Page 14

THE BUS WHEEZED to a halt just shy of a flickering Exxon sign.

The sky was charcoal and slick, an indecisive dawn.

Darlene rolled her neck and pointed toward the road just ahead.

“You want the Hemridge Motel. Take a right on Main. Don’t go wandering.

Not much here unless you like dead gas stations. ”

Willow nodded, clutching her backpack as she stepped onto the cracked asphalt. Horace was snoring, sprawled across both seats, so she left without a goodbye—or a prophecy.

Main Street looked as worn out as the sky. Weather-blistered storefronts sagged behind dusty glass. The neon pharmacy sign buzzed with half-lit letters. Even the houses looked tired, like they’d stopped pretending to care.

No smoke dragons. No mysterious fog. Just dirt and rust and an old town holding its breath.

Willow’s sandals scraped the pavement, her backpack dug into her spine, and every part of her ached. She passed a boarded-up laundromat, a shuttered feed store, a diner that looked like it hadn’t served pie since the sixties.

The weight of her backpack reminded her of how far she’d come, but also—pitifully—of just how little she’d accomplished. She scanned her surroundings, searching for anything resembling a motel or a bed-and-breakfast. She was so tired, she was woozy.

After an eternity, she spotted a faded sign jutting out from a squat, two-story building: “Hemridge Haven Motel.” The front door creaked as she pushed it open. A bell above jingled weakly.

“Hello?” Willow called.

From behind the reception desk, a woman with penciled-on eyebrows glanced up. “Single?” she asked, already reaching for a key.

Willow hesitated. “How much?”

“Forty for the night. Weekly rate’s better.”

Forty dollars. That was more than she’d hoped to pay, but she was running on fumes. She peeled two twenties from her wallet and took the key.

The room smelled like lemon cleanser, which wasn’t so bad.

But the floral bedspread had seen things.

Willow did not pull back the covers. She dropped her backpack, kicked off her shoes, and curled up on top of the comforter.

Her cheek was on the pillow for all of five seconds before sleep dragged her under.

And just like that, she was transported to the familiar forest of her dreamscape, the forest of Serrin’s land, the land she wanted desperately to reach.

Trees loomed impossibly tall, their bark glossy and dark.

The ground beneath her shifted—breathing—and though it was strange, this, too, was familiar.

Serrin’s world played by different rules than Willow’s.

A chime rang in the distance. Willow turned toward the sound.

When she did, the world rippled and folded in on itself with a horrid, wet smack .

Willow threw out her arms for balance because.

.. no. The forest familiar forest was gone—the sky pressed low and heavy, marbled with streaks of gray.

From out of the clouds came something winged and sleek, too large to be a bird and too fluid to be a bat.

It moved like liquid shadow, its wings veined with light.

As it spiraled lower, the breathtaking truth of it took shape.

A . . . dragon?

Its wings spanned wide and steady, leathery membranes stretched between long-boned fingers, catching the air with slow, powerful strokes.

Its hide was greenish-blue, glistening with a faint sheen.

Its neck was long and sinuous, ending in a narrow, wedge-shaped head crowned with two backward-swept horns.

Its foreclaws, tucked close to its body, ended in curved talons, and its tail—plumed with fine, silken strands—moved like a ribbon in the wind.

The dragon tilted its head as it descended, delicate nostrils flaring as if scenting something it had long sought. Its eyes—wide and golden, ringed with shadow—found Willow’s and held. And in that gaze, deep and unblinking, she saw an ancient ache.

It didn’t speak, not with words. But something passed between them, swift and soundless, a pressure against her ribs, a warmth behind her eyes. Find us. Help us. Time is running out.

The chime rang out again, the high, clear note of the stolen baby rattle.

Then the sound twisted—stretching and distorting and drilling brutally into Willow’s skull.

She bolted upright with a gasp, the motel room slamming back into focus.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her throat was dry. Her skin was slick with sweat.

“Okay,” she said aloud, pressing her hand to her chest. “It was a dream. You’re fine. Okay?”

She rose from the bed, shook out her limbs, and tried to orient herself. Dim motel room, curtains drawn, backpack on the floor where she’d left it. Hemridge. Wrenna. Right.

Streaks of light leaked through the crack in the drapes, and her eyes darted to the bedside clock: 12:23 pm.

She’d checked in around 5 am, so... okay, she had seven hours of sleep under her belt. Good enough, and now it was time to get moving.

Her stomach growled, and she fumbled through her backpack, fishing out a lint-covered Certs.

Cert? As she sucked on it, the reality of her situation hit her.

Here she was, in Hemridge, chasing the ghost of a grandmother she’d never met.

She had no plan, no leads, just the vague hope that she’d stumble across some earth-shattering revelation about Wrenna Bratton—a revelation that would tie into Willow’s destiny and tell her what to do next.

She groaned, scrubbing her hands over her face. Food first, and then she would figure out her next move.

~

The motel’s hospitality nook was a sad corner of the lobby with three wobbly tables and mismatched chairs. A coffee maker gurgled ominously. A plastic tray held a few sad-looking pastries and a blueberry muffin with a bite out of it.

Willow plucked the least depressing pastry with a pair of tongs and dropped it onto a plastic plate. From the table by the window, two old men wearing overalls watched her curiously. She arched a brow. Had they never seen a girl eat breakfast? At any rate, she wasn’t the one wearing overalls.

Then she caught herself. Judging people by their outfits was Habersham Road behavior, exactly the mindset she was supposed to be shedding.

For all she knew, these guys had actual skills, like fixing trucks or hunting or knowing which mushrooms wouldn’t kill you.

Meanwhile, she could... fold a cloth napkin into a swan.

She took a tentative bite of the pastry. It was dry and sad. Then, aware that the men were still staring, she squared her shoulders and crossed the room.

“Morning,” she said in her best I’m-totally-not-from-Atlanta voice.

One man grunted and looked away. The other tipped his chair back, giving her a slow once-over.

“Good morning,” he said. “I’m Jefferson. And you?”

“Willow,” she said.

“Nice to meet you, Willow. You just passing through?”

She should’ve said yes. A quick, clean lie.

“Actually, no,” she heard herself say. “I’m here to find out everything I can about Wrenna Bratton.”

The first man groaned and scraped his chair back hard. “This again,” he muttered and walked off, shaking his head like she’d asked for the town’s deepest shame.

Jefferson just chuckled. “Old story. People around here are tired of it. But since you’re not one of them... well, I can show you where Miss Wrenna stepped out of our world and straight into another, if you’re interested. I know the precise spot.”

Willow hesitated. This was too easy.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

Jefferson grinned. “Sweet thing, would I lie to you?”

Willow met his gaze. In a voice as flat as glass, she said, “Well, honeybun, I don’t know. Would you?”

“Heh. You’re feisty. I like that.” He hiked his thumb toward his chest. “Me? I’m a historian.”

“Historian, my foot,” called the receptionist behind the desk—a different woman than the one from last night. She bit off a hunk of red licorice and chewed with relish. “The only thing Jefferson’s ever studied is how to talk people out of their wallets.”

“Now, Sara,” Jefferson said, pressing his hand to his heart. “You wound me.”

“You’ll live.”

He turned back to Willow. “Twenty bucks. I’ll take you to Deadman’s Hollow.”

Sara didn’t look up. “Trail’s marked. You don’t need a tour guide.”

Jefferson raised an eyebrow. “But I’ve got stories.”

The smart move was to walk away. But she hadn’t run off in the middle of the night to play it safe.

“Twenty bucks,” she said.

He held out his hand. “No refunds.”

She peeled a twenty from her wallet, making sure he didn’t see how much cash she had stashed away.

Jefferson winked. “Would’a done it for five. But I like your style.”

~

The sun beat down as they walked. They passed a post office the size of a gas station and a hardware store with a scarecrow out front. A few houses had cars on cinder blocks wearing out the lawns.

Jefferson talked as they strolled. “That’s the mayor’s house, or was till he ran off with a woman from the county fair. Over there’s the old grocery store—burned down twice. First time was an accident. Second time... let’s just say nobody cried about it.”

Willow didn’t mind his rambling. The rhythm of his voice let her breathe without making decisions.

“And you?” he asked. “Ever been to Hemridge before?”

“Nope, first time.”

“Okay, okay. Drove up from Greenville? Charlotte?”

“Atlanta,” Willow said without thinking.

“Atlanta,” Jefferson repeated, shooting her a look. “Pretty city, full of prettier girls.”

Willow didn’t respond. The plan had been to not share her personal business with Jefferson—or anyone. She needed to be sharper, stay more focused.