Chapter Three Lennox

P ine Ridge, New York.

Marlow acts like New York is a world away, but I just fly diagonally up Pennsylvania, spend the day hiding out-slash-napping in the mountains surrounding Antonia, Pennsylvania, and then work my way toward Pine Ridge. As the tractor-trailer drives, it’s about seven hours. As the crow flies, probably five. As I fly—around six. (Crows don’t worry if someone sees them. I do.)

In case you’re wondering, no, mothmen do not have a fancy built-in GPS in our antennae. I just took one of those complimentary folding paper road atlases from the Wheeling Travel Plaza, and then I darted down low enough to read road signs every now and again.

Sorry if it’s not as mysterious as you thought—and you can see why I won’t be putting my flying skills on display any time soon.

Once I get to the Binghamton area, my senses start to tingle in a way I’ve never felt before. Oh, maybe a flash here and there, but this time, it’s like my whole body is lighting up from the inside out. Magic. Supernatural power. Paranormal beacons.

Ley Lines, in other words. Pine Ridge is a paranormal-friendly place because there are three intersecting Ley Lines. A supernatural powerhouse.

“I’ve gotta be close.”

You would think that would spur me on, but it doesn’t. I find a dense area of trees and land to have a quick pep talk and work on my hyperventilating.

What if I can’t do this?

Marlow is right. I’m a coward. I’m timid. I’m shy. I’m...not good at things. I don’t have skills. I mean—unless you have a sick tree. I’m good at woodlore, and I know a lot about plants. I know how to survive in the wild, on my own.

So why the heck did I decide to fly to a place where I’ll need new skills I’ve never honed?

I wince as I see the sign in the glow of my red eyes, “Welcome to Pine Ridge, New York! The town with a heart as big as the great outdoors!”

Pine Ridge may be considered a small town to humans, but by loner in the West Virginia wilderness standards, it’s intimidating.

Flying over it, my cowardly self-preservation instinct kicks in.

Well, Marlow says it is cowardly, but if I don’t stay hidden, how will our species survive?

If I do stay hidden, how will our species survive?

“Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” as my grandpa used to say.

There are thick snags and strands of pines everywhere in this town. I need to be near water. I want to be near enough to observe people and the magical beings who supposedly live among them.

Supposedly is a big, frightening word that makes me want to turn around and fly south, back home.

What if the rumors that trickled down over the past two centuries are just that? Rumors?

I decide to stay hidden until I have proof that Pine Ridge isn’t just paranormal—it’s paranormal- friendly .

I fly past the town, stomach churning as I see all the lights, and some are even scattered far into the hills. I’d like to fly further, but flying this many hours in two days, carrying all the stress of leaving home after watching it burn...

It doesn’t surprise me when my body finally quits, wings fluttering limply until I touch down several miles from the last point of light, deep in a thicket of snow-covered boughs.

Cold, far from home, and alone.

Exhaustion and depression make a good sleeping pill.