AI The key turned with a slick, oily feel in the lock, and the heavy iron gate to Richmond Park groaned open. The sound was swallowed by the damp night air before it could echo . Rory pulled her delivery jacket tighter, the polyester shell doing little against the chill that had settled into her bones the moment the Tube had emerged above ground past Hammersmith.
She shouldn't be here. The thought arrived unbidden, a flat fact in her mind, as she stepped through the gate and let it clang shut behind her. The delivery for Richmond was supposed to have ended an hour ago. But Yu-Fei had pressed the insulated bag into her hands with a look that brooked no argument. Special order. Last one. And then she'd seen the address: a set of GPS coordinates scribbled on a napkin, not a street name.
It had taken her twenty minutes to realize the coordinates led into the park's deepest heart. And now, under a moon the color of a bruised plum, she was walking the deer paths she'd only ever heard rumors about. The path was wrong, of course. Mainly because there wasn't one. She pushed through a tangle of wet ferns, their fronds brushing her jeans and leaving cold, clinging dew.
The sky was the color of bad milk, the moon struggling behind a scrim of cloud. The city noise—the distant grumble of traffic, the occasional plane—fell away as she pushed deeper into the woods. The air grew still. And cold. Not the damp cold of an English November, but a dry, concentrating cold that seemed to press against her eardrums.
Ahead, the trees parted. Her foot caught on a root and she stumbled, her hand flying out to brace against a trunk. The bark was slick with moss. She looked up.
The grove opened before her like a mouth. A perfect circle of grass, so green it seemed to glow faintly in the darkness. Seven stones stood in a rough ring, their surfaces veined with lichen that looked almost like script in the dim light. Wildflowers—impossibly, in November—carpeted the ground, their petals closed against the night but their scent thick and heady. The air here was warmer. Wrong.
She checked her phone. Ten PM. The screen flickered once and went dark. Dead. She pressed the power button. Nothing. The battery had been at seventy-two percent when she'd walked through the gate.
The silence pressed in, heavy and expectant.
Rory moved to the center of the circle, her boots leaving no mark on the thick turf. The delivery bag hung from her shoulder, the warmth of the food inside—some kind of noodle dish, she'd packed it herself—already fading. She set it down on the grass. The act felt ceremonial, absurd. Some customer's weird late-night fantasy, she told herself. Some rich eccentric who wanted their dinner delivered to a druid grove.
The pendant beneath her shirt pulsed with heat.
She touched it through the fabric. The crimson stone was warm against her collarbone, a living thing against her skin. She'd worn it for two years now, had grown used to its occasional throbs of heat, the way it seemed to respond to certain places, certain people. But this was different. This was a steady, building pressure, like a second heartbeat against her throat.
A sound came from the treeline. Soft. A breath, almost. Not an animal. The hair on her arms stood up.
"Hello?" Her voice came out flat, a dead thing in the still air. No echo . The grove swallowed sound like cotton.
Silence. Then another sound. Footsteps, but wrong. Too light. Too rhythmic . Not a walk—a measured pace, unhurried. No snapping twigs, no rustle of leaves. Just the soft, certain sound of steps on grass.
She turned. The treeline behind her looked different. The branches had moved. She was certain of it. Where before there had been a gap between two oaks, thick enough for a delivery van, now the trunks stood shoulder to shoulder, their bark dark and wet.
The pendant burned.
A figure stood at the edge of the grove, where the stones ended and the trees began. It was tall. Too tall. Its proportions were wrong, the limbs too long, the shoulders too narrow. It was the color of birch bark in shadow, pale and peeling. No face that she could see—just a smooth oval where features should be, tilted slightly as if listening .
Run.
The thought was sharp, clean, a blade of clarity. But her legs wouldn't move. She stood rooted in the center of the circle, the wildflowers brushing her ankles, the pendant a brand against her chest.
The figure took a step. Not toward her—around. It moved in a slow arc, following the line of the stones, its gait deliberate and abstracted. Like a dancer marking steps. The air grew colder, and the stars overhead seemed to sharpen, the pinpricks of light suddenly too bright, too close.
Rory's breath came in short, shallow gasps. She could taste something metallic on her tongue. Copper. Ozone. The pendant was so hot now it hurt, and she forced herself to look away from the thing in the shadows, down at her chest, where the stone had begun to glow through the fabric of her shirt. A deep, smoldering red.
When she looked up again, the figure had moved. It stood now at the opposite edge of the circle, closer. Close enough that she could see the texture of its skin—not skin, but something like wood grain, pale and fissured. The oval where a face should be was angled toward her, and she felt something slide across her consciousness, a cold caress, a question.
Who are you?
Not words. The thought pressed into her mind like fingers finding a lock, testing. She tried to think of her name, and found she couldn't. The word was there, on the tip of her tongue, but her tongue was frozen. Her name. Her name was—
The pendant surged with heat, a searing flash that made her gasp, and the pressure in her mind released. The figure recoiled, its form rippling like heat haze over asphalt. A sound emerged from it—not a voice, but a vibration that hummed in her teeth and bones. Displeasure. Or recognition.
The night shifted. The trees around the grove were wrong now, their branches interlaced into a lattice that blocked the sky. The moon was gone . The stars were gone . The only light was the ruby pulse at her throat.
Rory's legs unlocked. She stepped back, one foot, then another, her heel striking the insulated bag on the grass. She didn't look away from the creature. She bent, her fingers finding the strap, and lifted.
"Wrong address," she said. Her voice cracked, but did not shake. "I think I made a wrong turn."
The figure tilted its head to the other side. Its form was solidifying now, the edges sharpening, the pale grain of its skin taking on a deeper hue. It was wearing something. Robes? Bark? The line between clothing and body was indistinct, flowing, organic.
It raised a hand. Five fingers, too long, the nails black and sharp at the tips. It pointed at her. Not at her face—at her chest. At the pendant.
The stone pulsed once, a clear beat of warmth , and the figure's hand dropped. A low sound emanated from it again, but softer now. Almost a sigh.
The world snapped back.
The trees were trees again, the moon a cold white coin in the sky. The wildflowers were brown and withered at her feet, dying December stems. The air was cold and wet and ordinary. Her phone screen glowed in her pocket. 10:03 PM.
She ran.
She didn't stop until she hit the park gate, her lungs burning, her legs screaming. She threw herself through the iron bars and collapsed on the pavement, her hands on her knees, her breath coming in ragged sobs.
The pendant was cold against her skin.
She looked back at the park. The gate was open, swaying slightly in the breeze. Beyond it, the trees stood silent and still, black shapes against a city-lit sky.
The delivery bag was still in her hand. She opened it. The food was stone cold, the containers sweating condensation.
Inside, nestled on top of the noodle box, was a single white flower. Its petals were closed , its stem cleanly cut. It looked as fresh as if it had been picked that morning.
Rory dropped the bag on the pavement and walked away. She didn't look back.
She didn't need to. She could feel the grove behind her, a cold weight at the edge of her awareness, waiting. And the pendant, warm again against her skin, like a promise—or a threat—that she was not done with it yet.