When We Were Legends (Ghost Mountain #1)

Prologue

Marigold

T he origins of many legends are unknown. But not the legend of me.

Perhaps I’m being presumptuous in describing myself as a legend, or perhaps I’m telling the truth of things. I’ll leave that for you to decide.

My story began when I forced my eyes open.

Darkness as black as a womb surrounded me. I bolted upright at the sensation of flutters across my skin. My touch sent leaves dancing to the black ground.

I swiveled my head, trying to peer into the darkness.

A vision—no, a dream—hung at the edges of my consciousness. Two men atop a cliff. Their silhouettes facing one another before one figure fell over the side.

Not wishing to dwell on the terrifying image, I used my fingers to assess what I couldn’t see.

Grit marred my face. Was it dirt or something else? Twigs tangled my hair while sweat seeped through my thin T-shirt. My bare feet poked through dried leaves.

Where was I? How did I get here?

Squinting, I braced my hands on the ground to push myself up. My vision adjusted to the faint glow of the moonlight filtering through the canopy of tree branches overhead.

The haunting cries of a Great Horned Owl echoed through the stillness of the night while a soft rustling of leaves sounded behind me.

What hidden dangers lurked in these woods? Was it a massive bear? A stealthy wolf? Or perhaps a silent mountain lion?

Despite my intense scrutiny, all that met my gaze were the dull trunks of trees.

Run, Marigold. Run.

Wait … I knew my name!

Marigold.

And yet the path that led me here remained shrouded in mystery, a puzzle begging to be solved.

Branches reached out like skeletal fingers, scraping across my face as I clambered to my feet and sprinted. No sounds stalked me. I slowed my sprint to a steady jog, then eventually a cautious walk.

Was I moving deeper into the woods or inching closer to civilization?

My foot snagged on something uneven, causing me to stumble. Pain seared through my leg as I fell, smashing my knee upon a jagged rock. Warm blood trickled from the wound, tracing its way down my leg and bare foot.

I gritted my teeth to stifle a cry. With no choice, I forced myself upright and continued.

Minutes passed as I hobbled forward, agony pulsating through every movement. The bark of swaying trees sounded like the eerie creak of an opening door, and the rustling leaves above me whispered secrets of the darkness I had yet to uncover.

My head throbbed. I tentatively probed the tender spot, biting back a scream. This wound must be the origin of my memory loss. I needed a doctor or a first aid kit.

Without warning, the dense woods gave way to a clearing, and my wounded foot hit a flat surface. My arms windmilled to keep me upright. When I regained my footing, I took another step onto a dirt road.

A thin sliver of moonlight illuminated a thicker route stretching from left to right, and a smaller one continuing straight ahead.

A driveway.

I stumbled down its trail and found a house with a truck parked out front.

What hour was it? Should I knock?

Yes, I needed help. My head throbbed from an unknown injury, my knee burned from my fall, and my cheeks pulsed with open cuts from wayward branches.

I knocked on the door.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

No response.

I knocked harder.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

Still met with silence, I fumbled along the doorframe until I found a doorbell to ring. The chime pierced through the night, prompting shuffling footsteps and an overhead light flickering to life.

“Who’s there?” It was a young man’s voice. Good. At least I didn’t give an old man a heart attack.

“I need help.” Squinting at the sudden brightness, I shuffled backward as the door swung open.

A man in his early thirties stood before me, purple bruises marching up the left side of his face. One of his eyes swelled shut, and his clothes appeared ruffled. His hair stuck up in all different directions.

“Who are you?” he said, holding himself upright against the doorframe with his forearm, eyes squinting.

“M-Marigold,” I stammered.

“What’s wrong with you?”

The sensation of dripping blood warmed my arms, legs, and face. What must he think of the bloodied woman on his doorstep? “Can you help me?” I asked. “Please?”

“Come closer. I can’t see you.”

Safe men didn’t wear bruises like beards, did they? He appeared too inebriated to make any sudden moves. I inched forward until the porch light illuminated me once again, exposing the extent of my injuries.

He frowned at the sight of me. “Come in. There’s gotta be a first aid kit around here somewhere.”

The man slurred his words and his breath stank of alcohol. He was drunk and battered. But I got the impression that he wouldn’t harm me.

“Are you sure?” I asked. In reality, I wasn't sure if I wanted to follow this man into his house. While he might not hurt me, he didn't appear to be in good enough condition to help me.

He clutched his head, blinked, and then gestured for me to enter.

If he passed out I could leave. Or use a phone. Something.

Our shoulders brushed as I wiggled past him and stepped into the house. “I don’t want to get your home dirty.”

He barked a laughed. “This dump? No way. Follow me.”

I tiptoed behind him. Hardwood floors and carpet cooled my scratched feet like ointment as he led me to a bedroom with rumpled bedsheets. Beyond was a bathroom suite with a tub and sink. After rifling through a cabinet, he dumped two musty towels onto the countertop. Our footprints stood out on the dusty linoleum tiles.

The man swore after setting the cloth on the counter. “I gotta turn on the hot water. Give me a sec before you run a bath.”

No water? Who was he, and why did his house look like it was unlived in?

I halted him with a gentle touch on his arm. “What’s your name?”

Breaking away from my grasp without meeting my gaze directly, the man mumbled over his shoulder as he vanished into another room: “Levi.”