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Bo

I keep to the woods as I navigate from Of the Wing territory to Monster territory.

Using roads and bridges would have added more than a mile onto my journey.

Desperation to prove the witch wrong about how long I was gone spurs me to dive into the closest point of the lake and swim across.

One benefit of my webbed fingers is, they catch the water and propel me forward faster than most mythics in their human shapes.

Soon enough, my bare feet dig into the steep red-clay bank, and I scramble from the water and break into a sprint.

Twigs scrape at my bare skin, spiderwebs cling to my face, and dead leaves stick to my wet feet, but I don’t care.

I need to get back to the trailer.

Need to find my father, even if our conversations never go anywhere.

He’ll at least prove that I haven’t been trapped for …

gone for …

Years.

I burst through a stand of trees and find myself in a yard with a house sitting not far off.

No. This can’t be right.

There aren’t supposed to be any homes here.

This stretch of land has always just been woods.

Shaking the confusion from my mind, I keep running.

Finally, I come upon the steep hill that leads to the back of our trailer.

Kudzu vines trip me, their tangled lengths stretching higher than I’ve ever allowed the weeds to grow on our property.

Kudzu spreads fast , I remind myself .

This doesn’t mean anything .

Then I see it. The trailer.

Or what’s left of it.

In a field of tall grass sits the dilapidated carcass of the only place that ever came close to being my home.

Dad and I were never the decorative type with manicured lawns and colorful ornaments.

But we mowed. And used the power washer on the siding.

We were handy, fixing most anything that went wrong with the double-wide.

He never would have lived in a place with a partially collapsed roof and patches of siding peeling off.

He would’ve fixed the rotten front steps and weed-whacked the kudzu climbing up the back walls.

A groan creeps from deep in my chest as I stumble toward the property wrecked by time.

Years .

The door hangs lopsided on its hinges, and the wood around the lock is splintered, like someone kicked it in.

That happens when a place is abandoned.

I ease my way into the trailer.

Everything is dark, and the light switch does nothing when I flip it.

The smell of mold and damp wood linger in the air, along with stale beer and smoke.

As my eyes adjust, I see whoever forced their way in left signs.

The orange plaid couch sits shoved up against the far wall, stuffing and springs showing from rotted material.

Empty beer bottles and cigarette butts litter the floor.

A broken bong rests on its side.

The small TV we’d watch football on is gone.

The refrigerator door hangs open, showing black spots on the no-longer-cold surface.

Abandoned. Forgotten.

The floor creaks under my steps, the carpet releasing puffs of dust as I make my way farther into the trailer.

The door to my bedroom is gone, replaced by a shower curtain stapled in place.

When I push it aside, I wrinkle my nose in disgust at the smells of bodily fluids.

A mattress lies on the floor, empty condom wrappers littered around it.

Everything else, all signs of my life—of my existence—are gone.

Driven by a sudden urgency, I charge to the closet, fingers reaching to scrabble along the paneled wood until I brush the piece that doesn’t fit exactly right.

I pry the board loose and reach into the cavity, cobwebs clinging to my fingers.

It’s still here. A shoebox.

One thing of mine remains, and I could sob in simple relief.

I pull the box free, only to drop it.

A knee-jerk reaction to the dark stain covering the sides.

“No,” I groan. “Gods, please no.”

I flip off the top, and I wish my vision weren’t so good in the dark because then I wouldn’t be able to see that all the money I’d hoarded away to start a new life is coated in black mold.

The smell of decay is thick and choking.

The paper money flakes off, disintegrating with the lightest touch, eaten by dampness and time.

Years .

I have nothing.

Lights flash through the window, and the sound of tires on gravel announces I have a visitor.

Why would anyone bother coming?

My life is a rotten mess of nothing.

Despite the callous ways others have treated the place I grew up in, I’m careful when I set aside my box of molded dreams. Maybe somewhere else in this picked-over trailer, there’s something I can rebuild with.

But my confusion and pain and helplessness overwhelm my ability to form a plan.

I shuffle back the way I came, eyes on my bare feet as I step on the worn carpet.

The sight of the decay around me is too much to take in a second time.

Outside, a pickup truck drives over the forest of weeds that choke the gravel drive.

I never would’ve let them get out of hand like that.

Years .

Once again, I’m naked, having lost the blanket gifted to me in my frantic retreat.

And there are no clothes left in my home.

I shield myself with my hands, a hot blush engulfing every inch of my flesh when I realize the red-haired witch is climbing out of the truck.

“Hey, Bo,” she says, her voice casual, as if this were a run-of-the-mill night.

“Want some sweatpants? I have a pair I meant to give you.”

“Yes, please.”

I keep my eyes down as she approaches.

In her hands, she cradles the pants as well as a flannel shirt.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“I get that the whole ma’am thing is supposed to be part of your Southern charm,” she says conversationally, her back turned while I pull on the clothes.

“But it always just makes me feel old. You can call me Mor, okay?”

“Yes, ma—Mor,” I stutter, still stuck in my manners.

“Are you dressed?”

“I am.”

She turns around, and I brace for pity on her beautiful face.

But all I spy is curiosity.

“Is this where you lived?”

“This isn’t how it looked,” I hurry to tell her, wanting her to know I wouldn’t live in a run-down mess.

“Of course not. You’ve been away for a while.” She waves behind her.

“Can I introduce you to someone? He’s here to help.”

I square my shoulders and nod.

Then I flinch when I realize another car is pulling up behind the truck.

A cop car.

Sweat gathers beneath my pits and down my back, and I shove my hands into the pockets of the sweatpants, as if that’ll hide how they ball into nervous fists.

Mor steps in close to me, her face concerned now.

“We’re all here to help, Bo.” She holds out her hands, palms up, and I see a bandage wrapped around her left one that’s stained red.

“You’re not in trouble.”

Yes, I am.

Even when I didn’t mean to cause trouble, I was still in it.

That’s what being a monster in Folk Haven means.

Only this time, I also did something wrong.

Doesn’t matter if I was trying to save someone.

“Your hand,” I say to distract myself from law enforcement approaching and to divert the witch’s attention from my shamed expression.

She glances at the wrapping and shrugs.

“Some spells like blood.”

I frown.

“You bled … for me?”

Mor steps in close, capturing my eyes and holding them so I can’t duck away from her stare.

“I did. And I’m here to help until you don’t need me anymore, okay?”

She can’t mean that.

I don’t even know how to take such a generous offer.

I just nod.

When the cruiser comes to a stop, two individuals step out.

From the driver’s side is a blonde white woman, dressed in a police uniform.

From the passenger side is a tan man with black hair and the most intense stare I’ve encountered.

He’s not in a uniform, but his neat business attire is intimidating in its own way.

“Bo, this is Chief Samantha Reedsy. She’s currently the head of the Folk Haven police, and she is a mermaid.” Mor gestures at the new arrival, and the woman offers me a nod.

I try not to show my surprise.

The police chief I knew was Bryant, a griffin who pulled me over more than once when I ventured into town after dark.

I tried to stay off his radar as best I could.

“And this is Levi Abadi. He is the monster representative on the town’s Mythic Council. I figured you might want to talk with him.”

“There’s …” I shake my head, as if that’ll make the words make sense.

“A monster representative?”

“Hello, Bo.” The monster—Levi—steps closer with his hands loose at his sides.

“Yes. We do have representation now. We have for a few years.”

“That’s …” I drag my fingers through my hair, tugging on the strands, as if the pain will calm the turmoil in my mind.

Years. I was stuck in that statue garden for years .

“This is a lot to take in, I’m sure.” Levi’s voice is gentle but firm, reclaiming my attention.

“Is there anyone we can call for you?”

“I-I lived here.” I jerk a thumb over my shoulder at the decaying trailer home.

If my dad isn’t here, I don’t know where he’d be.

Did he even care that I had gone missing?

Did he even notice?

“What’s your last name, Bo?” Mor asks.

“Folan.” I glance up in time to watch Mor and Levi look at Chief Reedsy.

Her brows dip in thought.

“I swear I’ve heard that before. But I can’t place it.”

Gods.

Gone a few years, and it’s as if I never existed in this town.

As if I never existed at all.

“You asked about Georgiana earlier,” Mor says.

“Do you want us to get in touch with her?”

Hope burns in my cold chest at the name of the one mythic who would remember me.

I shouldn’t contact her.

I should leave her out of this.

We’ve always been a secret.

But she’d want me to call her, wouldn’t she?

If I’ve been missing this long, she has to wonder where I’ve been.

Does she think I abandoned her?

Left her to her own fate?

Calling Georgiana might be the best move.

She can explain—to me at least—what happened after the last night that I can recall, and I can reassure her that even though this has shaken me up, I’m alive.

“Yes, ma’am. Please.”