Chapter 3

3

F our months later . . .

Instead of filming in Vancouver like originally planned—forest fires suck!—Rory and I ate dinner in Pete's Pasty Hut, a roadside diner in a scenic, though almost non-existent, town in Michigan's Upper Peninsula. I didn't even know Michigan had an upper peninsula. I'd gotten a C- in high school geography class, so, yeah, not surprising. And not just the Upper Peninsula. We were staying at Smudge Hill Ski Resort on the Keweenaw Peninsula—a peninsula on the Upper Peninsula.

We'd already been living in yurts—yes, yurts—for four days and, unlike the low seventies temps we'd left behind in L.A., we'd had nothing except rain and more rain with highs in the low forties here. In the middle of April. A smattering of snow still covered the ski resort peak. Made me glad we weren't here in the winter. The yurts were basically giant round tents reinforced by interior wooden beams set on a high concrete base, so I couldn't imagine what they'd be like in the winter. As it was, my hoodies were getting a workout, though most locals went around without jackets and a few even wore T-shirts.

Weather aside, I hadn't realized how much I needed to get out of L.A. Fewer people here, more trees than I'd ever seen in one place, and so far not a single resident had recognized me or been anything but nice. Even the film crew I'd met hadn't been disrespectful. It almost felt like the early days before Rory, Matt, and I moved to L.A. and our channel really took off. Plus, I'd never spent time in nature before, and there was something about it I found soothing in a way I couldn't explain. Like I'd come home.

Swallowing the last bite of a flaky pasty—another thing I hadn't known existed—I took a swig of Vernors. I obviously knew Vernors existed, though I didn't see the big deal. It was just ginger ale, not the blood of Christ. I'd learned real quick not to say that aloud around here, though. Bonnie, our perpetually perky server with one glass eye, was educating us on proper Yooper etiquette. The woman was practically sunshine in human form, and you couldn't help but smile back. Her Yooper accent was also cute as hell, though not the easiest to understand. Sort of like if Canada, Minnesota, and—according to Rory—Finland had a baby. Yoopers—another thing I learned—are what locals called themselves.

"Here you go," she said, setting a bottle of ketchup on the table. "I'm just saying that gravy's the way to go."

Apparently, there was an ongoing debate about whether pasties—pronounced pass-tees, not paste-ees like the cute nipple covers I'd used in some of my videos—should be consumed with gravy or ketchup. She'd brought the beef gravy with our pasties, but being vegetarian, I asked for ketchup. Bonnie rivaled The Flash in speed and was here and gone before we had time to blink.

"Thank you," Rory called to her retreating back using a Scottish-tinged accent. We'd made a bet to see who could stay in character longer, and so for the last four days I'd been speaking with an English lilt. Apparently, elves had English accents. Who knew? We used to play this game a lot when we were younger. In our junior year of high school, I'd pulled off a rather poor French accent for almost four months before losing to Rory, who'd perfected his German accent. Tell me you're a theater nerd without telling me you're a theater nerd!

He squirted some ketchup on his pasty and shoved it in his mouth. "Mmm. Good, but she's right, gravy's better."

I scoffed. "Speak for yourself. I'll stick to ketchup."

He held out a bit of his pasty, his grin mischievous. "It's delicious."

"No, thanks." I wrinkled my nose. I ate dairy and eggs. Meat-based gravy made me want to gag.

Rory rolled his eyes. "You and your vendetta against gravy."

I snickered and continued eating. When we'd first come in, Pete's hadn't had vegetarian pasties on the menu and, when I asked if they had any, it turned into one of those needle-scratch-on-the-record moments. Then Rory, not missing a beat, loudly proclaimed, "He's from California," and everyone nodded like this had to be why I was so weird, and conversation resumed. The next time we'd come in, Bonnie told me Pete made some pasties special for us "California types," and not gonna lie, they were fan-fucking-tastic.

We'd no sooner finished our plates when Bonnie swooped in to pick them up.

"Anything else you guys need? Another Vernors? More coffee?" She tapped the half-full carafe on our table.

"We're good, thanks." Before she zipped away again, I pointed to a double row of deer heads on the far wall. The first time we'd come in, I'd had to bite my tongue not to comment. It felt like the deer were watching us. I'd quickly gotten used to them, though. And not like there weren't homes in Kankakee that had deer head trophies. They just didn't belong to my friends. "Hey, are the trophies from one guy?"

"Ha! No. That twelve-point buck over there my Uncle Bob shot couple years back."

No clue which one she meant, and from Rory's perplexed expression, he didn't, either. Neither of us had ever gone hunting. I knew it had something to do with the antlers and that it was probably one of the bigger ones on the wall.

Bonnie squinted at us. "You guys don't know what I'm talking about, do you?"

"Antlers, right?" Rory looked at me for support. I shrugged.

"It's the number of tines on a buck's antlers. So, you see that one there?" She pointed to a deer with a smaller rack. "That's a seven point. Shot by Burdett Johnson last year. He's known around here for never getting a buck, so it was a big deal. Talking to him, you'd think he shot a thirty point."

"There are thirty-point racks?" I raised a brow. How big was that, exactly?

"Oh, yah. Rare, though. And no one around here's ever got one. But they keep gunning for Old George." She beamed like we'd know who Old George was.

"Old George?" I asked.

She tapped the paper placemat in front of me. It held a map of the area with little deer heads placed around it.

"The thirty point. These are Old George sightings. He's famous around here."

"Seriously?" Rory traced the points on the map with his finger. There were a lot of them. Apparently, Old George got around.

"Oh, sure. Been around since before my granddad's time, they say. He's 300 fully dressed. Ask anyone. They'll tell you."

Not certain what 300 fully dressed meant, though it sounded impressive. Just how old was this deer? My phone only got spotty service, but once she walked away, I used voice command and looked it up. After an endless number of seconds, we had our answer.

Keeping my voice quiet so Bonnie wouldn't accidentally overhear, I said, "Old George couldn't have been around before her grandpa's time. Hell, he couldn't have been around before hers."

"Yeah, I figured it was just a local legend. The one that got away." Rory grinned and poured himself another cup of coffee.

We had no reason to hurry. While we didn't share our yurt with any film crew—even though it could hold up to twelve people with all bunk beds fully occupied—with the rain, we couldn't sit outside, and there wasn't much going on in the evenings.

Rory had already read me my lines—the few I had—and I'd recorded them as he did it so I could play them back and memorize them. He was still fuming that not only was Eimeret not the primary viewpoint character, but he and the human prince were not the romantic pairing anymore. They'd decided to play it safe and created a hetero love interest for the prince. Now, Eimeret and Prince Azorius had a bromance, while the prince fell in love with a female elf who was part of the royal line, and Eimeret had been relegated to a smaller house's lineage.

The bell jingled over the diner door, and Hyde Hatcher strode in. He and his entourage, that is. Must have just arrived. Hyde was A-list all the way, and it showed—his golden hair perfectly styled, his clothing couture. He'd be playing Eimeret, and anyone could see why. As if on cue, the diner fell silent.

Rory grinned from ear to ear, bouncing in our booth and waving. "Let's see if he'll come over."

Hyde glanced around the diner, his nose wrinkled like he smelled something rotten. His gaze passed over Rory and rested on me. Didn't seem like he was overly impressed—with me or the diner. Leaning into a harried looking woman who was tapping away on a tablet—his PA?—he gave a minute shake of his head, turned, and departed with his entourage in tow. One rushed to put an oversized umbrella over him.

Rory's smile fell. I shrugged. Hyde might have had a rough trip. Or perhaps the bar across the street would be more to his liking. The set was supposed to have a cantina in place for all the cast and crew, but something had gone wrong, and numerous crew members were down with food poisoning—including several from the food service providers—so we were on our own until they replaced the company. Hyde likely had a prescribed diet, so finding out he only had a diner and bar to choose from wouldn't be a great way to start things off.

Or maybe he was just a dick. I'd find out tomorrow when he and I were scheduled to meet with the head animal handler to work with the horses. Not gonna lie, I was nervous. I'd never been on a horse.

After I finished my drink, and Rory had yet another cup of coffee, we paid our check. I pulled out some change to add to the tip and lighten my pockets. I slapped the change onto the table. My gold coin from the audition sat in the middle of the pile, raven side up. How did that get mixed in? I thought I'd left it back in L.A. I plucked the coin from the pile and held it so Rory could see.

He grinned. "The coin that got you a job."

"Yeah, right. You're the superstitious one." I snorted but pocketed the coin. Just in case.

I'd planned to slip in an Only Fae session tonight—I'd broken down and spent the money on a cell phone booster—except with the cold weather, I didn't want to strip down or ask Rory to stay outside. Tomorrow was supposed to be our first sunny day, so hopefully I'd get a quickie in then. Heh.

We headed out, waving to Bonnie. We almost bumped into the director, Jisi "Call me Jiz," Jabril, on the stoop, with an attractive tipsy woman on each arm. He was stocky, with a barrel chest. His thick, unruly salt-and-pepper hair stuck up like he'd run his hands through it unconsciously, and you couldn't miss his Elvis-style mutton chops or his open-necked shirt with a nest of chest hair peeking out. The three of them were soaked and didn't seem to notice or care.

"Oh, sorry, Mr. Jabril. Didn't see you." I tried not to fidget. I could not call him "Jiz."

We'd met with him on our second day in a trailer set aside for his office. Something about him set me on edge. Nothing bad, per se. I couldn't explain it. Especially as he'd been nothing but friendly. He'd insisted we have a glass of wine, and he'd pulled out a pan flute—who kept a pan flute around? Dumb question since Rory had one—and insisted that Rory accompany him with the hurdy gurdy. They'd certainly hit it off.

"Ah, McMahon and Summers, you boys settling in okay?" He held an open bottle of wine. His nose and cheeks were already flushed. No one had mentioned that Jabril potentially had a drinking problem. Hopefully, it wouldn't bleed over onto the set.

"No problems. Everyone's been great. And I've been practicing the melody you want me to play so it will look realistic in the scene," Rory said.

"Good, good. Now, if the food situation can just be sorted, we'll be all set. It's bloody inconvenient giving everyone vouchers." He introduced us to his companions, then excused himself. They all headed inside, giggling the way drunks do.

I swore I heard the clip - clop of a horse nearby, though who would be out riding tonight? The sound disappeared when the diner door closed. Must have been my imagination.

"Do . . . do you think his drinking will be a problem?" This was all new to me, but Rory had worked with all sorts. He had one director who stood way too close and spit when they talked. Rory had run up our water bill with the number of showers he took during that production. And that was just the tip of the iceberg.

"Not sure. He's eccentric. That's not always a bad thing. Plus, he's got a string of hit films. And the studio loves him."

Stepping off the stoop, we opened our umbrellas, and huddled together as we crossed the road. We took a small path, walking single file with me in the lead through the towering trees. Our yurt sat only about two miles from the diner, but this path cut the walking time by half and kept us away from the road's shoulder in the near dark.

We'd just entered the hardwood forest when a crack of thunder sounded overhead.

"Fuck!" I practically jumped out of my skin, and Rory huddled closer to me. We used our phones as flashlights so we wouldn't trip over the uneven ground and picked up our pace. During the day, the forest was really peaceful and pretty. At night, the densely packed trees hid the sky and their branches looked like limbs out to grab us. We'd never walked home this late before, and the woods were a lot darker than I'd expected.

"This is so creepy," Rory said with a nervous chuckle.

I shivered. "Agreed." I stepped around a large puddle as lightning flashed overhead. I swear we were being watched. Stupid, overactive imagination.

The feeling only increased the farther into the woods we went. I sped my steps, and Rory stayed on my heels. Rain pelted us through the trees, though it would have been a lot worse out in the open. Thunder rumbled overhead, drowning out the sound of insects and anything else out in the dark.

"Staying out this late wasn't our smartest plan." Rory's voice came out hushed.

"Yeah, let's not do it again—"

The squawk of a lone raven sounded directly overhead. I gripped my umbrella tighter and walked faster.

Another raven croaked from somewhere in the distance. By now, I could recognize their sound from miles away. Another answered. Then another. Soon, a cacophony of ravens called and answered. A slash of lightning lit up the sky. I could swear that glowing eyes surrounded us. Just a trick of the light. Had to be. My heart raced, my fingers clenched around the umbrella handle until they ached. Not much farther and we'd be back to the yurts. I needed to stop freaking myself out.

The ravens' calls followed us, and the back of my neck prickled, a curdle of fear in my belly. No running since we could easily trip over tree roots, and it would suck to break something a few days before filming started. Took everything I had to stick to a fast walk, my pulse pounding in my ears. There was nothing to worry about, nothing to worry about, nothing to worry about. I just needed to keep repeating the words until I believed them.

"They should film the next big horror movie in these woods," I said, keeping my tone joking. Didn't want Rory to know what a scaredy cat I was. My breath came out in puffs, and not from the exertion. I was fully freaking myself out.

"It would be a blockbuster." He chuckled, but it sounded a little forced. Maybe he was as unsettled as me?

We kept moving, one foot in front of the other. Felt like the forest was closing in on us and the path was narrower than I remembered. The trees seemed to sway toward us, and roots stuck out at jagged angles just waiting to catch our ankles.

Calm the hell down. It's just the woods at night .

The ravens continued to croak overhead, and something swooped in front of my face. Raven or bat, I didn't know. I startled and jumped back, banging into Rory. We stumbled, and my side slammed into a tree. Ouch. I'd dropped my umbrella on the path, and rain slid down my face and hair.

"Sorry. Something dive-bombed me." I shone my flashlight around, looking for my umbrella.

"This is freaking me out." Rory said. "What is it with those birds? It's like being in a Hitchcock film."

"No idea. Help me find my umbrella before I become a drowned rat."

Rory scoured the area with his flashlight and stepped close, sheltering me under his umbrella. No sign of mine. Where did it go? The trees were so dense here, I'm not even sure I could step between them, much less lose an umbrella. We looked for another minute, but it was well and truly gone.

"L-let's just get home. We can look for it in the morning. We shouldn't be far now." I hoped. Not actually all that sure because the path looked so different at night. We shuffled along, tree branches slapping our lone umbrella, then came upon a fork. I didn't remember a split in the path. I stopped.

We scanned both directions. Trees as far as the eye could see.

"Was there . . . ?" Rory trailed off, pointing one way then the other.

"I don't think so. Did we somehow get onto another trail?"

A gust of wind cut through my hoodie. My boots were now soaked through, and the eerie sound of ravens kept my teeth on edge. Rory shivered next to me.

He typed something into his phone.

"Dammit, I don't have a signal. I thought we could use the GPS." Even in the dark, I saw how pale his face looked.

Mine probably wasn't any better.

We took the left fork. Nothing looked familiar now, and the ravens were still croaking overhead like vultures circling.

A rumble of thunder. Everything fell silent, like all sounds had been sucked into a vacuum.

A loud crack.

"Look out!" I grabbed Rory's arm and sprinted forward with him in tow.

A tree crashed down where we'd been standing only seconds ago, its branches missing us by mere inches.

We stared at each other. The whites of Rory's eyes stood out in stark relief. I shook all over, adrenaline rushing through my veins.

"Go!" I yelled.

We took off, crashing through the underbrush on the trail that continued to narrow as the trees closed in around us. Something dove at my head. Then again. And again. What the hell?

Rory and I burst from the woods in front of a row of yurts. He'd lost his umbrella in the dash, but I didn't care. We sprinted to our yurt and leapt onto the porch, ignoring the steps in our haste. With trembling fingers, I jammed the key in the lock. We shoved our way inside. Rory slammed the door, threw the deadbolt, and sagged against the frame. Water ran off me in rivulets and my skin felt icy.

I started laughing, an edge of hysteria to it. Rory joined.

Maybe I'd spoken too soon about nature being soothing.