AI The air smelled wrong the moment Rory stepped between the oaks.
Not *bad *, exactly—just thick, like the breath of something old and patient, exhaling through the leaves. The scent of damp earth and crushed wildflowers clung to her clothes as she pushed deeper into the grove, her torch beam cutting a pale swath through the dark. The trees here grew too close, their gnarled roots twisting over the path like the fingers of drowned men. She told herself it was just the wind, the way the branches swayed without a sound, but the hair on her arms prickled anyway.
She shouldn’t have come at night.
The thought slithered in, unwelcome. Eva had warned her—*Don’t be stupid, Rory, wait for daylight*—but the pendant had burned against her skin all afternoon, a slow, insistent pulse like a second heartbeat. She’d tried to ignore it, tried to tell herself it was just her imagination, the way the silver chain had grown warm against her collarbone. But then the dreams had started again. Not dreams, exactly. *Memories *. A voice, low and rough, whispering her name in a language that made her teeth ache. *Malphora *. The name coiled in her skull, familiar and wrong, like a word she’d known once and forgotten.
She needed answers. And the grove was the only place she knew to look.
Her torch flickered . The battery was nearly dead—she’d grabbed it in a hurry, half-convinced she was being ridiculous. Now, the beam wavered, casting long, shifting shadows that pooled at the bases of the standing stones. The oaks here were different. Older. Their bark was blackened in places, as if scorched by some long-ago fire, and their roots clutched at the earth like skeletal hands. The air hummed, a low, resonant note that vibrated in her ribs. She swallowed.
“Right ,” she muttered, her voice too loud. “Just find the center. In and out .”
The pendant throbbed against her sternum, warm as a fresh bruise. She clenched her fingers around it, the silver chain biting into her palm. The stone was smooth under her thumb, its crimson depths swirling lazily , as if stirred by her pulse . It had arrived three days ago, slipped under her door with no note, no explanation. Just the weight of it in her hand, and the sudden, crushing certainty that she’d been waiting for it.
She didn’t remember ordering it. She didn’t remember *wanting * it.
But she hadn’t taken it off since.
A twig snapped behind her.
Rory spun, torchlight slicing through the dark. Nothing. Just the trees, their branches knitted together above her head, blocking out the moon. She exhaled sharply . “Get a grip, Carter.” Her breath fogged in the cold air. She turned back—
And froze.
The path was gone.
Where the trampled dirt and wildflowers had been moments before, there was now only a wall of brambles, their thorns glinting like teeth in the dim light. Her stomach dropped. She hadn’t taken more than a dozen steps. She *knew * she hadn’t. But the grove stretched endlessly before her now, the trees leaning in, their leaves whispering in a language that wasn’t wind.
“Okay,” she said, forcing her voice steady. “New plan. Retrace your steps.”
She turned—
And the torch died.
The dark swallowed her whole.
Rory’s breath hitched. She fumbled for her phone, thumbs slipping on the screen. The flashlight flared to life, a weak, watery glow. She swept it left, right. The brambles were still there. The trees. The standing stones, their surfaces carved with symbols that made her eyes water if she looked too long.
And something else.
A shape, half-hidden behind an oak. Tall. Too tall. The bark seemed to *melt * around it, the shadows pooling like ink at its feet. Rory’s pulse hammered in her throat. She didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.
The shape didn’t move.
It was just a trick of the light. It had to be. She was tired. Stressed. The pendant was messing with her head.
She took a step back.
The brambles rustled.
Not from her. Not from the wind.
From *inside * them.
Rory’s skin went cold. She swung the flashlight down—
A pair of eyes gleamed back at her.
Low to the ground. Pale, luminous. Like wet pebbles catching the light. They blinked, slow and deliberate, and then—
*—snap*—
The brambles *moved *.
Not swayed. Not rustled. *Unfolded *. The thorns retracted, smooth as a breath held, and the thing behind them *rose *, its limbs unfolding like a spider’s, too many joints, too many angles. Rory stumbled back, her boot catching on a root. The flashlight trembled in her grip. The thing was small—no bigger than a child—but its body was all wrong, its limbs too long, its fingers ending in blackened, chitinous points. Its skin was the color of old bone, stretched too tight over jagged bones.
It tilted its head.
And *smiled *.
Its mouth split wider than a human’s should, the lips peeling back from needle-thin teeth. A sound leaked out —a wet, clicking giggle, like a child trying to mimic laughter and getting it wrong.
Rory’s breath came fast, shallow. “Fuck off.”
The thing’s grin widened. It took a step forward, its movements jerky, like a marionette with half its strings cut. The brambles parted for it, thorns curling away like petals.
She turned and ran.
Branches whipped at her face , roots snagged her ankles. The grove seemed to shift around her, the trees leaning in, their bark groaning like old bones. She didn’t dare look back. She could *hear * it—small, skittering footsteps , that wet, clicking giggle. Closer. Always closer.
Her lungs burned. The pendant seared against her skin, hot as a brand. She clutched it, fingers slipping on the silver chain. The stone pulsed , once, twice, like a heartbeat. Like a *beacon *.
The ground dropped away beneath her.
She barely had time to gasp before she hit the water.
Cold swallowed her whole. She thrashed, kicking toward the surface, but the current dragged her down, fingers of dark water tangling in her hair, her clothes. Her chest screamed. She forced her eyes open—
And wished she hadn’t.
The pond wasn’t water.
It was *sky *.
Stars wheeled above her, endless and black, their light bending, twisting, like reflections in a broken mirror. She twisted, trying to orient herself, but there was no up, no down, only the cold and the dark and the weight of the pendant, dragging her deeper.
Something moved in the depths below her.
A shape. A *face *.
Pale. Featureless. Its mouth opened, a dark slit in smooth skin, and Rory *felt * the scream more than heard it, a sound that bypassed her ears and coiled straight into her brain. Her vision whited out . Pain lanced through her skull, hot and sharp, and for a second, she *knew *—
*Malphora .*
The name echoed in the dark, and the dark *answered *.
Hands closed around her wrist.
Rory jerked back, flailing, but the grip was iron. A face swam into view above her—pale, frantic. *Human *.
“—the fuck are you *doing *?” A woman’s voice, rough with panic. “Grab my hand, you idiot!”
Rory didn’t think. She lunged.
The world *ripped *.
Cold air hit her like a slap. She gasped, choking, as strong arms hauled her onto solid ground. She retched, water and bile burning her throat. Her fingers clawed at the dirt, the *real * dirt, the *solid * dirt. She was alive. She was *out *.
“Jesus Christ,” the woman snapped. “Are you trying to *drown * yourself?”
Rory rolled onto her back, staring up at the sky . The stars were normal again. Fixed. *Right *. She could breathe. She could *see *. She pressed a hand to her chest. The pendant was cold now, dormant.
The woman crouched beside her, her dark hair plastered to her skull, her sharp features twisted in irritation. She wore a leather jacket, the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and her forearms were corded with old scars. “You’re lucky I was here,” she muttered. “Most people don’t come back from that pond.”
Rory’s teeth chattered. “Wh—what the hell *was * that ?”
The woman’s gaze flicked to the pendant around Rory’s neck. Her expression darkened. “You don’t know?”
Rory shook her head, then winced as pain lanced through her temples.
The woman exhaled sharply through her nose. “You’ve got three seconds to start explaining why you’re wearing *that * before I throw you back in.”
Rory’s fingers closed around the Heartstone. It was just a jewel. Just a piece of glass. It *had * to be.
But the woman was still staring at her, waiting.
And the grove behind them was very , very quiet.
As if it were listening .