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He’d given her a Christmas gift that year, a deluxe record set of The Brandenburg Concertos .

“Goodness,” her mother had said. She’d made a batch of thumbprint cookies with dollops of strawberry jam and wrapped them up in a pretty tin, presenting them to Willow to give Mr. Chapman as a means of saying thank you.

“Cookies?” he’d said with a smile that had made her stomach plummet. “That’s all I get... cookies?”

One night, in his car, he’d reached over and traced the hole in her jeans.

Another night, he’d talked about the student whose parents he was house-sitting for. “Cheryl Patterson. You know Cheryl, right?” He’d rubbed his nose with the knuckle of his index finger. “Not a bad kid. Not a bad actress, either.”

Willow hadn’t wanted to talk about Cheryl. “She’s fine,” she’d said, and he’d laughed.

“Jealous?”

“What? No.”

“Good, nice kid, but she doesn’t hold a candle compared to you.” He’d kept his tone casual. “They have a hot tub, the Pattersons. I love hot tubs. Don’t you?”

“I guess,” she’d said. “Is Cheryl . . . are her parents . . .”

“They’re in Europe for two weeks, all three of them. Cheryl will have a lot of makeup work to do, but that’s worth it—for Europe.” He’d grinned and wagged his finger at her. “I bet you look amazing in a bikini. Or a one-piece. Which do you prefer, Willow? Bikinis or one-pieces?”

It was in no way normal for a teacher to ask his student whether she preferred bikinis or one-piece bathing suits. Willow knew that now. She’d probably even known it then.

She’d definitely known it was... unusual... for a student to meet a teacher alone at the house where he was house-sitting. Or behind the house, rather, since that was where the swimming pool was, with its connected hot tub.

The worst part of the whole thing?

Well, no. There were too many “worst parts” to pick just one. But when Willow had told the counselor what had happened, when she’d finally found the courage to speak up, her words had meant nothing.

Mr. Chapman had denied everything, his expression full of troubled compassion. Yes, Willow had often stayed late. And yes, she’d often asked for extra help. She’d needed a lot of attention, but she was an actress, after all. High-strung. Emotional. Dramatic.

And so they’d sent Willow away, and Mr. Chapman had stayed. But the particular “worst part” Willow found herself thinking about, as the bus crossed the state line from Georgia into South Carolina, was how she’d been forced to receive her diploma from none other than Mr. Chapman himself.

They’d told her she was lucky to be graduating at all.

She’d missed a month of classes, twice the amount of time Cheryl had missed while traveling across Europe.

And Willow had chosen Mr. Chapman to be the one to hand her the diploma.

At the beginning of the school year, each senior had filled out a form, and his was the name Willow had written on hers.

“Don’t make a fuss,” they’d said. “Don’t blow it out of proportion.”

So she’d attended the ceremony and walked across the stage and received her diploma from Mr. Chapman, in the flesh, and Willow in her long green robe. Beneath the robe, the Laura Ashley dress that showed off her “darling” figure. And beneath the dress...

On the stage, Mr. Chapman’s eyes had locked onto hers, his laugh lines a lie, his kindness nothing of the sort.

“Congratulations,” he’d said warmly, and Willow, dizzy from heat and shame and pure primal fear, had accepted her diploma with her left hand and shaken his hand with the other.

Because that was how they’d practiced it, the students of Braxton Academy’s 1987 graduating class.

Because girls like Willow followed the rules, and the rules were made by men like Mr. Chapman, whose hands had explored her curves and swells and that secret silky softness between her legs.

Willow bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, and maybe she made a sound, because a skinny man two rows ahead turned around and gave her a sideways look.

“You okay, girl?” he asked, his voice rough with Southern gravel.

“I’m fine,” Willow said.

The man leaned toward the aisle. He held out a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. “Take a sip if you want. Good for what ails you.”

“Nothing ails me,” Willow snapped, immediately regretting that she’d spoken at all. She wasn’t his friend. She owed him nothing.

“Leave the girl alone, Horace,” called the bus driver, a large woman who’d already crushed three empty tabs against the side of her seat like they were soda-can enemies from another life. Each can hit the trash bag behind her with a hollow thunk .

She craned her neck and caught Willow’s eye. “Don’t worry, hon. Horace is mostly noise. Likes his moonshine a little too much and thinks he sees ghosts on every country road.”

Horace raised his bottle in salute. “Whatever gets you through the veil.”

“He means day,” the driver corrected him flatly. “Whatever gets you through the day .”

In Greenville, four passengers got off the bus.

After Greenville came Spartanburg, where the rest trickled out—a pair of college kids with tangled earbuds and patched backpacks, the woman who’d glared at Willow earlier, and a silent man in a ball cap who’d boarded in Atlanta and spoken to no one since.

Then it was just her, Horace, and the driver, who popped the tab on can number four and dimmed the cabin lights to a low headache-gray hum.

The road began to climb. The curves were sharper now, cut into the flank of the mountain like someone had carved their initials with a knife. Moonlight filtered through the branches in flickering shards, painting the windows with shifting shadows.

Willow leaned her forehead against the glass.

A shimmer caught her eye—pale green and pulsing, the light bending in a way it shouldn’t.

It hovered above the trees, thickening and gathering.

Then came the shape—long and sinuous, winged and fluid.

Smoke and mist, but sentient. Its wings beat slowly, deliberately, stirring the leaves below before it vanished into the trees.

Willow’s mouth fell open.

Horace let out a low whistle. “Well now. Look who’s paying attention.”

Willow turned from the window and saw that he was staring at her, appraising her, one leg in the aisle and his upper body twisted to face her.

“Smoke dragon,” he said, tapping the side of his nose. “They don’t show themselves to just anyone.”

“Sit back and hush,” the driver called over her shoulder. “She doesn’t need your moonshine dreams, Horace.”

“Ah, now, Darlene,” Horace complained, but not with any sting. To Willow, he said, “She’s jealous cuz she ain’t never seen one. They only come out for people like you and me. The ones with blood in their bones—I’m talking Old Blood, from days gone by—and magic in their veins.”

“Magic, is it?” Darlene said. “That’s what you’re calling home brew these days?” She snorted. “Also, sorry to be the one to break it to you, but everyone’s got blood in their bones. Everyone still living anyway. Ain’t that right, college girl?”

Willow pushed her spine into her seat. For starters, she wasn’t a college girl.

Also, she wasn’t altogether sure about blood and bones, but she was pretty sure Darlene was thinking about bone marrow, not blood.

Oh, and one more itty-bitty detail? She’d just seen a dragon made of smoke .

With her own two eyes, she’d seen a smoke dragon flying low over the Smoky Mountains.

“Ah, sure, I guess I shouldn’t fault you,” Darlene went on when Willow failed to pick up the thread. “You didn’t finish high school, so I guess it’s not your fault you’re such an ignoramus.”

Horace leaned an elbow against the seat in front of him. His eyes shone with something more than alcohol. “Darlene don’t believe in magic. But you know better, don’t you?”

Willow didn’t answer.

“Horace, shut your trap,” Darlene said. “College girl here, she’s on her way to Hemridge to do a project.

” She caught Willow’s eye and winked. “I got your number, don’t I?

Don’t bother me none, I just don’t understand the fascination.

College kids, grown-ups... every other month, someone shows up asking about Wrenna Bratton, the one with what Horace calls the Old Blood.

Hell, last week I heard there was a bona fide lady professor poking around, trying to learn all she could about Wrenna.

Me? I didn’t have the pleasure of making her acquaintance. But she was real interested, yessir.”

“Naw, our girl’s not here to poke around,” Horace said. “Not like that, anyhow. She’s not here looking for a story. She is the story.”

Darlene either didn’t hear or didn’t care.

“A girl who sees dragons,” Horace mused. “I’ll be.”

Willow shot a quick look at Darlene, then addressed Horace, taking care to keep her voice down. “Did I say I saw a dragon?” she hissed.

“Well, you didn’t say you didn’t.” He waited, watching, then gave a slow smile when all she did was press her lips together angrily. “All right, friend. I’m going to take that as a yes.”

Willow’s pale, spooked face must have confirmed it for him, because Horace nodded, satisfied, and took a long pull from his moonshine.