

“What the heck, Riley,” comes the grating voice of Mitzy Pendleton, a seventeen-year-old bully whose permanent record makes mine—even with its laundry list of curfew-breaking infractions—look flawless to a fault. “You don’t just stop in the middle of a doorway.” She shoves past me. “Pick a better place to daydream, freak.”

“Uh huh,” I mutter, barely fazed, as I stare at the man. He stands in the distance, rooted beneath the shade of two trees. He’s so still that, if not for the daytime, I might have mistaken him for a tree as well. His gaze is cold. Calculating. I think he hates me.

“Are you okay?” Pink polka-dotted fingernails wave in front of my face. “Riley?”

I glance sideways at my friend, Jess. “Yeah. Fine. Do you see that—” I flick my head toward the trees. My stalker has gone. “Man?”

“What man?”

I look around the courtyard. My stalker is gone.

“Riley?” I feel Jess watching me.

“Um. Never mind.” I meet her concerned gaze and force a smile. “Let’s get to class.”

I follow the weedy, overgrown path to the crumbling building at the edge of the large courtyard. The afternoon air is chilly and damp, and the thick taste of salt from the nearby white-blue sea settles on my lips. A thick layer of gray clouds veils the sun, providing eternal fuel to the steady drizzle, typical of autumn in the Scottish Isles.

My hair and clothing are damp by the time I settle into a chair at the back of our history classroom. I’m so lost in thought that, although I see my teacher’s mouth forming words, they don’t register in my ears, and it doesn’t faze me when I receive a failed grade on my recent history exam. My mind is still on the man from the courtyard. Was he actually there? How did he disappear so quickly? Also… why would I have a stalker? Nothing like that happens to me. My life’s about as dull as a snail’s, like every other teenager on the planet.

The only difference is I’m an orphan. I have been my whole life, since the day I was dropped off here like a piece of mail as a newborn with nothing aside from my name and an ugly old pendant. I’m the only one of my peers who doesn’t even know the names of their birth parents. They all have birth certificates. The only detail I know about my parents is their surname—James—and that’s only because it’s also mine.

Allegedly, anyway.

I tried to find them once in the genealogy collections at the town library. After all, I was abandoned as a newborn—barely one day old—on an island in the dead of night. Surely I can’t have been born that far away. There are limits to how much one can accomplish in twenty-four hours, and it simply isn’t reasonable to pop out a baby and then ferry off to some distant island to abandon said baby all in the same day.

But apparently I underestimated my parents’ burning desire never to be found, for no one on the Isle of Lewis has ever shared my surname.

So yeah. That’s about as interesting as my life gets. Maybe I am losing my mind. Your brain can hallucinate when its overtired, right? Perhaps the real culprit is the dreams. Or should I say nightmares? It’s a nightmare when you wake up screaming, right? They started about a month ago. It’s always the same—I’m stuck in a dark cave and can’t find the exit. Unlike most dreams though, I remember every detail of this one. Every boring ridge in the cavern floor. It’s always so vivid. So real. The musty smell. The awful feeling of claustrophobia.

I do get a bit farther every night before waking—at midnight—drenched in a pool of my own sweat. I suppose that’s progress. Maybe tonight, I’ll finally make it to the end of that stupid cave. It’s time for a change of scenery.

Yeah. It’s the dreams. I’m overtired. I’m hallucinating. That’s all.

I repeat this in my head like a mantra throughout class, until I’ve convinced myself of its truth.

Still, the creeping feeling in my bones doesn’t go away.

***

On the way back to the main building where our dormitories are, I’m telling Jess about my recurring dreams when a high-pitched scream slices the air. Farther up the path, a younger student is trembling while Mitzy and one of her minions stand a short distance away, bent over in laughter.

“Get it off, get it off, get it off!” the girl screeches, whipping her head to one side and shaking out her hair.

“It’s huge!” cries another girl, who looks very much like she wants to help her friend, but the sight of whatever’s in the girl’s hair is stopping her short.

The girl’s responding scream is so loud it rattles my brain. I quickly piece together the scene.

“Move over,” I say. Her friends gladly clear the way. There on the girl’s head is a large, reddish-brown spider, its eight legs tangled in her curly hair. “Hold still.” I reach up and use my fingers to peel the spider from the girl’s hair—then chuck it at Mitzy.

Mitzy knocks the insect away. “I see you’ve rejoined the land of the living. What, did you finally get bored by your own brain?”

“At least I have one.” I look at Mitzy pointedly, but she clearly misses that the jibe is at her expense. “Leave the girl alone.”

Mitzy’s eyes glitter in challenge. “Or what? Think you can win a fight against me?” Mitzy’s friend gives a braying sort of laugh that reminds me vaguely of a donkey.

“Physically? No,” I admit. “Intellectually? Sure. I once convinced a sheep that counting itself would help it sleep better.” A shrug. “You’re not much smarter.”

Mitzy’s smirk fades. “You sure you wanna insult me?” she hisses. I hear the faint cracking of her knuckles as her fists clench.

Placing my thumb beneath my chin, I consider her in mock contemplation. “Is something really an insult if it’s true?” I know it’s unwise to provoke her, but I can’t deny that it’s a welcome distraction from mulling over stalkers and nightmares. “After all, you’re in the fifteen-year-olds’ history class, and you’re still flunking.”

A small moan from Jess behind me.

Slowly, Mitzy’s face screws up in thought, as though she’s assessing how much trouble she’ll get into if she hits me. I take an instinctive step back. Perhaps I went too far. There’s a reason people avoid Mitzy and her throng of minions.

“You’re going to regret the day you were born to parents who didn’t even want you.” Mitzy steps forward.

Oh, crap. Yep, too far. “What are you going to do, Mitzy?” I ask, backing into a deadened bush. “At what point do you think the home will decide you’re not worth dealing with anymore and send you to juvie instead?”

Mitzy stiffens. I hit a nerve. Even Mitzy must have some sense of self-preservation. For a second, I think she might back off. But then her gaze dips from my face to my neck. She sneers.

“Pretty necklace. Don’t mind if I take it, do you?” Her hand darts forward and closes around my pendant. I wait for the snap of the chain—better my pendant than my face.

But it doesn’t come.

Mitzy cries out in pain and recoils as though she’s been burned. Then I catch a glimpse of her hand and realize that’s exactly what’s happened. The skin of her palm and fingers is red and inflamed. “What?” she gasps, staring at her hand.

Her friend drags her away, and my shocked gaze drops to my pendant.

It’s a bulky ancient thing, but I’ve worn it for so long that I feel naked without its weight. They told me that, as a baby, I used to cry whenever they tried to remove it. They never said anything about it causing burns.

I lift it a bit warily, peer at it more closely than I have in a long time. Large, round, and gold, the pendant has a four-cornered endless knot engraved on its surface, with a vivid purple gemstone in the center. The back of it is coated in bark, strangely enough. There’s a clasp on one side, reminiscent of a locket, but I could never pry it open. It isn’t pretty. A bit hideous, actually. But it’s the only thing my parents left me.

I realize something then… something that, strangely enough, never occurred to me before. Despite the fact that I’ve seldom removed it in nearly fifteen years, the pendant shows no signs of wear. Its golden surface is as bright and polished as ever, its engraving as intricate as it was when I was a kid. Not even the slightest scratch or blemish mars the finish.

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“You should take that off,” advises Jess, coming to stand beside me. “What if it cuts you, too?”

A cut? Is that what she thinks happened to Mitzy?

Then again, why would she think otherwise? Maybe I’m the one who saw it wrong. Burning necklaces aren’t a thing. And it’s never burned me.

I hallucinated again. Yeah. That must be it.

Pushing it from my mind, I continue up the path with Jess.

“I can’t believe you just picked that spider right out of that girl’s hair,” says Jess. As if spiders are a greater evil than Mitzy. “You were so calm about it.”

I shrug. I’ve never understood why so many people are terrified of spiders. There is a fair share around here due to the lack of upkeep on the grounds. You would think people would get used to them. In all honesty, I find spiders sort of… interesting? Maybe even cool? I mean, an insect that can produce silk, of all things, and craft it into creative designs that then trap food. That’s the definition of cool, right?

This isn’t something I’ll admit to Jess though. She already thinks I’m super weird. I never say the right thing—or have the right opinion. I told her last Christmas that I liked Krampus better than Elf, and that earned me a raised eyebrow and a verbal attack on my sense of humor. Or lack thereof. The only thing we really have in common is a mutual interest in Taylor Swift.

“Anyway… What were you saying earlier? Something about nightmares?” Her brows slide together. “Also, who was that man you saw before class?”

Don’t be weird, I remind myself. I know Jess well enough to guess that she’ll report me to the nurse if I tell her I have a stalker. Let alone a burn-causing necklace.

Then again, maybe the nurse is the answer.

“Nothing.” A casual shrug. “Don’t remember.” Then I change the subject to Taylor Swift’s new album.

Before we part ways, Jess grabs my arm. “Happy Birthday,” she says, a grin cleaving her face. “I’m sorry—I completely forgot.”

“It’s tomorrow,” I tell her, my voice stiff.

Truth be told, I forgot about it, too. The community home tries to make birthdays exciting when you’re younger, but as soon as you’re a teenager, all you get is a happy birthday card from the headmaster, and a cupcake. I’ve never cared about my birthday. In fact, I intentionally try to forget it.

To me, it’s only a reminder of the day I was abandoned by my parents.

***

I lie awake that night for what feels like hours. Every time I close my eyes, I see the man in the green coat, and the feeling of unease in my stomach burrows deeper, knotting itself there like an unwelcome guest. What if I’m not imagining things? I can’t be that tired. What if the man is following me for reasons unknown? Between the dreams, the stalker, and my attacking pendant, things have seemed… off, lately.

I repeat my mantra a few more times. It’s the dreams. I’m overtired. I’m hallucinating. That’s all.

Eventually the pull of sleep wins out against my spiraling thoughts, and my eyelids drift shut.

I’m standing in a cold, dimly lit cavern…

A thick, musty smell saturates the air, and moisture clings to my skin like damp cloth. Above me, stalactites hang like icicles, and droplets of water trickle off their pointed tips and plunge to the ground with faint, rhythmic splashes that form puddles in the ground’s uneven surface.

My footsteps echo off the stone walls as I search for an exit. A growing sense of panic seeps into me as each lengthy passage leads me only deeper into the cave. But like a magnet drawn to some distant piece of metal, I know with an inexplicable certainty that my path is true.

I’m unsure how long I’ve been walking when I reach a large chamber. The place I know I was meant to find. A dark stone altar shaped like a coffin rests on a circular tiered platform in the center, and hovering above the altar’s surface as though propped up by an invisible easel is a gleaming sword with a tapered silver blade and a black hilt.

As I approach the platform, my foot knocks into something light but solid. I look down, and my breath hitches in my throat. It’s a bone. A human bone. Part of the human skeleton that lies in the shadows. I jerk away, and my gaze circles the stone floor, stopping in turn on four other skeletal remains.

I stumble sideways up the platform steps, unable to rip my gaze from the horrific sight, until my back hits the altar. I turn slowly, eyes drawing level with the sword. I reach out to touch it but… I can’t. It’s as though some invisible barrier is guarding it.

Then my gaze focuses on something behind the sword, on the far wall. A tall mirror, bordered by an intricately carved frame and standing nearly three times my height. A thick mist like heavy storm clouds swirls inside it.

Slowly, I descend the platform and approach the mirror. As I step in front of it, the mist clears, and I meet my own bewildered expression. Light blue eyes wide as saucers peek from behind long red hair that hangs in tangled strands around a pale face. In the reflection, a soft glow emanates from my right forearm beneath my nightshirt. I lift my sleeve and watch curiously as a mark of some kind is drawn on my skin, traced as though by an invisible pen. A cool, tickling sensation raises the hairs on my arm as the line weaves and twists in a deliberate fashion, forming a winding set of loops. A pattern emerges: four identical teardrops that intertwine and meet around a central opening, like a four-cornered endless knot. It feels familiar—and a second later, I make the connection.

My pendant. It’s the same mark as the one on my pendant.

When it’s finished, a small symbol materializes inside the leftmost loop. I bring my arm up for a closer look.

A dragon.

Without warning, my reflection disappears, replaced once more by the misty, swirling haze. Hesitantly, I reach forward… and am stunned when my fingers sink through the surface and chill as though I’m dripping them into a freezing pond.

I realize then that I must go through the mirror—that it’s the way out. As I step forward, the sensation of being doused in icy water overwhelms me, and my world goes dark.

***

I bolt up in my bed, my heart racing rhythmically in my chest. The irregular cadence of heavy breathing and soft snores fills the room. I exhale in relief—at least I didn’t wake up screaming like I sometimes do. It’s embarrassing when you suddenly start getting recurring nightmares at nearly fifteen years old.

You are fifteen now. I glance up at the clock out of habit, though I already know the time.

Midnight. Shocker.

On a good note, I finally escaped the cave. That means the dreams will stop, right? Been there, done that?

I stand up, wincing as my feet touch the cold tiles. I pace the floor near the window, attempting to shake off the jittery feeling in my bones. Only to see something outside that drives a wrench into that plan. A tall silhouette, shrouded in silver moonlight. The coat looks black from here––but I know it’s green.

I blink—twice—waiting for him to disappear like usual.

He doesn’t.

My breath catches as fear creeps into my gut. Though the lights are off, I can’t ignore the uncanny sense that he somehow sees me too.

I yank the curtains together. I’m not hallucinating. There is someone watching the community home. Watching me. I have to warn the night porter.

I quickly change clothes and slide into my shoes, slinging my rucksack over my shoulder out of habit. Then I jerk open the door and take off down the hall.

I reach the porter’s lodge in the main hall—and skid to a halt, a strangled gasp slipping from my throat. The porter on duty is lying unconscious on the ground.

Oh no. I take a hesitant step forward and kneel beside him, lifting my trembling hand to hover just over his mouth.

“He’s alive.” I jump up, whipping around. The man in the green coat is leaning casually against the wall, blocking the doorway. His frame is lean and muscular, his features chiseled and sharp with a strong jawline and those piercing green eyes. He has jet-black hair and looks to be in his late twenties. “Though if he remains so will depend on you.” A predatory smile plays on his lips.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Clem. And you are Riley James.” It’s not a question, but I detect a hint of disbelief in his voice. “Now, why don’t we go somewhere we can have a nice chat?” He backs away to let me pass. “And I’ll warn you—I’m much faster than you. Don’t try to run, or I might just have to take out my anger on this kindly gentleman.” His voice is soft as silk, barely above a whisper. For some reason, it makes me think of a viper right before it strikes.

My legs shake so badly as I walk that I fear they might give way. Something tells me the man isn’t bluffing.

He leads me across the hall into the headmaster’s office. Once inside, he walks around behind the oak desk by the far wall and sits in the headmaster’s chair, then leans back as though it belongs to him. He motions to the chair facing the desk.

I stare at him from the doorway, itching to make a break for it.

“Ah ah.” He wags a finger at me. “I could be there in a flash.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Sit down and I’ll tell you.” He motions again to the chair with a lazy wave of his hand. “Don’t worry—I won’t bite.” The smile he gives me makes me shiver. But it isn’t until I’m sitting across from him that I notice them. Fangs. He has actual fangs. He peers at my face, searching it, as though it holds the answer to some profound question in his mind. Then he speaks again, his voice quiet, thoughtful. “I see it now. The resemblance. You look just like them.”

My breath stops, lips part. “My parents? You know them?”

“I knew of them.” He pitches a brow. “Past tense.”

“They’re dead?”

“You didn’t know.” He tilts his head. “Then again, how could you when they stashed you away here, safe and sound? Any answers they might have had—” he leans down and picks up a worn chest made from bark, about the size of a shoebox “—are in here.” It’s then that I realize he’s wearing gloves. He follows my gaze. “Oh yes, your parents created this chest from a special bark with magical properties. I can’t touch it.”

Bark… Like the kind fixed to the back of my pendant?

The box holds a strange, almost primitive quality, and looks like it hasn’t been opened in years. “What is it?”

“Something for you,” says Clem. “They left this with a family friend.” He sets it on the desk and pulls a note from his pocket. Holds it up between his index and middle fingers. “Along with this. Apparently, this friend was meant to find you when you turned eighteen to give this to you.” His smile broadens. “Thanks to me, you’re getting it early. Go ahead.”

Momentarily forgetting the danger, I eagerly pluck the note from his grasp. I can’t steady my trembling fingers long enough to read it, so I flatten it on the desk. It’s written in a tidy, slanted handwriting that would make any English teacher beam with pride.

To our dearest Riley, on your eighteenth birthday,

We must be honest with you. If you’re reading this right now, it means that your mother and I are dead.

Dead. The word bounces around my skull. My parents are dead. Is that why they abandoned me? From the way the letter is written, they predicted this potential outcome.

We so wish we could have been there with you to celebrate this birthday and all the rest. Please know we love you very much. We hope that one day you will come to understand why we couldn’t be a part of your life and that you may find it in your heart to forgive us for what we had to do.

The chest is the key to your questions, and you are the key to it. Inside, you’ll find certain items that have been passed down in the family for ages. We place them now in your care.

With all our love,

Arthur and Wendy James

P.S. I think you’ll find there’s more to the pendant than meets the eye.

“Arthur and Wendy,” I echo softly, fingers brushing their signature. I glance up. “What happened to them?”

“Murdered.”

“Did you—”

He shakes his head.

“Then… who?”

“That is the question.” He scratches his chin. “I know who got blamed. That’s why I’m here.” He pushes the chest toward me with a gloved hand. “Now, I want you to open it.” He smiles pleasantly. “Please.”

Gingerly, I pick up the chest and examine it. The surface feels rough, starchy, in my hands, and very old. But except for a single loose nail, it’s sturdy, which surprises me because, at first glance, it bears the look of something that might very well splinter beneath the slightest pressure.

“Open it,” he repeats softly.

I turn it over in my hands and find a shiny silver padlock—but no keyhole. “How?” My throat feels raw.

“It’s a blood seal. A drop of your blood is all that’s needed.” He takes out a pocket knife and slides it slowly toward me, hilt first.

I stare at it for a moment, then meet his gaze. “And after I open it… what happens then?”

He shrugs. “Then I kill you.”