Chapter Twenty-Eight Blue
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Blue
The sound hits me before I even open the door—genuine laughter, bright and unguarded. I pause with my hand on the handle of
Toil & Trouble, caught off guard by how foreign the sound seems in Duffy’s usually quiet establishment.
When I push through the door, I find Saylor doubled over at the bar, tears streaming down her face from laughing so hard.
Duffy’s leaning against the back counter, grinning with the kind of satisfaction that comes from landing a particularly good
story. They look like old friends sharing secrets, comfortable in a way that makes something warm settle in my chest.
I can’t remember the last time I saw Duffy truly relaxed with another person. She’s friendly enough with customers, professional
with business associates, but this? This is different. Saylor’s got her feet tucked up on the barstool rungs, completely at
ease, and Duffy’s actually remaining still instead of working—something I’ve seen maybe twice in all the years I’ve known
her.
“Blue!” Saylor looks up, still catching her breath, and the sight of her face flushed with happiness does something dangerous
to my composure. Her hair’s escaping from whatever she’d tried to do with it this morning, and there’s a lightness to her
expression that I’ve never seen before. “Duffy was just telling me about Dame Gothel’s love letters.”
“She’s been leaving them for the mailman,” Duffy explains, barely containing her own laughter. “Romantic poetry about his
‘strong hands’ and ‘noble dedication to correspondence.’ Problem is, her handwriting looks like a serial killer’s manifesto
and he can’t read a single word. The poor man is convinced she’s sending him death threats.”
This sets Saylor off again, and I can’t help but smile at the sound.
I settle onto a stool, watching them with fascination.
Grimlock doesn’t welcome outsiders easily.
We’re a town full of people who’ve learned to be suspicious, who’ve all got reasons to prefer our privacy.
Most newcomers sense the undercurrent of wariness and either leave quickly or spend months trying to prove they belong.
But Saylor’s different. Maybe it’s because she stabbed a man at my dinner party. Maybe it’s because she looks at our darker
edges and sees them as features rather than flaws. Or maybe it’s simply that she understands what it means to carry secrets—and
more importantly, what it means to keep them.
Whatever the reason, she’s already carved out a place here. I can see it in how Duffy’s shoulders have dropped their usual
defensive tension, in the way they’re sitting together like conspirators planning something delightfully wicked.
I check my pocket watch. Nearly two o’clock. “Ready to head back?”
Saylor nods, sliding off her stool. “Thank you for the drinks, Duffy. And the conversation.”
“Anytime.” Duffy’s smile is warm but careful now. “Both of you are always welcome.”
We leave money on the bar and step back into Grimlock’s perpetual mist. The cobblestones are slick under our feet as we walk
toward where Hans waits with the car, but something makes me pause at the entrance to the town square.
The clock tower rises from Grimlock’s center like a Gothic prayer made stone. Its spire disappears into low clouds, and the
massive clock face showing eternal midnight catches what little light filters through the fog.
“Have you been up there yet?” I ask, nodding toward the tower.
Saylor follows my gaze, tilting her head back to take in the impossible height. “I didn’t know you could go up there.”
“Most people can’t. But I have certain privileges in this town.”
Without waiting for her answer, I guide her across the square toward the heavy oak door set into the tower’s base. I run my
hand along the weathered stone frame until I find what I’m looking for—a loose brick that shifts when pressed. The iron key
hidden behind it is blackened with age, left there by whoever decided Grimlock’s clock should stay frozen at midnight.
“Blue, what are you doing?”
“Showing you something pretty amazing.”
The door opens with a groan that echoes up the narrow spiral staircase. Stone steps worn smooth by centuries of feet wind
upward into shadow, lit only by narrow windows cut into the tower walls. Each step demands effort, and we’re both breathing
hard by the time we reach the first landing.
“How many stairs?” Saylor asks, pressing her hand against cool stone.
“Too many to count. But the view makes it worth it. Promise.”
We continue climbing, the staircase growing narrower as we ascend. The windows become more frequent, offering glimpses of
Grimlock spread below us in miniature. Houses and shops shrink to dollhouse proportions, connected by streets that wind through
mist in patterns that make perfect sense from this height.
The mechanism chamber houses the clock’s guts. Massive gears and pendulums that haven’t moved in decades fill the space. Brass
and iron components the size of carriage wheels stand frozen, their surfaces green with age but still magnificent in their
complexity. The air here smells of metal and time, of machinery that once kept perfect rhythm for an entire community.
“It’s beautiful,” Saylor breathes, running her fingers along a gear wheel taller than she is. “Why doesn’t it work anymore?”
“The town decided they preferred time standing still.”
She gives me a look that says she knows I’m being deliberately cryptic, but doesn’t press. We climb the final stairs to the
observation deck, and when we emerge onto the platform, Saylor’s intake of breath makes the entire climb worthwhile.
Grimlock spreads below us in all directions, a perfect circle of civilization carved from wilderness. To the west, the Pacific
stretches endless and gray, punctuated by jagged rocks where waves crash in silent explosions of white. The harbor curves
around the town’s edge, its piers reaching into water that disappears into mist.
To the east, the Witchwood Forest begins where Grimlock’s last houses end.
Ancient trees stretch unbroken toward the horizon, their canopy so dense it looks solid from this height.
Somewhere beyond those trees, past miles of wilderness that would swallow a man whole, the Crow have carved out their territory.
They’re out there right now, in clearings we can’t see from here, planning their next move and counting their dead.
“It’s perfect,” Saylor says, gripping the iron railing as wind whips her hair around her face. “You can see everything from
here.”
“That’s the point. This building was built as a watchtower, to spot trouble before it reached town.”
“And now?”
“Now it’s just a good place to think.”
She turns to face me, eyes bright with exhilaration from the climb and the view. Wind has brought color to her cheeks, and
the way the afternoon light catches in her hair makes something tighten in my chest.
“Thank you for bringing me up here.” She grips the railing tighter, taking in the view again. “I’m falling in love with this
place, you know. Grimlock. I can see why my father kept coming back here.”
“He really never mentioned it to you?”
“Never. Not once. But being here now, I can feel what drew him to this place.” She pauses, watching the mist roll in from
the ocean. “I’m surprised I never even heard of Grimlock before. A place this beautiful should be famous.”
“That’s how the residents prefer it. We’re not exactly eager for tourist buses and vacation rentals.” I lean against the railing
beside her. “Small town living works best when it stays small.”
“There’s so much I want to explore. The shops, the neighborhoods, those walking trails I saw marked on signs.” Her eyes drift
toward the forest. “I’d love to go hiking in those woods. They look untouched.”
“No hiking in the Witchwood,” I say immediately. “But there is something happening tomorrow night in the forest. Something
you might find interesting.”
“Oh really?”
“The Dryad’s Dance. It happens three times a year when conditions are right.” I point toward a section of forest closer to
town, where the trees thin slightly. “There’s a grove where bioluminescent mushrooms grow. Tomorrow they’ll be at peak brightness,
and the whole town turns out to celebrate.”
“Glowing mushrooms?” Her face lights up with genuine excitement. “That sounds incredible.”
“It’s quite a sight. Music, dancing, food you won’t find anywhere else.” I watch her carefully. “The folklore says the glowing
mushrooms only light up when the barrier between our world and the fae realm grows thin. The paths they create through the
forest are supposed to be doorways. Places where you can step from our realm into theirs.” I lean against the railing. “Most
people just go for the party, but some swear they’ve seen things. Heard voices that don’t belong to anyone human.”
“You mean like actual fairies?”
“Dryads, mostly. Tree spirits. That’s why it’s called the Dryad’s Dance. Legend says they come out on these nights to dance
with mortals.” I shrug. “Could be the spores from mushrooms causing hallucinations, could be something else. Either way, it
makes for an interesting evening.”
“And everyone really goes?”
“Everyone. It starts after midnight, goes until dawn. Think you can handle a night in the Witchwood?”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it.” She turns back to the view, but I can see her mind working. She nods, still staring
out at the forest with new interest. “A midnight celebration in a glowing mushroom grove. My life has gotten very strange.”
“Good strange or bad strange?”
“Definitely good strange.” She smiles at me. “I’m never going back to boring after this.”
“Boring’s not your style anyway.”
She laughs, and the sound gets caught by the wind and carried out over the water. For a moment we just stand there, taking
in the view and the weight of everything that’s brought us to this point.
Instead of saying anything else, I step closer and cup her face in my hands. When our mouths connect, she tastes of gin and
lavender.