Evernight (Wild Moon #1)

Chapter 1

NEW CITY BOY

Headphones tangled around my neck like a noose, camera case pressed against my knees so hard the corners dug through my jeans. Mom hummed in the front seat about “fresh mountain air” while Dad muttered about losing cell reception for the third time in twenty minutes.

Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

Rain streaked the windows of our ancient sedan, turning Hollow Pines into watercolor smears as we crawled down what passed for a main road.

Pine trees pressed against both sides like they were trying to crush us, their branches scratching at the glass with sounds that made my teeth hurt.

Not the good kind of hurt—the kind that warned you something was wrong.

“Oh, Nathaniel, look at that!” Mom twisted in her seat, pointing at a crooked sign half-hidden by moss. “Welcome to Hollow Pines, population 2,847. Isn't it charming?”

Charming. Right. Like a cemetery at midnight was charming.

“Sure, Mom.” My voice came out flatter than roadkill, but she was too busy bouncing in her seat to notice.

Dad's knuckles had gone white around the steering wheel, his jaw working like he was chewing glass.

He'd wanted to stay in Portland. Had made that abundantly clear during every family meeting about “new opportunities” and “fresh starts.”

Fresh starts. Code for running away from everything that had gone to shit.

Not that I was bitter.

I pressed my forehead against the cold window and framed shots in my mind—mist trailing through the trees like ghost fingers, the way shadows pooled between buildings, how the streetlights flickered on and off like they couldn't decide if they wanted to work.

Documentary photography, I told myself. Evidence of this place, even if I ended up hating every second here.

Because if I was going to be miserable, at least I'd have pictures to prove it.

Main Street unfolded ahead of us like someone's idea of small-town perfection.

Brick storefronts with hanging flower baskets that dripped steadily in the rain.

A café with warm yellow light spilling through steamed windows.

An old-fashioned barbershop with a spinning pole.

It looked like a movie set, too clean and cute to be real.

But the people weren't acting like extras.

Every single person we passed stopped what they were doing to stare at our car.

An old man in a flannel shirt paused mid-stride, coffee cup halfway to his lips.

Two women chatting outside what looked like a florist shop fell silent and tracked our progress with their eyes.

A teenager on a bike actually turned around to follow us for half a block before peeling off down a side street.

“Fuck,” I muttered. “Are we that obvious?”

“Language, honey.” But Mom's voice had gone tight, and I saw her shoulders hunch forward. She'd noticed too.

“Welcome wagon's probably already organizing,” Dad said, and the bitter edge in his voice made my stomach clench. He'd been against this move from day one, and every mile we'd driven had only made him more resentful. “Small towns love fresh meat.”

“Michael.” Mom's teacher voice, sharp and warning.

“What? Kid should know what he's walking into.”

And there it was. The truth neither of them wanted to say out loud—we weren't just moving to Hollow Pines. We were running to it. Mom's teaching job was the excuse, but the real reason sat heavy in the car with us, thick as the mist outside.

Portland had chewed me up and spit me out. Again.

I'd fucked up at school, fucked up with friends, fucked up so completely that even my guidance counselor had suggested a “change of scenery” might be beneficial. Code for: your kid's a mess and we don't know how to fix him.

Fair enough. I didn't know how to fix me either.

But maybe—maybe here I could figure out how to be someone different. Someone who didn't drift between friend groups like a ghost, who didn't feel like an outsider in his own skin. Someone who belonged somewhere.

Fat chance, but a guy could dream.

We pulled up in front of a two-story house that looked like it had been transplanted from a fairy tale.

White picket fence and all. The realtor's car was already in the driveway, and before Dad had even turned off the engine, a woman burst out of the front door, waving and grinning like we were long-lost relatives.

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” I breathed.

“Nathaniel.”

“Sorry, Mom.”

The woman had the aggressive friendliness that made my skin crawl. She cooed over how “cute” I was, called me “city boy” before I'd said two words, and kept touching my arm like we were old friends.

“You must be so excited to start at our little school,” she gushed, steering us toward the front porch. “Everyone's been talking about the new English teacher's son. We don't get many transfers, you know.”

Great. I was already Hollow Pines' daily entertainment.

“Can't wait,” I said, deadpan enough that she actually paused mid-sentence and looked at me sideways.

“Oh.” She laughed, but it sounded nervous. “He's got a sense of humor, doesn't he?”

Mom jumped in with some bullshit about how I was “adjusting to the move,” but I'd already checked out.

Instead, I catalogued details—the way Beth's smile never quite reached her eyes, how the house smelled like fresh paint and something else I couldn't identify, musty and wild.

Animal, maybe. The grandfather clock someone had left behind ticked too loud in the empty living room, marking time like a countdown.

To what, I didn't know. But every instinct I had screamed that Hollow Pines was keeping secrets.

While my parents dealt with paperwork and key exchanges, I drifted toward the front window.

Outside, the rain had stopped, but mist still clung to everything like the world was holding its breath.

A few neighbors lingered on their porches and sidewalks, pretending to go about their business while stealing glances at our house.

At me.

I hated being the center of attention. In Portland, I'd perfected the art of blending into backgrounds, becoming invisible. Here, I might as well have had a neon sign flashing “OUTSIDER” over my head.

Fine. If they wanted to stare, I'd give them something to look at.

I slipped outside while my parents argued with Beth about utility transfers, camera case slung over my shoulder.

Cool air hit my face, carrying scents that made my nose twitch—pine and damp earth and that wild smell from inside, stronger now.

It reminded me of camping trips with Mom when I was little, sleeping in tents while coyotes howled in the distance.

Except this didn't feel like coyotes.

Main Street stretched in both directions, lined with shops that looked like they'd been frozen in time.

Moonbeam Café, with its hand-painted sign and steamed windows.

Finley's Florist, where an older woman with silver hair watched me from behind a curtain of hanging ivy.

The barbershop, the general store, the library—all of it picture-perfect and faintly menacing.

Because that was the thing about perfection. It always hid something rotten underneath.

I lifted my camera and started shooting. Click—the way shadows pooled between buildings like spilled ink. Click—lamposts that flickered in broad daylight for no reason I could see. Click—the florist woman's face disappearing behind her ivy when she realized I'd spotted her.

Each shot felt like claiming territory. This place wanted to define me, label me, put me in a neat little box marked “City Boy Who Won't Last.” But if I documented it first, if I made it mine through my lens, maybe I could flip the script.

Maybe I could figure out how to belong here before it decided I didn't.

Morning came too soon and too gray, clouds hanging low enough to touch the treetops.

Mom fluttered around our new house like an anxious bird, checking and rechecking that we both had everything for our first day.

Dad had already escaped to “set up his home office,” which really meant hiding from Mom's nervous energy.

Smart man.

“Do you have your camera?” she asked for the third time, smoothing down my hair like I was five years old.

“Mom.” I caught her hands, stilling them. “I'm fine. It's just school.”

“I know, I just—” Her smile wobbled at the edges. “I want this to work out for us. For you.”

The weight of her hope pressed against my chest like a physical thing. She'd given up her tenure-track position in Portland for this job, had convinced Dad to leave everything familiar behind because she believed Hollow Pines could save me. Save us.

No pressure there.

“It will,” I lied, because what else could I say?

She kissed my forehead, grabbed her teacher bag, and we walked to school together in comfortable silence.

Mom's heels clicked against the sidewalk as she mentally rehearsed her first day lesson plans, while I catalogued potential photo opportunities—the way mist caught in spider webs, how the old streetlights looked like sentries in the gray morning light.

Hollow Pines High squatted at the end of Main Street like a brick toad, all narrow windows and heavy doors. Someone had painted murals along the outside walls—wolves running through forests, ravens perched on pine branches, symbols that looked almost runic carved into tree bark.

Cheerful.

“Those are... interesting,” Mom said, studying the artwork with her teacher's eye. “Very... regional.”

Students clustered around the entrance in the universal ritual of teenage social sorting.

Jocks by the flagpole, goths near the bike racks, theater kids under the overhang arguing about some play I'd never heard of.

Normal high school bullshit, except for the way they all went quiet when they saw us coming.

Conversations died mid-sentence. Heads turned. A girl with purple hair actually elbowed her friend and pointed at Mom, then at me.

“Subtle,” I muttered.