The Whispering Night E-Book

Susan Dennard

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Luminaries
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 596

Beschreibung

In this swoon-worthy conclusion to the New York Times instant bestselling Luminaries trilogy, Winnie continues her fight against the monstrous nightmares of Hemlock Falls and finds answers about her past. Winnie Wednesday's future is looking bright. Hemlock Falls is no longer hunting the werewolf, she and Erica Thursday are tentative friends, and Winnie finally knows exactly where she stands with Jay Friday. With everything finally on track, Winnie is looking forward to the Nightmare Masquerade, a week-long celebration of all things Luminary. But as Luminaries from across the world flock to the small town, uninvited guests also arrive. Winnie is confronted by a masked Diana and charged with an impossible task--one that threatens everything and everyone Winnie loves. As Winnie fights to stop new enemies before time runs out, old mysteries won't stop intruding. Her missing father is somehow entangled with her search for hidden witches, and as Winnie digs deeper into the long-standing war between the Luminaries and the Dianas, she discovers rifts within her own family she never could have imagined. What does loyalty mean when family and enemies look the same? The forest is more dangerous than ever as secrets are revealed in this highly-anticipated, swoon-worthy conclusion to the bestselling Luminaries trilogy.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Map

The Nightmare

The Witch

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Acknowledgments

About the Author

AVAILABLE FROM SUSAN DENNARDAND DAPHNE PRESS

The Luminaries

The Hunting Moon

The Whispering Night

LEAVE US A REVIEW

We hope you enjoy this book – if you did we would really appreciate it if you can write a short review. Your ratings really make a difference for the authors, helping the books you love reach more people.

You can rate this book, or leave a short review here:

Amazon.co.uk,

Goodreads,

Waterstones,

or your preferred retailer.

First published in the UK in 2024 by Daphne Press

www.daphnepress.com

Copyright © 2024 by Susan Dennard

Map art by Tim Paul © Susan Dennard

Crest designs by Jessica Khoury © Susan Dennard

Cover art by Micaela Alcaino

Illustrations by Kerby Rosanes

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Illumicrate Hardback ISBN: 978-1-83784-078-6

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-83784-057-1

eBook ISBN: 978-1-83784-058-8

Waterstones Exclusive ISBN: 978-1-83784-089-2

1

For Rachel,my longtime friend and a loyal Wednesday bear

THE NIGHTMARE

The boy awakens beside a hemlock tree at sunrise. He has been here before, more times than he can count. More times than he can remember. The forest erases his human mind on the nights when it summons him. But this morning is different: a figure crouches over him. Trees drift and wave behind the man’s head, releasing gray dawn light with each gust of forest breeze. A smell like bubble gum pierces the boy’s nostrils.

“Hey,” the man says. He has a low, growly voice, but kind. “I thought I might find you here.”

The boy frowns, still groggy from the night he can’t remember. He is in one of the three places he always ends up after the forest claims him, dressed in the same clothes he went to bed in: jeans and a thick flannel button-up. He has learned in the last two years that pajamas only lead to trouble. It’s better to be fully dressed. This way, he will not freeze quite so quickly if he is unconscious for hours against a hemlock tree.

And this way, if anyone finds him, he looks less like a daywalker wandering from his bed and more like a kid who had too much to drink the night before. He has even started carrying a beat-up pack of cigarettes in his back pocket, just to complete the effect.

“How are you here?” the boy asks, his voice as rough as the broken soil digging beneath his boots.

“I’ve been watching you,” the man replies, and he has the decency to look embarrassed as he says this. His teeth smack twice at bubble gum. “I had a feeling something wasn’t right, and . . . well . . .” He waves to the forest around them.

The boy nods. A strange feeling wefts through him that can’t decide what it wants to be. Is it fear this man will turn him over to the Tuesdays? Or is it relief because now, finally, this misery will end?

He is so tired all the time.

He wonders if it will hurt when they kill him. It must have hurt that werewolf fifteen years ago. He thinks about that daywalker often, whoever they were.

The man blows a bubble, bright pink in a world of frosted gray. It pops. The boy flinches. Then the man offers him a hand. “Let’s get you out of here before corpse duty finds us.”

The boy stares at the man’s hand, with its dried, seamed skin from constant sanitizer and latex gloves. Right now, the hand is simply pale, bare, and waiting for the boy to clasp it.

“Hurry.” The man’s fingers flex. He blows another bubble. It crackles with a triple pop-pop-pop! at the end.

“You . . . won’t turn me in?”

The man shakes his head.

“But I’m a daywalker.”

“No.” The man glances to his left, into a stand of oak trees. “As far as I can tell, you’re just a kid who got unlucky.”

Oh. The boy doesn’t know what to say to this. The relief his curse might finally end is replaced by relief that someone might be able to help him, to cure him, to give him back everything he had to give up two years ago. The bear and the bell he misses every single day. The aunt he can’t confess to. The life he used to have.

He swallows, his throat dry from a night on the prowl that he will never remember. Then he nods and takes the man’s hand. The grasp is strong, steady, true.

“Come, Jay Friday,” the man says as he helps the boy rise. “Let’s get you somewhere warm.”

THE WITCH

The girl goes to the edge of the forest at twilight. She has avoided the call of the Dianas for three years, but she can avoid it no longer. She has failed, failed, failed to cast the spell from her sister. So if she wants to finish what her sister began—and finally learn why her sister died—she will need training.

Thus, when another summons comes, a small note that materializes inside her sister’s old locket with coordinates in red ink, the girl decides to answer. The witches have been sending her these messages for the last three years, oddly unwilling to give up on her.

She is glad they’ve kept trying. After she failed for the thousandth time to do even the most basic of spells—a mundanus that creates a flickering flame—she has accepted she cannot do this on her own.

The inked coordinates lead her far from her clan’s estate, and though the mist has not yet risen for the night, and she is outside the red-staked boundaries of nightmare danger, she still constantly checks her surroundings. She has crafted a plan, of course, in case a Luminary finds her here. A story about hunting mistcap mushrooms, and she has even brought a small sack with her for the filling.

But she encounters no one, and soon, she reaches the secret meeting place. Six minutes early because she is always six minutes early. She squints into the shadows. To her left, golden-leaf maples have turned to gray shadows in the darkness. To her right, underbrush and saplings are surrounded by fallen leaves.

Before her, the final grains of daylight vanish into gloaming. And behind her, a crow’s face zooms in.

The girl jumps, a yelp escaping her as she lurches away from the head. It is not a true crow, but a person in a charcoal-colored mask marked with feathers and a metal beak, glittery and gold. The person wears black, almost scalelike armor. Then the person laughs, a wheezing sound that isn’t quite human. And when she speaks, it is with an older woman’s voice. “So you are ready to join us, are you? Why now?”

The girl swallows. Her heart is trapped somewhere beside her tonsils. She was expecting a question like this, of course—why now?—and she rehearsed several answers while wiping off eyeliner in her bathroom. But suddenly her various stories and excuses sound exactly like that: stories and excuses. And although she can see nothing beyond a glittering darkness where the Crow’s eyes should be, she senses those eyes will see through any lies.

“Because,” the girl finally replies, “I want to know what my sister was. What she did. What . . . what all of this meant to her.”

“You mean you want to know why she turned on the Luminaries and chose their enemy?”

The girl nods. She does want to know why her sister would trade one controlling society for another—and what the Dianas have to offer that was worth giving up everything for, including her life.

The Crow laughs again, a round, hearty laugh that is fully human now. As if a switch has been flipped inside her throat. “I think there is more to your answer.”

There is, but the girl will not say it out loud. Cannot say it. The spell her sister left behind—she doesn’t know if it was a secret or if this witch before her was ever aware of its existence.

So instead, she says: “This is all I have. Please.” Her voice is weaker than she wants it to be. “It’s all I have, and so I have to try.”

The Crow sighs, a sound that is neither amused nor mocking. It is simply the sound of someone who has heard what they needed to hear. “Yes,” she agrees. Then she offers a black mask to the girl. It is wobbly without a human head inside and vaguely canid in shape. “This is yours now. Whenever you are summoned, you will wear it. Whenever you enter the forest, you will wear it. And whenever you work magic, you will wear it.”

Work magic. The girl’s heart finally releases from her throat. She reaches for the mask.

But the Crow skips it out of reach, wagging a finger. “This is for our protection as much as yours, child. Do you understand? Should the Lambda hunters ever find you, then you cannot betray us. You do not know who we are, you do not know our faces.”

“You’ve seen my face, though. That means you can betray me.”

“Yes, it does, Erica Thursday.” The Crow bobs her head. “Now take the mask, child, and we will begin our first lesson.”

To: wednesdaywinonawednesday@internalsystem

.luminaries.com

From: rachelgianawednesday@internalsystem

.luminaries.com

Subject: Home from the hospital

Winnie,

I’ve been home from the hospital for a week now, and I’ve been running training sessions every day since. You haven’t been there though. Any particular reason why? Coach Rosa is great, but you’ve got to get in more movement than just Sunday estate training. At least if you ever plan to join the hunt.

I’ve said it before and I’ll repeat it: you don’t have to join the hunt. When, if—that’s up to you. But I do think we need to catch up on some things. So I’ll see you in the Armory tonight. I have gear for you, in case you do decide to train.

As for next week, we start at dawn every day to accommodate the Masquerade.

See you soon.

Rachel

CHAPTER

1

The old cabin is neither old nor is it really a cabin.

Sure, it has four walls, a roof, and a general vibe that speaks of wolves eating little girls in red hoods, but if you step inside, you won’t find grandmothers with big ears or big teeth. You’ll find two lawnmowers, a compost bin that no one uses anymore, some canisters of gasoline, and an assortment of gardening tools that span the powering spectrum from completely handheld (a shovel) to fully battery powered (a leaf blower).

This is the landscaping shed for the Thursday clan, tucked against the northwestern edge of their estate, between the weeping willow on one side and the copse of dogwoods that will soon blossom on the other. The grounds appear deceptively untended here. As if the Thursdays don’t want to be too conspicuously Thursday in a place where almost no one ever visits, but still they can’t resist imposing order on nature’s chaotic ways.

The grass is shorn. There are no weeds.

A large front door on the shed will release the lawnmowers from their pen like bulls at a rodeo, but it’s to the smaller, human-sized door that Winnie Wednesday now tiptoes. The grounds are empty this early on a Friday, but she checks her surroundings anyway. And to be fair, with all that’s happened to her in the last few weeks, she has good reason to never relax again.

Like ever.

Basically, if Winnie’s life were a seesaw with “good stuff” on one side and “bad stuff” on the other, then it would definitely be tipped toward bad. In fact, the bad side would be so weighed down it would be underground. For one, there are Dianas in Hemlock Falls. For two, those Dianas framed her dad four years ago, which in turn caused the ruin of Winnie’s family. For three, those Dianas also have a self-feeding spell loose in the forest that’s killing people, aka the Whisperer.

For four, her ex–best friends are determined to stay ex, and it’s getting to be exhausting.

Yet despite the imbalance of Winnie’s seesaw, she still feels happier than she has in weeks. Maybe part of that is because she can calculate pretty measurably just how far she has come since her first trial:

Number of friends a month ago? Zero. Number of friends now? At least six and counting.

Number of nightmare species fought a month ago? Zero. Number fought now? Eight, if you include werewolves as one of them—which Winnie does. Nine, if you include will-o’-wisps, which she doesn’t.

Dianas faced a month ago? Zero. Dianas faced now? Three.

But perhaps more important than the empirical evidence that Winnie can track on a spreadsheet is the emotional evidence. Because for the first time in four years, she feels hopeful.

Hope is the thing with feathersThat perches in the soul,And sings the tune without the words,And never stops at all.

Winnie had to memorize that poem by Emily Dickinson for Ms. Morgan two years ago. Lately, the poem keeps surfacing like artifacts of data you can never quite scrub from a hard drive. And every time Winnie thinks of the poem, she imagines a will-o’-wisp in the forest.

And hope is why she has come here this morning, to the edge of the Thursday estate where a cluster of white flowers can watch her from beside the back door with judgment in their petals like pointing fingers. Tsk, tsk, Winnie Wednesday. You really shouldn’t be here.

Trillium flexipes. The nodding wakerobin. They were Dad’s favorite native flower in Hemlock Falls. No—they are his favorite flower because Winnie is going to find him. She is going to bring him home.

She shoulders into the shed. The smell of old grass wafts against her as she fumbles for a switch. Fluorescent lights wink on, revealing that nothing has changed since she last visited two days ago: an electric lamp still hangs on a hook in the corner with a folding chair and tiny bookshelf to stand solemnly beside it.

Winnie swipes the light back off again. It’s too bright for what she needs to do. Then she hurries to the corner and drops into the folding chair. In seconds, she’s yanking books off the shelf. Gone are the graphic novels and Percy Jacksons of four years ago. In their place are a varied assortment of bodice rippers with bent spines, historical Luminary textbooks with less-bent spines, and some philosophy and self-help books in Spanish that Erica’s dad keeps giving her for her birthdays (these spines are not cracked at all; sorry, Antonio).

After she removes eight titles, a small line appears on the shelf’s backing. It’s where a false panel has been placed, shortening the depth by two inches. Since Erica did the same on all three shelves, it’s not visible unless you know what to look for. Even now, knowing what to look for, Winnie has to squint behind her glasses and dig her fingers in. There should be a little divot. A little space to get leverage—

There.

She pulls. The false back peels away to reveal the latest findings from Erica Thursday—although, the two pages Winnie withdraws appear totally blank. And the honey smell that Winnie knows coats them is too weak to compete against the grass and gasoline.

From her back pocket, Winnie slides out a sheet of sketch paper—also deceptively blank—and presses it into the hidden compartment before returning the false panel along with each book in the exact order she removed it. And to make sure there’s no difference in dust, she quickly tugs off, then replaces every other book on every other shelf as well.

Her top and bottom teeth click together, a physical manifestation of the nerves churning in her spine—until she shoves her tongue between. She has no reason to be nervous. She has done this three times now, her speed and finesse improving with each visit so that by now, she is basically a full-blown spy.

Agent Wednesday. Dad used to call her that sometimes when they played their secret code and cipher games. She had no idea then how much those games would save her. And maybe save him too.

On her way back out of the cabin, as Winnie folds the pages from Erica into her back pocket, her eyes catch on the old red vampira she and Jay painted five years ago. It has faded, so now only fangs and a single eye remain. Somehow the anatomical inaccuracy makes it more horrifying. Like a corpse left to rot until the forest has transformed it into a revenant.

Tsk, tsk, the trilliums scold as Winnie gently shuts the back door behind her and locks it with the key from Erica. You really shouldn’t be here.

CHAPTER

2

WTF Triangle: These three young adults belong to the Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday clans. Formerly best friends, two of them are now romantically involved while the third is a tentative ally. See also: Winnie Wednesday, witches, and werewolves.

When the WTF triangle met eight days ago, their first reunion in four years, it was awkward. And tense. And Winnie kept imagining spaghetti western music playing in the background, as if she were trapped in the graveyard climax scene of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. (She’s pretty sure she was the Ugly in that scenario.)

But it was also undeniably productive.

If Winnie had brought a voice recorder to the cabin on that night, a transcript of the conversation would have read as follows:

[0:00]

Winnie: [standing below the window] Tell him, Erica. Tell Jay what you actually are.

Erica: [seated in the folding chair] No thanks. I’m good.

Winnie: Okay, then I’ll tell him.

[Erica shrugs.]

Winnie: She’s a Diana.

[Jay, leaning against a riding lawnmower, stiffens.]

Erica: I am. And Jay’s a werewolf.

[Jay stiffens more.]

Winnie: This is a big deal, Erica. You do recall that you broke into my house to steal my dad’s clues?

Erica: Because your dad took my sister’s stuff. That dampener belonged to Jenna, thanks.

[Now Winnie is the one to stiffen. She pushes her glasses up her nose.]

[0:20]

Winnie: And you’ve known that for how long? Four years? You’ve known your sister was a Diana and my dad wasn’t—

Erica: I don’t know anything about what your dad was, okay? [lifts both hands] Maybe he was a Diana too. I have no clue. I just know that the dampener I found in your room belonged to Jenna, not him.

Winnie: But how did you even know the dampener was in my room?

[A pause while Erica crosses her legs at the ankles and smooths her jeans.]

[0:42]

Erica: I saw that map your dad left on the library shelf, and since I’m a Diana . . . I knew what I was looking at.

Jay: [snorts] So you aren’t even gonna try to deny what you are?

Erica: Are you? It’s not like you can call the Tuesdays on me, can you?

Winnie: Okay, but Jay didn’t ask to be a nightmare, Erica—

Erica: [eyes narrowing at Jay] Yeah, how does that work?

Winnie: —while you voluntarily became a witch.

Erica: [shrugs] I only recently joined the Dianas, and only because I wanted to know why Jenna died. How, too. The official report from the Tuesdays says a vampira horde killed her on her second hunter trial, but I don’t buy that. For one, Grayson said . . .

Jay: What? What did Grayson say?

Erica: He said he saw will-o’-wisps near her body when he found her. Not vampira. And for two, it just . . . it’s never felt right. Her being on that trial, her dying in the forest. So once I learned she used to be a Diana, well . . . [Erica trails off.]

[1:34]

Winnie: So what—are you saying she was killed because of what she was?

Erica: I have no idea.

Jay: And how did you figure out she was a Diana in the first place?

Erica: How did you figure out you were a nightmare?

Winnie: [speaking at the same time as Jay] Stop deflecting questions, Erica!

Jay: [speaking at the same time as Winnie] Because I woke up one night in the forest with no clue how I got there. Is that specific enough for you?

Erica: [sniffs] I found a spell in Jenna’s room. It was hidden in her diary.

Winnie: A spell for what?

Erica: I don’t know.

Winnie: Do you still have it?

Erica: Of course not. With how nosy my mom is?

Jay: That still doesn’t get us from point A to point B. So Jenna was a Diana—why did you become one?

Erica: [glares] They started contacting me. With Jenna’s locket. I ignored it at first until . . . I didn’t anymore.

Winnie: Wait, how does that work? [She fishes out her locket from her sweater.]

[2:24]

Winnie: This thing sends messages?

Erica: Yeah, the lockets send messages. A small piece of paper shows up in mine with words, sometimes in Latin. Sometimes not.

Jay: [under his breath] Pretentious.

Winnie: Does it ever heat up? And burn?

Erica: No. And that’s a weirdly specific question. Does yours do that?

[Winnie doesn’t answer. Just pushes the locket back into her sweater.]

[2:45]

Jay: Wait, I thought Grayson had your sister’s locket. How did you get it back?

Erica: [bites lip] He gave it to me. After Jenna’s funeral.

Jay: Does that mean he knew what Jenna was?

Erica: I have no idea. We didn’t talk about it, and I didn’t know what the locket meant when he gave it to me. [lifts hands in frustration] Jenna spent all her time with him the year before she died. When he showed up to give me the locket and invite me to a party at the old museum . . . Well, the only reason I wanted to go was so I could tell him off for stealing all my sister’s time. But then my mom wouldn’t let me leave the house, and that was that.

Winnie: But only a few weeks ago, you told me you’d lost the locket. Where was it?

Erica: [flushing] I just misplaced it. The latch is shoddy, and it fell off.

Winnie: Okay, so when did you get your first message from a Diana?

[Erica’s lips compress.]

[3:28]

Jay: Come on, Erica. Answer the question.

Erica: Well, when did you become a werewolf?

Jay: [unfazed] When I was thirteen.

Erica: [Her eyes narrow again.] Okay, fine. I was twelve. And they sent a message every year after that, but I never answered until last year.

Winnie: Why last year but not before?

Erica: Because I wanted information. As mentioned, Winnie, I want to know why Jenna died. And how. [She flips up her hands.]

Jay: And do the Dianas have an answer?

Erica: I . . . don’t know. Or at least, I haven’t learned anything. Yet.

Jay: So why remain a Diana?

Erica: And why remain a werewolf?

Winnie: Because he can’t just change what he is.

Erica: Precisely, Winnie.

[4:02]

Jay: [inhales audibly, then exhales] Give us one good reason we should believe anything you’re saying right now, Erica.

Erica: [bounces one shoulder] I don’t know. Maybe because I saved your life in the forest, Jay? I knew those witches were after you, but I led them away. Winnie can vouch for that. She was hiding right there.

Winnie: [winces, then nods] It’s true. She did do that, Jay.

Erica: Look, the only reason I agreed to meet you here tonight is because I think we want the same thing. You want to know what happened to your dad; I want to know what happened to Jenna.

Winnie: And those are connected somehow?

Erica: Obviously. Your dad’s map led to Jenna’s dampener. Without the source inside. Do you know anything about that, by the way?

Winnie: You stole all my stuff. Did it look like I knew anything?

[Erica studies Winnie for several seconds.]

[4:37]

Erica: Okay, so this is why we need to work together. Pool our resources. I know about Dianas, you’ve got the clues from your dad. And you . . . [She looks at Jay.] I don’t know what you contribute, honestly.

Jay: For starters, I’m someone Winnie can actually trust.

Erica: What are you trying to say?

Jay: I’m not trying to say anything, Erica. I am actively saying you’re not trustworthy.

Erica: Oh, because trusting the Big Bad Wolf is a great idea—

Winnie: Enough. Both of you. [Winnie chops her hand at each of them.] Witch, werewolf, Wednesday.

Erica: Huh?

Winnie: Nothing. [She looks at Erica.] Jay is the F in our WTF triangle, okay? I’m not keeping secrets from him, and he will help us find what we need.

Erica: So does that mean we have a deal? I help you follow your dad’s clues, and you help me find Jenna’s source?

Jay: Hold up. I thought you wanted to know what happened to Jenna. You didn’t say anything about finding her source.

Erica: [rolls her eyes] The two go hand in hand, Jay. Can’t do one without the other. An empty dampener is useless.

Jay: And a full dampener is dangerous.

Erica: Jenna has been dead for four years. There’s no magic left inside her source.

Winnie: Stop it, you two. Enough squabbling. And yes. [She extends a hand.] We have a deal, Erica.

[Erica shakes Winnie’s hand, firm and businesslike. Jay simply digs his hands into his pockets and turns away.]

[End 6:16]

After that, the spy games began. Although admittedly it has mostly been only Winnie and Erica participating. Partly because there really isn’t much that Jay can contribute. But mostly because he still doesn’t trust Erica, even after eight days of proving herself useful to them.

And it’s fine.

Yep, it’s fine being caught in the middle.

Winnie didn’t expect the WTF gang to become besties again overnight. Sure, she’d hoped for it. (Hope is the thing with feathers!) And yeah, she still daydreams of easy camaraderie, but even her loyal bear heart knows she has to approach this Erica alliance with wide eyes and hunter senses turned to max.

So for now, Winnie will be the W in a WT angle . . . and in a WF angle too. And maybe one day—hopefully sooner rather than later—those two corners will slot back into the three-sided shape they’re meant to be.

CHAPTER

3

Nightmare Masquerade: An annual tradition introduced in the 1970s by Tessa Tuesday in which global Luminaries are invited to explore Hemlock Falls. Over the course of a week, each clan hosts an elaborate event showcasing their clan’s hard work and virtues.

The high school rises before Winnie, with cars and jeeps and trucks and bicycles pulling into the parking lot. Students converge, ejected from parental vehicles or disgorged from their own. The morning is cold, but the sun peeks up from the high school’s south side. The days are stretching longer now; a reminder that the forest can’t steal everything; that even summer comes to Hemlock Falls eventually.

Casey Tuesday drives past in his red Wrangler and howls at Winnie.

Because of course he does.

Four more howls reach Winnie as she coasts through the parking lot and toward the bike rack at the front door. She doesn’t acknowledge the howlers, and they’re almost static at this point. Cosmic microwave background. Now that the werewolf is presumed dead by the entire city—now that Winnie knows the truth of that wolf and what really happened to her under the crushing waterfall waves with the melusine and Jay . . .

Well, hope is the thing with feathers and she’s feeling a lot of it these days.

She doesn’t even get annoyed by the giant Nightmare Masquerade banner fluttering beside the school’s front door. Enjoy the celebrations and delight in the Floating Carnival! it declares in swirly golden script that Darian spent hours agonizing over. Festivities begin Sunday April 21!

That’s only two days away now, and there’s a dramatic illustration of a midnight-blue basilisk coiling around the Ferris wheel that floats on the Little Lake . . .

Okay, maybe Winnie does get a little bit annoyed. That basilisk has its poison glands in the wrong positions along its crown, and the tendrils coming off its cape are not accurate at all. Winnie would know, having seen one up close right before her glasses turned to stone.

Number of basilisks killed a month ago? Zero. Number of basilisks killed now? One.

She huffs a sigh and charges into the school. She is not going to let a poor anatomical representation of a nightmare ruin her day. She has new notes in her pocket from Erica to study later, and although her own just-delivered intel was nothing more than a rehash of things they already know, as far as secret alliances go, this one is working out quite well—and she really hopes Jay will recognize that soon.

When she passes Erica’s locker on her way to homeroom and Erica happens to glance her way, Winnie offers only a nod. Which Erica returns in an identical interaction to what they would have shared a few weeks ago. Because they are not friends. They are barely acquaintances.

“WINNIE!”

The voice that screeches this is so loud and so close, Winnie is not prepared at all for the explosion in her eardrums. Or how very near Bretta Wednesday is when she flings her arms around Winnie and starts squeezing. Winnie is not a small person, and Bretta is not a large one, but Bretta easily lifts Winnie off her feet as she embraces her with all the ferocity of a Wednesday bear.

“WE DID IT!” This is a new voice and a second set of arms now squeezing.

“Did . . . what?” Winnie grunts out as Fatima’s golden hijab presses against her left cheek.

“WE PASSED OUR THIRD TRIAL!” This comes from both Bretta and Fatima simultaneously, and it takes Winnie several seconds to take their jubilant screeching—which is very loud—translate it into words, and then process those words.

But eventually the neural pathways connect, and suddenly Winnie is screeching too. And jumping. They’re all jumping. “OH MY GOD, YOU PASSED YOUR THIRD TRIAL! YOU PASSED YOUR THIRD TRIAL!”

“LAST NIGHT!” Bretta shouts.

“AND IT WAS AMAZING!” This is from Fatima, who is now pulling back. Bretta, however, still holds tight—and is still jumping. Her corkscrew curls spring while she chants: “We’re hunters now, we’re hunters now!”

Winnie pries herself loose, though it doesn’t slow Bretta. Nor her sister Emma, who has joined their square and is managing a pretty decent jump despite her cast. “We’re hunters now, we’re hunters now!” She is singing along with her sister.

Actually, there are other people singing too—You’re hunters now, you’re hunters now!—because everyone in the hallway is feeling the ripple of exuberant Luminary joy. Becoming a hunter is a Very Big Deal; they all know that; and their smiles and fist bumps and applause parade by like the happiest of processions.

“We’re celebrating after Sunday training today,” Bretta says, finally pausing her jumps long enough to speak. Her cheeks are so bunched from smiling, the dimples within look fathomless. “You have to come with us! We’re gonna go to Falls’ Finest to buy things.”

“Mom’s out of town on networker stuff,” Emma explains. Her own cheeks are just as round as her sister’s—and her eyes may be a bit misty too. “She feels so guilty she missed Bretta’s big moment that she’s basically told us we can buy whatever we want.”

“And,” Fatima now inserts with a sly grin, her braces wrapped in bright orange rubber bands, “am I right in guessing you still don’t know what you want to be for the Nightmare Ball?”

Winnie cringes—a melodramatic face she knows will make her friends laugh. And they comply, their voices lifting up to the paneled ceiling. “How about an anatomically correct basilisk?” Winnie suggests. “Complete with poison glands on its crown and tendrils that don’t curl?”

Her friends are not impressed by this suggestion.

“Okay, you’re definitely coming with us.” Fatima hooks her arm in Winnie’s and hauls her toward their shared homeroom. “Especially because I haven’t even told you the most exciting news of all.”

Something about the way she utters this makes Winnie’s head cock. Then makes her eyes narrow as Bretta laughs mischievously. “Oh, you’re gonna love this part, Winnie!” she calls. “Just wait until you see.”

“Um,” Winnie asks as she follows Fatima into Ms. Morgan’s room—and the bell starts its croaking. “Gonna love what part, Fatima?”

Fatima ignores her. Possibly because the bell is so loud.

“Gonna love what part?” Winnie presses once they’re both seated in their desks. “Fatima, love what part?”

“That.” Fatima points at the front of the room, where a grouchy-looking Ms. Morgan stands with a stack of papers in her left hand.

“Time to vote for your Nightmare Court,” the teacher half moans, half snarls at the classroom. “These are the names that made it through to the final round of voting. Circle one person from each grade whom you think should . . . should . . . ugh, represent you on the Nightmare Court during the Masquerade next week. And please, for the love of god, my children, do not take it personally if your name isn’t on this list. Winning one of these four crowns will have absolutely no bearing on your future in Hemlock Falls or beyond. It’s an antiquated tradition that conflates popularity with success. Name a single Midnight Crown winner who has gone on to do great things?”

“Theresa Monday is a councilor.”

“Patrice Thursday manages Falls’ Finest.”

“Hugo Sábado is the liaison with Mexico.”

“Your own boyfriend, Mason, is the Lead Hunter—”

“Okay, okay.” Ms. Morgan’s head slumps. “I get it. Good lord.”

The students don’t stop, and more names ricochet around Winnie while Ms. Morgan plods like a pissed-off droll down each row and hands out papers.

Oh, Winnie thinks as one lands on her desk. Now I see what’s going on. Forty names peer up at her, ten from each of the high school grades. Jay Friday is of course on the senior list, next to his fellow Forgotten bandmates: L.A. Saturday and Trevor Tuesday.

And right there, in the column next to Jay’s, is Winnie’s own name for year eleven. Winnie Wednesday, junior, it reads.

“I’m voting for you,” Fatima whispers. “And then you’re letting me do your hair when you win.”

Winnie only glares at her friend. Then crumples up the paper and slouches back in her seat.

“Bravo, Winnie!” Ms. Morgan cries. “Let’s all be like her, please, and refuse to engage! Who’s with her?”

No one responds. Pencils and pens scratch furiously. Fatima snickers nearby.

*   *   *

As Winnie shambles out the homeroom door, Ms. Morgan pops up beside her. “Winnie, you dropped these.”

A whiff of honey lilts up Winnie’s nose—and her stomach slams so hard into the floor that she physically lurches forward two inches.

Because of course, Ms. Morgan is holding the two pages from the cabin. They might be blank, but all it takes is one person asking, Hmmm, why does Winnie have paper that smells like honey? and then conducting a Google search. They’ll see real fast that honey is an easy way to write secret messages.

Winnie gulps. Then tries to not frantically yank the two pages from Ms. Morgan. HOW DID THESE FALL OUT OF MY POCKET?! she screams inwardly. Outwardly, she muscles a smile onto her lips. “Oh, ha! Thanks for finding those. Don’t want to litter.”

“Oh, are they trash?” Ms. Morgan’s fingers tighten on the pages. “I can toss them for you.”

The harpy laugh this pulls from Winnie’s chest is so shrill, it actually hurts. Like, it hurts Winnie’s lungs and it visibly hurts Ms. Morgan’s ears. The teacher winces.

“Nope!” Winnie half shrieks. “I’ll toss them myself. Thanks so much.” Tug.

Still no release.

“Actually, Winnie, now that I’ve got you here, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say.”

Oh god, there goes Winnie’s stomach again. And her brain too, filling the milliseconds of silence with a thousand worst-case scenarios. Why are you sending secret messages in honey, Winnie? Why are you sneaking around Hemlock Falls and the Thursday estate? Is Jay a werewolf? Is Erica a witch?

“I . . . feel I need to apologize.”

“Oh.” This is so far removed from what Winnie was bracing for, she has to replay the words twice in her head. “For what?”

Ms. Morgan releases the pages. Winnie snatches them to her chest. Play it cool, play it cool.

Fortunately, Ms. Morgan isn’t paying attention to the papers anymore. Her attention has slid sideways, following a pensive pucker on her lips. “Because I pushed you to apply to that art program at Heritage University a month ago. I had no idea you were going to attempt the hunter trials, and I thought . . . well, I’m sorry. I hope it didn’t feel like I was saying you didn’t belong in the Luminaries.”

“Oh,” Winnie says again, breathier this time. “I totally forgot all about that application. There’s been a lot going on.”

“Understatement of the year.” Ms. Morgan sniffs. “It’s not like Hemlock Falls is ever uneventful, but things have been especially bananas in recent weeks.”

You have no idea. Winnie tries again to exit—she does have Algebra 2 to get to, after all. But Ms. Morgan lifts a hand.

“But,” she continues, dragging out that word, “I do have another application to give you before you go. This is one I think you’re really going to like.” She pauses to dig through a large pocket in her skirt. “Where are you, where are you . . . Lip balm, pharmacy receipt, aha! Here we go.” She offers a wrinkled paper to Winnie.

Nightmare Compendium Illustrations Contest, it reads along the top, below which is a detailed drawing of a vampira heart (recognizable by the five chambers). Submit your drawings to be included in the newest edition of the Nightmare Compendium.

Winnie’s heart skips a beat. Like, literally: it stops for the entire span of a usual heartbeat. “Holy crap,” she breathes, and for a few seconds, she forgets about the honey-laced pages or that she’s supposed to hate the Masquerade.

“Holy crap indeed,” Ms. Morgan agrees. “This doesn’t circulate until Monday at the Science Fair.”

“Um, thank you?” Winnie ogles the flyer. Then flings her gaze up. “Wait—how did you even get this if it’s not public yet?”

Ms. Morgan preens. “There are some perks to dating the Lead Tuesday Hunter. One being that I get first dibs on dessert at clan dinner. Another being that I get sneak peeks and early access to competitions like this one.”

“Wow.” Winnie shakes her head. Then starts grinning . . . and grinning. “Thank you for showing it to me, Ms. Morgan. I’m really honored.”

“Of course.” Ms. Morgan grins right back. “All I ask is that you win, okay? So pick something really complicated to illustrate.”

“I will.” Winnie’s mind is already leaping from one possibility to another. Kelpie vascular systems are pretty incredible—oh, but spidrin spinnerets have microscopic spigots to create silk filaments. Winnie slings her backpack around to stuff in the application. And then there’s the banshee claw, which I’ve studied firsthand! But as she starts unzipping her bag, a thought erupts in her frontal lobe. If Ms. Morgan hears things before other people, then maybe . . .

“Hey, Ms. Morgan, um . . .” Winnie pauses, fighting the urge to click her teeth. This is a perfectly normal question; she has no reason to be nervous at all. “Has Mason ever seen anything weird in the forest?”

“I’m pretty sure everything in the forest is considered weird.” Ms. Morgan snorts. “But you’re talking about that thing that chased you, right? The Rustler?”

“The Whisperer,” Winnie corrects, even though that isn’t what she was talking about at all. What she was talking about were Dianas—including the two very dead corpses she left melted in the forest and whom absolutely no one has mentioned since.

It defies the third law of motion: for every action in nature, there is an equal and opposite reaction. In the Luminaries, that means when witches show up, Tuesdays assemble. Yet an entire week has passed since the forest burned and Jay nearly got taken by witches. Since Aunt Rachel should have died, but got saved by Jay while Winnie faced off to a powerful Diana leader. Yet there have been no broadcasts on the nightly news about witches, no warnings around town to be on the lookout for magical activity, and no sudden wails from the siren that stands next to city hall.

It defies basic physics.

Every day, Winnie has waited for an announcement to come. For the town to erupt with a droll-sized panic that would make their werewolf fears look unicellular in comparison. But every day, there’s nothing.

And right now, Ms. Morgan doesn’t seem to know about it either.

“Oh yeah. Whisperer, not Rustler.” Ms. Morgan wags her head. “No, I’m afraid Mason’s never mentioned anything about that. But hey, have you ever considered . . .”

That I’m crazy? Winnie thinks. That it’s all in my head? Because yeah, I worried about that for a while.

“. . . that maybe it isn’t a nightmare?” Ms. Morgan shrugs. “I don’t know. Just something to think about. You’re the Luminary, not me!”

Winnie blinks at the petite, round-hipped lady who made her memorize poems two years ago. Ms. Morgan is shockingly close to the heart of the matter. Pure Heart. Trust the Pure Heart. Like, so close she has basically guessed what’s really going on.

But maybe that’s to be expected. Ms. Morgan is a non, after all. Her culture doesn’t run thicker than blood, so maybe it’s only natural she’d have an outsider’s view on things.

“Thanks, Ms. Morgan.” Winnie offers her a smile. It’s tight, but real. Then she finishes shoving the application and her secret pages into her backpack (she digs those all the way down to the bottom; no falling out this time). “I really appreciate the application.”

“Of course, Winnie.” The teacher beams. “I’m always on your side.”

CHAPTER

4

The rest of Winnie’s school day is blissfully uneventful. On the ride to Falls’ Finest in the Wednesday family van after Sunday training, Winnie revels in the continued elation of Bretta and Fatima, who refer (in the cagiest of terms) to our third trial that we have to keep totally secret. Everyone laughs along willingly, Winnie loudest of all.

Although she can’t help but notice Emma isn’t quite as enthusiastic. So while they trace the brick sidewalks of downtown toward the glossy, glassy entrance of the main shopping hub in Hemlock Falls, Winnie hangs back. Emma might officially be off crutches, but she’s still in a cast and always a few steps behind.

It doesn’t help that the streets are extra crammed from an influx of foreign Luminaries here to enjoy the Nightmare Masquerade. The only two restaurants in town (the Très Jolie and the Revenant’s Daughter) have lines stretched down the sidewalk. Plus, decorations cover everything: banners on the streetlamps, colored lanterns in the trees, garlands on benches and trash bins, and—annoyingly—that inaccurate basilisk poster everywhere.

Come on, Darian! Why wouldn’t you consult your sister before printing that design in bulk?

“Hey,” Winnie offers Emma quietly. “How are you feeling about . . . this?” She dips her head toward Bretta and Fatima, who bound forward, arms around each other like they’re off to see the Wizard (the wonderful Wizard of Oz!).

Emma sighs. She doesn’t need Winnie to elaborate on what this means. “You know, I’m happy for Bretta. I really am. And I’m sure she’ll leap right into training—”

Winnie’s insides curdle at the word training. She definitely forgot about Aunt Rachel’s email from that morning.

“—because that’s how Bretta is. She sees what she wants and she just . . . Well, she goes and gets it. Even when we were babies, she walked a full month sooner than I did. Mom always says it was because Bretta was way too impatient and wanted to make sure she could get to our toys and have first pick. But . . .” Emma trails off.

Winnie lets a silence stretch between them, broken only by the ambient noise of other Luminaries milling about in the blustery downtown. Emma will say what she wants in her own time, and it’s one of the things Winnie most appreciates about her. Emma is always intentional, in her words, in her movements, in her choices.

Sure enough, right when they reach the entrance to Falls’ Finest, shoppers moving more speedily around them, Emma finally offers: “I think this might be another time where Bretta’s ready to walk, but I’m still good with crawling. Does that make sense? I know I passed my third trial, and I know I felt ready before I went into it with you . . . But I didn’t like being out there. And not because of the harpy or the werewolf or any of the other nightmares I saw. I didn’t . . . well, I don’t think I feel like Bretta does when she’s in those trees.”

Winnie nods. They have stopped walking. Fatima and Bretta are gone, swallowed up by the store along with all the other Luminaries who need last-minute outfits for the week of celebration.

“It definitely makes sense.” Winnie reaches out to touch her friend’s arm. Just a gentle brush above Emma’s elbow. “And I’ll support you whether you join the hunt or become a networker or give up entirely on the Luminaries.” Her throat tightens on those last words. She really doesn’t want Emma to give up entirely on the Luminaries.

Emma smiles. “Don’t tell Bretta, okay? She still thinks I’m going to go full hunter mode as soon as I’m out of this cast. And hey—I might. I’ll definitely attend some training sessions before I make any decisions. But . . .”

“But,” Winnie agrees. “And don’t worry: I won’t say a word to anyone.”

“I know.” Emma briefly rests her head on Winnie’s shoulder in a sideways half hug. Her braids smell like her favorite lilac perfume. “That’s why I like you so much, Winnie. You’re a great listener, and a steel vault for secrets. Sometimes, that’s exactly what a gal needs.”

*   *   *

While Winnie knows Emma’s words were offered in kindness, they pummel and churn like stones in a harpy gizzard. You’re a great listener, and a steel vault for secrets.

Yeah, Winnie is a steel vault all right. The kind that’s really heavy and sinks down to the bottom of a lake. Probably the Big Lake while kelpies and sirens feast on her bones. First, Winnie has too many secrets of her own, ranging from dad-shaped to Diana-shaped to lying-about-a-banshee-shaped. Then she has all these other people’s secrets too. Like Jay’s bona fide status as a daywalking nightmare werewolf. Or Erica’s unabashed, strutting-around status as a freaking Diana.

Fortunately, there’s not enough space in Winnie’s abdomen for guilt to wedge in. It’s just so stinking fun to be with her new best friends. Plus, she hasn’t been shopping in actual years, and on top of that, she isn’t the one who has to pay for new clothes because according to Fatima, Winnie has access to the Wednesday clan’s credit line.

“Mom told me I need to look good for all the foreign Luminaries coming to town.” Fatima is studying the seam quality on a pair of cherry-red trousers as she says this. “Then she told me I should buy a few things for you too, Win. Our local celebrity must look her best!” Fatima shrugs, glancing at Winnie with clear apology in her blue eyes. “Not that you don’t always look your best, I mean.”

Winnie doesn’t take it personally that Fatima’s mom Leila also thinks her wardrobe sucks. Or at least, the truth stings a lot less once she has a pair of dark jeans, a fitted white T-shirt, and a wispy black dress with a pink flower pattern (that Bretta picked out for her) folded inside a paper bag. She even gets some black ankle boots she can wear with the dress and the jeans, and although Fatima insists Winnie should buy more stuff if she wants it . . .

Well, Winnie is pretty sure there’s a point at which she’s just being greedy. Besides, the one thing she really wants are new glasses, but that is beyond the purview of Falls’ Finest.

Maybe it’s time to try contacts again. Or not. (Yuck, touching your eyeball!)

Winnie spends so many hours with her square of friends that she barely has time to get home, change, and then pedal at maximum speed to the Wednesday estate for training, which is definitely not the thing she wants to do next. She hasn’t gotten to read the latest messages from Erica; she hasn’t eaten dinner; and she has a book report due tomorrow for a book she can’t even remember the title of.

But for some reason, Winnie is pretty sure none of those reasons will seem valid to Aunt Rachel. Plus, Winnie can’t deny she’s ready to get this whole encounter over with. She has been avoiding her aunt for a week now, ever since their awkward debrief at the hospital, when Rachel basically said, I will cover for you and Jay, and we’ll all pretend that thewerewolf is dead and you had nothing to do with those burned Dianas.

So yeah. It’s time to rip off this Band-Aid.

Tulips, newly erupted in vivid red, pink, and purple, flutter in neat rows beside the narrow green door into the Wednesday clan’s Armory, i.e., the basement compound where hunters train. The evening sun shines, and rain clouds that had threatened to unload earlier have dispersed unemptied. The forest does that sometimes: breaks its weather promises right as you prepare for the winds to blow a certain way.

Although Winnie can’t see it from this angle, she hears the beep and grind of power tools and construction gear. If she were to keep walking until she reached the gardens that sprawl behind the estate, she would see the assembly of pergolas and stages and tens of booths for the Hunters’ Feast on Wednesday.

Each clan has their own celebration, and for the Wednesday bears, it’s all about the food.

Winnie’s breaths are shallow, her body warm from pedaling here on the family bike. She frowns at a flyer for the Nightmare Masquerade on the brick wall beside the Armory door. Then she considers if she should submit an anatomical cross section of a basilisk fang for the Compendium contest . . .

Then she accepts she is procrastinating and she charges through the unlocked door. Stairs descend before her. The spring sun winks away as she plummets down two steps at a time.

The first thing she notices is the smell—something floral, like a spa waits ahead and not an intense gym for the practice of killing monsters. Fluorescent lights glimmer, gentle and unwavering and always at perfect brightness. Footsteps hammer, as does a sound like fists on foam targets. Then Winnie steps off the stairs into a wide space filled with hunters on the move. They leap, they roll, they swing at each other and block expertly.

Winnie stands on the second-to-last step while chills roll down her arms. This is what she wanted. This is what she dreamed of joining—more than the Masquerade, more than Sunday estate training, more than Wednesday clan dinners or even easy access to the Monday libraries . . .

Now here she is, and wow. She really has come so far in a month.

“Hey, kid!” Rachel’s voice barks out over the din. It takes Winnie a few seconds to target-lock her aunt, who waves from behind a row of red punching bags. As Winnie jogs toward her, Wednesday hunters slow their workouts long enough to nod. A second cousin named Keifer throws out a hand for a fist bump, and it’s such a casual gesture that Winnie’s chest swells up like a puffer fish. Chad Wednesday, who made fun of Winnie on her first day of corpse duty—Death is a part of life. Get used to it, Little Win-Win, or you won’t last a week inside the forest—hollers, “Nice to see ya, Winnie!”

He and Keifer aren’t impressed by what Winnie did on her third trial. No one in this basement is, because they don’t look at Winnie and see a celebrity. Instead, they see a new recruit joining the hunt.

For half a second, as Winnie nears Aunt Rachel—no sign that Rachel is the Lead Hunter beyond her general air of authority—a sadness grips Winnie’s organs. It wrings out her stomach, digs into her intestines. Because Mom didn’t just lose her husband four years ago. Or her job or her friends. She lost her entire network, her entire identity.

Mom used to be a part of this, shouting orders and adjusting hunter form like Rachel does. She used to get fist bumps and welcome nods.

Then Winnie reaches Aunt Rachel, who, rather than acknowledge her niece, instead shoos Winnie over to the side so she can scope out two hunters sprinting by on the indoor track. Thump, thump, thump go their boots. In one hand, they swing their training bows. In the other, their training knives.

“First lesson,” Rachel says flatly, watching them fly by. “If you’re going to carry something in one hand, always have something else in the other. The human body evolved with bilateral symmetry.” Her attention briefly flicks to Winnie’s. “So if you only hold something on one side, your body is out of balance. And that, in turn, will slow you down.”

“Oh.” Winnie blinks, fastening her attention once more on the two hunters—who are somehow already halfway around the track. They’ve caught up to a slower mass of runners, and they dip and weave through the crowd before surging ahead again.

The taller of the two, Robin Wednesday (no relation to Winnie), is grinning as they gain ground on Jodi Wednesday (also no relation).

Rachel cups her hands to her mouth. “Tag her, Robin!”

Robin’s grin widens. They double back and charge for Jodi, but Jodi is already diving into the mass of runners—who sway and scoot and duck to avoid Jodi. What ensues is one of the coolest things Winnie has ever seen. It’s like watching bacteria crawl across a petri dish. The slower runners just keep jogging, veering as they must to avoid collision, while Robin and Jodi play an advanced game of tag.

All while holding their knives and bows too.

Then the bacterial mass has reached Winnie and Rachel. Boots and bodies thunder by. Jodi gets a punch at Robin’s chest. Robin gets a kick into Jodi’s low back. And Winnie has never wanted to play a game as much as she wants to play this one.

Perhaps because Winnie is grinning like an old family photo of Grandma Winona splattered with vampira viscera, Rachel says: “Don’t worry, Win. You’ll be part of that soon enough. You need better training clothes though. Here.” She fishes a small key out of her hoodie pocket. “For your locker. Number eighteen.”

Winnie swallows. Number eighteen. Mom’s locker. For all of Winnie’s childhood, that key hung on a hook beside her family’s fridge.

Winnie accepts the key, slightly warm from Rachel’s pocket, and finds a look in her aunt’s eyes she has seen before: in the forest when Rachel really wanted to help Winnie and Jay, but her loyalty to the cause said she couldn’t.

Winnie swallows a second time, but her throat isn’t as willing to cooperate this time. Rachel looks away first, attention lasering onto her hunters. The brief glimpse of feelings is already gone, squashed beneath a Lead Hunter’s frown and a hard, “Nicki and Tanaz, you’re up! Jodi and Robin, to the bags!” She doesn’t look at Winnie as she adds more quietly, “Get dressed, Win. We have work to do.”

“Yeah,” Winnie murmurs. She closes her hand around the key. One day—hopefully soon—Mom will be allowed to hunt again. Then Winnie will give her locker number eighteen, and the order of the world will be right again.

For now, though, this locker is hers. And for now, Winnie has work to do.

CHAPTER

5

Winnie never joins the bacterial tag mass that thunders around the indoor track, but she still gets in plenty of movement for the next few hours. In fact, Rachel’s regimen for her hunters makes Jay’s tutoring sessions look like child’s play. Like an actual child playing.

Winnie punches bags, she grapples other Wednesdays, she jumps hurdles and climbs ropes, and she repeatedly wonders, Why did I want to do this? She goes for at least two hours until her new black leggings and tank top are soaked through with sweat, and until eventually, Rachel slows the whole show down with a hollered, “Forest loop!”

Winnie doesn’t know what that means, but she figures if she just follows everyone while they aim for the stairwell out of the Armory, she’ll get her answer soon enough. She slots onto the end, jogging at an easy pace. Rachel falls into step behind her. They are the caboose to a long train of hunters doing everything Rachel commands.

Soon Winnie is up the stairs, out of the estate, and stamping steadily over gravel garden paths. The final rays of sunset laser over the Wednesday rooftop. Night will fall soon, and with it the mist will rise.

Flowers in full bloom melt past Winnie. A Monet painting daubed with blues and greens and purples—and fractured by a bright orange construction crane as well as a smattering of half-assembled food booths, each one proclaiming a different sort of delicious cuisine for free tasting.