Chapter Twelve Saylor
Chapter Twelve
Saylor
Hans drives like he’s transporting nuclear waste instead of one moderately curious woman. His massive hands grip the steering
wheel with white-knuckled intensity, his eyes constantly flicking between the road and the rearview mirror, where he can monitor
my every breath. The sedan purrs along winding roads that appear designed to disorient anyone trying to find their way back
to civilization, and I’m starting to understand why Blue felt comfortable letting me explore—there’s literally nowhere to
run.
“So, Hans,” I say, breaking the silence that’s been stretching between us for the past fifteen minutes. “How long have you
worked for Blue?”
“Years and years, Miss,” he replies in that thick German accent, his focus never leaving the road. “He is good boss. Very
fair. Pays well.”
“And what exactly does your job description include? Bodyguard? Driver? Professional kidnapper?”
Hans shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I do what is needed to keep people safe.”
I study his profile—the way his jaw keeps clenching and unclenching, how he keeps glancing at me like I might suddenly combust.
“How many people has Blue ‘kept safe’ over the years?”
“This is not my place to say.”
So, everyone in Blue’s orbit seems to operate on a need-to-know basis, and apparently, I don’t need to know anything.
The forest presses in on both sides of the road like something alive and breathing.
Towering trees that Hans identifies as Douglas firs and western red cedars create a canopy so dense that only fragments of gray sky filter through, casting everything in perpetual twilight.
Moss drapes from every branch like tattered velvet curtains, some strands so long they brush the car’s roof as we pass beneath them.
The understory is a jungle of sword ferns that reach as high as my waist, their fronds creating green tunnels that lead deeper into darkness.
Mushrooms sprout from fallen logs in impossible colors—bright orange, deep-sea blue, rich purple that looks almost black in
the filtered light. They cluster in fairy rings around massive tree trunks whose bark is so thick with moss they look like
they’re wearing fur coats. Everything looks perpetually damp, a wetness that seeps into your bones even from inside the car.
Occasionally, I catch glimpses of something moving between the trees—a flash of white that could be a deer or something else
maybe, a shape that’s gone before I can focus on it. The deeper we go, the more the forest appears to be watching us back,
ancient and patient and definitely hiding something. The locals call it the Witchwood Forest, according to the brief conversation
I managed to extract from Hans before he clammed up.
“Tell me about Grimlock,” I try again. “What’s it like?”
“Is . . . unusual place,” Hans says carefully. “Very old. Many stories.”
“What kind of stories?”
“Stories that turn milk sour if spoken aloud on moonless nights.”
Well, that’s reassuring.
The road curves again, and suddenly we’re descending through a break in the trees. Mist clings to everything like cobwebs,
and the air through the car’s vents carries the smell of damp earth and pine, but underneath there’s something else—something
that reminds me of old churches and forgotten graveyards.
And then I see it.
Grimlock sprawls along the coastline below us like a postcard that’s been left too long in the rain.
The town unfolds in tiers cascading down toward the harbor, connected by a maze of narrow cobblestone streets and shadowed alleyways that twist between buildings like arteries through a body.
The Victorian houses and Gothic spires emerge from patches of mist that drift in from the ocean, their steep roofs and pointed gables creating a jagged silhouette against the gray sky.
From this height, I can see the harbor with its weathered piers stretching into gray water, fishing boats bobbing like toys in a bathtub.
The whole place has the cramped, layered feeling of Venice—buildings pressed so close together you could reach from one window to touch another, connected by stone bridges that arch over narrow canals where seawater flows in with the tide.
The first thing that hits me is how wrong everything looks. Not obviously wrong. If you squinted, you might mistake it for
any other quaint Pacific Northwest town. Charming Victorian houses with gingerbread trim line tree-shaded streets. A town
square with a massive clock tower. Shops with painted signs and flower boxes.
But the longer I look, the more the details begin to unravel the illusion.
The Victorian houses aren’t painted in cheerful pastels. They’re all variations of gray, from dove to charcoal to the color
of storm clouds, broken only by the occasional house with scarlet red shutters or a crimson front door that looks like a splash
of blood against the monochrome backdrop. The gingerbread trim that should be decorative and welcoming instead looks like
carved teeth, shadows pooling in every curve and corner. Windows stare out like dead eyes, and I notice that many of them
have iron bars or wooden shutters that may be more defensive than decorative.
The flower boxes I can see are there, but the flowers themselves are wrong. Even from this distance, I can see they’re all
deep purple-black, as if someone decided regular flowers weren’t gothic enough for Grimlock’s aesthetic.
“What kind of flowers are those?” I ask.
Hans follows my gaze. “Nightshade,” he says matter-of-factly. “Very popular here. People say it keeps away unwanted visitors.”
“Nightshade. As in, the poisonous plant.”
“Ja. Is very effective.”
We descend into the maze of the town proper, and I feel like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole. The main road splits into
three smaller streets, each one diving between buildings at different angles. Hans navigates the labyrinth like a man who
has done this a million times, turning down alleyways barely wide enough for the sedan, past stone archways that frame glimpses
of courtyards where laundry hangs like colorful flags between iron balconies.
The cobblestone streets are uneven, worn smooth in some places by thousands of footsteps, cracked and jutting in others where tree roots have pushed through from below.
Water runs in narrow channels along the edges—not storm drains, but actual canals no wider than my arm, carrying seawater and rain through the town in patterns that must make sense to someone but look random to me.
And the people are . . . vibrant in ways I wasn’t expecting. A woman in a flowing burgundy dress dances as she sweeps her
porch, her movements so graceful she could be performing ballet with a broom. An elderly man sits on a bench feeding ravens—actual
ravens, not pigeons—while having a full conversation with them, complete with hand gestures and pauses as if he’s listening
to their responses. A girl with wild curls bounces a yellow ball against a brick wall in complex patterns, her timing so deliberate
it’s like she’s following some invisible choreography.
Three women with identical silver hair sit on rocking chairs outside the post office, knitting the same endless scarf in different
shades of evergreen. A man with arms like tree trunks tends a garden where every single flower is a different variety of rose—red,
white, pink, yellow—all blooming impossibly perfect. Near the stone fountain carved with mermaids and sea serpents whose tails
intertwine around the base, a group of children chase soap bubbles that float far longer than physics should allow, their
laughter gunning off the stone walls that close in around the small square.
Everyone appears completely absorbed in their own world, living their lives with an intensity and joy that makes my New York
existence look gray by comparison. No one pays any attention to our car; they’re too busy being magnificently themselves.
We wind through two more narrow streets before emerging into the main square, and I understand why Hans took such a circuitous
route. The layout makes no logical sense. Streets branch off at odd angles, some ending in walls, others opening onto courtyards
or disappearing under archways. It’s designed like a puzzle box, meant to confuse anyone who doesn’t know the secret.
The town square is dominated by a clock tower that should be the heart of the community but instead feels like its dead center.
The structure is beautiful in a Gothic Revival way—all pointed arches and flying buttresses—but the clock face is wrong.
The hands are frozen at midnight, and the numbers around the dial aren’t standard.
Instead of 1 through 12, they’re symbols I don’t recognize.
Runes, maybe, or some kind of alchemical notation.
“How long has the clock been broken?” I ask.
“Is not broken,” Hans says. “Is exactly right twice each day.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. Hans might be a man of few words, but when he does speak, he’s got a point.
The buildings surrounding the square are a mixture of architectural styles that shouldn’t work together but somehow do. There’s
a bakery with Gothic windows squeezed between two taller buildings, like a book pressed between bookends, next to a Tudor-style
curiosity shop that leans so far over the street it nearly touches the medieval forge across from it. Each building leans
slightly toward its neighbors, creating the impression that the entire square is slowly collapsing inward toward the clock
tower.
The signs hanging from the buildings are hand-painted in script: The Upper Crust Bakery, Wonders & Oddities, The Iron Rose
Forge. They’re the kind of atmospheric names that fit Grimlock’s mysterious vibe perfectly.
But it’s the shop windows that really get to me. They’re all lit from within by warm, golden light that should be welcoming.
Instead, the glow illuminates displays that are just slightly off. The bakery window shows delicate cakes and pastries, but