Chapter 2
Wyatt
My watch isn’t wrong—it’s never wrong. Fallon’s just late again. The smell of bacon sizzling and maple syrup fills my nose as I take a deep breath. I close my eyes and stifle the bone-deep sigh tangling with my lungs. It never helps to let myself get shitty about Fallon being Fallon.
There’s only one way to solve this. I drain the last of my coffee and lay down a tenner for Janey, who just materialized out of the back. She makes eye contact with me, then shakes her head. Everybody knows how Fallon is. Hard to say if that makes it better or worse.
“You wanna take something to go?” She must have been washing her hands, because she’s drying them on her crisp white apron.
I slide out of the ruby-red booth, my jeans snagging on a crack in the vinyl, shaking my head as I stand. “I’ll come back after I find her and grab lunch.”
Janey smiles, her freckles crinkling around her dark brown eyes. “The usual?”
I nod, then leave a twenty on top of the tenner. For lunch. “And a turkey leg for Fern, if you wouldn’t mind.” Janey smiles. She likes my dog. I lean against the counter and lower my voice. “Fries extra crispy, if Mac can manage it.”
Not low enough, apparently. Janey’s husband grumbles from behind the window.
She snickers, loving every minute of the gentle ribbing.
As I head toward the door, she leans over the counter to tug on the sleeve of my old wool jacket.
“Heard Barnes is headed back from the Groves. You know what that means.” There’s a twinkle in her eye.
A few people look up, nudging each other.
I give Janey a grin I can’t quite feel, nodding as I push out the diner door. Something about Fallon ghosting me this morning doesn’t feel right. We’re only a year apart, and Mama always said we acted like twins when we were little.
A cold, wet wind hits me in the face, bellowing down from the hills like old man winter. The weather turned a week ago, and the leaves in town are going all out, a riot of golds and reds. Heavy mist still hangs high in the pines, a promise that more rain’s on the way.
There’s cars I don’t recognize everywhere on Main Street, the leafers blowing in for their annual peeping.
I do my best not to mutter to myself. Caden says it makes me look unstable, and Fallon’s enough instability for one family.
I let out a low whistle as I approach the truck.
Fern stretches, yawning sleepily as she pops up out of the bed.
A white woman in her mid-forties, dressed like she bought everything out of one of those town and country catalogs, gasps, literally clutching her chest. “Is that a wolf?”
Her pasty-looking husband, who’s got beady little eyes and is wearing a matching quilted jacket, glares at Fern, then at me. I force a grin, ruffling Fern’s ears as I approach. “Nah, husky-golden mix.”
The man keeps glaring, but the woman nods, giving me a tight little smile. They move on, and I can’t help but roll my eyes. Fern gives me a stern look, as though she knows I just lied straight through my teeth to the leafers.
“C’mon,” I urge her. “Let’s go find Fallon.”
Fern jumps down, bounding into the cab of my old pickup as I open my door. I only half-lied. She probably is golden, or maybe yellow lab, but definitely not a drop of husky in her. Whatever her other half is, there’s no doubt she’s mostly wolf.
I pull away from the curb, cutting off Jones McConnell’s smooth-talking as I go. The local disc jockey will be pandering to the leafers for the next three weeks, playing practically ancient, pre-Reformation jazz and all that shit they like. I like it too, but the fact that it’s for them irks me.
It was never like this when we were kids.
Blackbird Hollow was barely a place back then.
Just an old, abandoned town in the hills, the population wiped out by the pandemics.
We were some of the first to move in, along with Janey and Mac, Jones McConnell, and the Foxglove Coven, who got the all-clear from the local tribe to move in.
Everyone else came after, and we’ve been growing little by little for the past twenty years.
Finally made the local atlas and everything.
Five years back, one of the big city publications ran a series on the “small town revival,” as they termed it, and Blackbird Hollow made all sorts of lists.
The leafers started showing up like clockwork in the fall after that, and then again in the spring for the damn lilacs.
It’s been a problem ever since. Outsiders don’t know the way things work in these hills, and do stupid shit like go into the woods after dark, or play music by the lake.
There’s more traffic than usual on Main Street, so I cut through the numbered streets to get out of town.
Nearly everyone’s steps boast jack-o’-lanterns and mums on the front porch, and big old rosemary bushes by every garden gate.
The residents of Blackbird Hollow know better than to talk openly about what goes on around here, but no one takes unnecessary risks.
It’s a good life, but it isn’t for everyone.
The leafers come and yap endlessly about how nice it must be to live here, but they never stay.
Something in them senses that our quaint little traditions have darker origins, and when their week’s up, they check out of the Archer Inn and go home. Most never come back.
I wave at a few of our neighbors on the way up the hill, and mouth “fuck you, forever,” at Widow Harkness, who’s shucking corn on her front porch, surrounded by a bevy of cats, singing a sardonic old song about a woman who ruined everything. I come to a stop at the corner to greet the old witch.
“You going up to the house?” she shouts from her rocking chair.
I nod, and Fern barks, affirming my plans.
“Fallon got any honeycrisps?” the old woman asks.
“Sure she does,” I reply. “Want a bushel?”
Widow Harkness’s wrinkled skin is a deep shade of umber, and rumor has it she was a high fashion model back in her day. I can still see it. “Bring me half a bushel of the honeycrisps and another half of whatever Fallon likes for pies, and I’ll make you one.”
I lean out the window, ready to wheedle a little. “You know I prefer a cobbler—with the crumble top. And vanilla ice cream.”
“Freshly churned, no doubt,” Widow Harkness replies with an arch of her eyebrow.
I grin for real this time.
She shakes her head. “Classic Wyatt Hayes.” I snicker, and she makes the usual witch’s hand motion to remind me that she sees all as I pull away, shouting after me, “Come by this afternoon. I’ll be home.”
Widow’s voice fades away as I take the sharp turn up the switchback onto the familiar gravel of Blackbird Road. Fern whines when we pass our house, but only a little, like she’s just saying hi to her food bowl. She leans against me, her giant head resting on my shoulder.
“Fallon’ll get you something to eat,” I promise her.
Fern growls a little in response, but it’s a chatty noise, not a warning.
Fallon is one of the few people the canine trusts.
I take a right turn at the old mailbox shaped like a trout.
Its mouth’s gaping open for all the world to see.
The monstrosity is at odds with the elegant loops of the wrought-iron gate.
This far up in the hills, mist hangs everywhere, and though there are clusters of gold-leafed birches, the old place is fully in the pines.
The drapes of the rickety old Victorian are all thrown open, so I know my sister hasn’t just slept in.
Not that Fallon sleeps much to begin with.
Fern tumbles out of the truck ahead of me when I open the door, shooting off after a squirrel.
I head onto the porch and push open the kitchen door, calling out for Fallon.
She doesn’t answer, but the coffee in the pot is still warm, though there’s barely enough for me to have a cup.
My heart slows, its thump all I hear as I stare at the kitchen stairs.
They’re painted a shade of light blue that feels like childhood.
It was the first thing we did when we moved here.
Paint was all we could afford, so we painted everything.
Just me, Caden, and Fallon.
I was twelve, Fallon thirteen, and Caden five.
We weren’t old enough to be alone by today’s standards, but things were chaotic back then.
Technically, we were fifteen years into Reformation, but shit was still wild.
There weren’t even public utilities out here ’til the tribe turned them on for us.
We spent the first few weeks in the dark, since Fallon didn’t know enough to fill out the right paperwork.
She figured things out, though. We all did. A familiar pit opens up in my gut. I try swallowing it down. Hoping it’ll just go away—that the memories will all just stay put.
My heart beats slower, thumping hard as I call out Fallon’s name again.
Where the hell is she? Childhood panic takes over; a memory of coming downstairs one winter morning to a cold, empty kitchen and a fresh blanket of snow in the garden.
Caden was sick, and Fallon was nowhere to be found.
Her footprints went into the woods, but none came out.
I steady myself against the big old fridge, letting its familiar whirring hum wash over me. She’d just been out then, and she’s probably just out now. I close my eyes, waiting for the panic to subside. It took years to get these episodes under control, but I’m better at it than I used to be.
Outside, Fern barks, bringing me out of the past. “You monster!” Fallon squeals. “Puppy paw prints all over my gown!”
Relief floods through me, a flush of heat inflaming my cheeks. I try to keep my footsteps slow, but I rush for the back door, almost knocking over the umbrella stand in the mudroom. The door flies open, but I barely remember touching it.
Fallon’s in the garden, dressed only in a pair of wellies, a thin white nightgown, and a genuine Cowichan sweater our dad got years ago for bringing the Coast Salish a collection of banned books for their massive library. It’s got orcas on it, and it’s one of Fallon’s favorite sweaters.
My sister looks just exactly like our mom.
Long, dark brown hair. Tall, but not willowy.
Built like a volleyball player. That’s what our dad always said.
Strong and long. And pretty enough to get herself into trouble.
But unlike our mom, Fallon is covered in tattoos.
And now paw prints. Fern leans against her thigh, grinning like a fool while Fallon scratches under her chin.
She looks up at the porch, her brows knitting under her messy bangs. “Why’re you so pale?”
I shake my head, not able to speak just yet. That’s when I notice the bruise purpling on my sister’s left cheek. “We were supposed to meet an hour ago,” I blurt out. “What the fuck have you been up to, Fallon Hayes?”
My infuriating sibling just holds up the basket she’s got propped on her hip and grins. “Picking the last of the cherry tomatoes. Want an omelet?”