Chapter 4

Kate

The sounds shift, from distant flapping wings and hooting owls, from scurrying leaves and crying spirits, to the cheerful crackle of a fire and the clatter of a metal pot lid. Something's brewing. Something smells amazing.

Marlowe Waverley turns around to face me, looking big in the small space, fierce and wild and barely human. His witch hat drips with small red vials and the jawbones of tiny animals, with feathers and teeth. I'm not sure how, but the purple mushrooms have disappeared from the brim, replaced by red roses with too-big thorns.

He yanks his mask down again, lips parted and still smeared with blood.

He smiles at me.

"Too bad about earlier, North, but it had to be done. I couldn't let you leave and I needed to bind you. Two birds, one stone." He lifts up the two fingers that he had inside of me, and spreads them in a vulgar way.

I kick out at his knee as hard as I can, but he sidesteps the move like it's nothing.

"I wish I had the time to play games with you—you seem fun. But, frankly, the night is waning, and every single night that you spend here, well, that costs you thirty days back in our world. My suggestion, if you don't want to be stuck here for a long time, is to stop fighting me."

I use the wall to get to my feet, nearly falling down the length of stairs behind me. Each one is round and made from the sliced trunk of a tree. If I wanted to bend down and count the rings to see how old the tree was, I could.

The number would easily be in the thousands.

"Each day in the Witchwoods is—"

"Yeah, a month back in our world. Now that you've spoken, you're stuck here. Lucky you that you're also the key to getting us all out." Marlowe maneuvers past me to head down the stairs, and I dart toward the door, hand searching out the secret mechanism.

He is right there, snatching my wrists and pinning me again. This time, his big body is positioned directly behind me.

"You're not a prisoner here, but I can't let you open that door either." He leans down and puts his mouth close to mine. "Think about it: each day you spend resisting is worth weeks back home. Isn't that awful? Don't you have friends or family waiting for you? A boyfriend or a husband or something?"

I turn suddenly, and he lets me go, so that I'm facing him but still equally crushed up against the door.

"You'd ask me something like that after what you did to me?" I question, but he has that same look of resolute determination that he had before. I notice his shadow on the wall behind him, disturbed to find that it wasn't a trick of the light: it has wings. He doesn't, but it does.

My hazel eyes meet his inky black ones, half-hidden by the brim of that monstrous hat.

"Didn't want to do it. Had to do it. And I'm not sorry. It's just the way things are around here. If you cooperate, you can be home by next month. If you fight us, then the only person that's hurting is you." Marlowe steps back and then removes his hat with a sigh, fingers ruffling up the dark hair underneath.

He turns and heads down the steps without waiting for me to follow.

"Brooks, you here?" he calls out as I turn back to the door. I don't know what to do, but finding the hidden latch is a good place to start. Might not be ready to head out just yet, but I should know how to get out when the opportunity is right.

I fail.

There's no knot of wood on the inside, and I start to wonder if this door can be opened from this side at all. With a sigh, I give up and turn away, reaching down to fix my shirt and closing my eyes.

My legs were closed tight when he ... and Marlowe has big, rough fingers. It's sore down there, and the urge to stab him is so strong that I can feel it like an ache in my bones.

But I'm trapped in the Witchwoods now. Just like Marlowe and ... did he say Brooks?

The name comes to mind immediately: Brooks McDowell, who went missing in the 1950s. I know all the names of the people who went missing in the Witchwoods. I know everything there is to know about the legend. Too many drunken deep dives. Too many sleepless Saturday nights.

Except ... maybe I know nothing at all?

I move quickly down the steps, hand gliding over the smooth wood bannister with its character-adding knots and bends and twists, and end up in a cozy mudroom.

Pointed hats are hung on wooden pegs, a basket sits on the floor with umbrellas made from large waxy leaves, and a wool rug decorates the floor. There's a taxidermied bat on one wall, and a vase of flowers on a rough-hewn side table. I see a bench with boots underneath it—three pairs made of leather with chains and buckles and bones. A trio of brooms fills one corner.

There's no door in here, just the stairs leading back up to the landing.

I edge into the next room through a large, circular opening with a transom window above it. The stained-glass reflects the light of the fire on the other side. It's just decorative, not a possible escape route.

There's a man on the opposite side of the room, standing beside a stone fireplace and stirring a wooden spoon around a large iron cauldron. He casts an unhurried glance over his shoulder, going completely still when he spots me. A massive red eye opens on the conical portion of his witch hat, blinking in surprise, but his face remains disturbingly stoic.

My eyes shift to his shadow as it creeps up the wall and onto the ceiling—it has antlers.

"Our North," Marlowe is saying, pouring himself a drink. His hands are shaking so badly that he spills amber liquid everywhere. "I couldn't fucking believe what I was seeing." He chugs the alcohol, eyes shining as he stares at me.

He has to die. I want him dead. He deserves it.

The new man turns fully around to stare at me, just as big and broad as Marlowe. Just as young, too. When I heard the name Brooks McDowell, I was expecting someone older. He's been missing longer than most people are alive. And yet ... I recognize him, too.

Only, this Brooks has bright red hair with black underneath, unlike the chestnut brown he was listed as having on his missing posters. His picture was in black-and-white, so I never saw it for myself. His eyes are poison-green, and he looks me over while swiping his hand across his mouth.

"Fuck," he breathes, like he's been stunned into silence.

"He forced himself on me," I say carefully, slowly, keeping my distance from the two men.

I'm clearly in their house now, and it's surprisingly warm and cheerful. I spot a leather couch, an armchair draped in furs, and plenty of shelves stuffed with books. Whatever Brooks is cooking smells amazing, and my mouth waters as the last of the carrion scent is forced from my tongue.

There's a pitcher of beer in the center of a round table, and plenty of matching chairs with cushions. Art covers the curved wooden walls, and the ceiling is low and decorated with rafters. There are no exterior windows, and I can feel the press of earth, like we're definitely below ground level right now.

"I see." Brooks turns to Marlowe. "Where's Tanner?" he asks, and my mind draws up the memory right away. Tanner Skye, a man who went missing in the late eighties. Question: is he as much of a prick as these other men? Brooks doesn't seem to care that Marlowe attacked me.

I won't find any sympathy here.

"Needed a distraction." Marlowe rubs at the back of his neck, his eyes still on me. "I have no idea how long it'll take him to get back, but maybe we should get started anyway?"

They both glance at the clock on the wall, and then Brooks returns his gaze to me.

While Marlowe is fully dressed in black leather pants, boots, and a jacket with fur trim and feathers, Brooks isn't wearing shoes.

Or a shirt.

His chest is covered in tattoos and scars, all of it arranged in a very clear and purposeful design—even the scars. They're not accidental, more like runes or sigils. His hair is wet, like we caught him fresh out of the shower. Brooks doesn't move, but five more eyes open on his hat. Smaller than the first, all of them with red irises. Six in total.

I take a step forward and stumble on my injured foot, slamming into the round table and spilling some of the beer.

Marlowe approaches and squats low, slinging his pack down and drawing out a leather bundle that he unwraps on the floor next to my foot.

"Let me see it," he says, and it doesn't come out like a kindness—more like a demand. I slump into one of the chairs, grab a glass from the table, and pour myself some alcohol. Why not? My situation is absurd, and my stomach is sick, and it's my goddamn birthday. Can't be poisoned if my attacker already helped himself to an entire mug of the same stuff.

I reach for the pitcher, but Brooks stops me.

"Allow me." Again, not a kindness. A command this time. He pours a glass for me, ensuring I've got a pleasing ratio of foam and liquid. I'd throw it in his face, but what would I do next? I need to be smart about this.

I tip the glass to my mouth and drink it.

As Marlowe removes my shoe, my eyes drift around the room, taking in the cabinets and the bookshelves with their leather-bound tomes. The dead animals on the walls. A second circular opening and the room beyond it. There are plenty of doors there. Another staircase. A way out?

Brooks stands too close, eyes locked on my face with a sense of vicious desperation that he hid so well for those first few minutes. I hate him, too. He leans down and puts one hand on the table, a stripe of black hair curving away from his face like a horn. It makes for a pretty contrast against the ruby red. Smoke and ash, a bonfire that got too big and burned too hot. That's what he smells like.

I refuse to look directly at him.

"You are the catalyst for getting us all out of here. Now, I've been stuck in the Witchwoods since 1955. Do you want the same thing to happen to you?"

I turn to look at him then as Marlowe makes a scoffing sound, peeling my bloody sock down and applying a cool paste to my injured foot. The ache tingles, flares, and then dims. When I look down, I see that the split in my skin and the bruise that was forming underneath are fading.

Marlowe lifts disturbingly dark eyes up to my face, the wings of his shadow stretching and flexing behind him. That shadow, those eyes, that opalescent hair are absolutely not human. Is this truly Marlowe Waverley or something malignant that only looks like Marlowe Waverley?

I shift away from him in the chair, and he smiles meanly.

"What's the matter, North? Scared of little old me?" He sits back and closes the jar, tucking it and the rest of his supplies away in his pack. "Or regretting your choice to talk? We could've just fucked, you know."

I ignore him. Until I have a knife or some other weapon in hand, that's my best bet. I take another sip of the beer which is more like cider—or maybe mead—and hope that it goes to my head quickly.

"How do we get out of here?" I ask with disturbing serenity, using my foot to draw my shoe and sock away from Marlowe. I'll put them back on myself. How am I this calm? How am I not freaking out?

I don't know what's going on, and I might know who these men look like, but not what they are.

All I know for sure is this: if you talk, then the woods own you.

I talked. I'm trapped. I'm fucked.

Whatever I have to do—anything at all—then I will do it if it means I can go home. That must be where the calm is coming from: reality. There is no time or space to freak out or panic. Another sip of mead-beer-cider helps. Who cares what it is?

Brooks (and his hat) stare down at me, evaluating. Marlowe peers up at me like I don't matter, but also like I'm the answer to all his problems. They both move their gazes to the staircase, like they hear someone coming before the person ever sets foot inside.

There it is.

The front door opens and then closes, followed shortly by boots on stairs. The squeak of wet rubber on wood floors. A third man now stands at the base of the steps in eerie stillness, like a hunter spotting prey. He has a crow on his left shoulder, one with six purple eyes.

I stand up from the chair for ... some stupid reason. To feel taller? To give myself a fighting chance? The only weapon I have is the glass in my hand. Brooks is on my right and Marlowe is directly behind me. There's nowhere to go.

"Tanner Skye." I say it first, because I already know. "Are you as awful as your friends?"

But ... it's not really Tanner, is it? While each man is recognizable, his hair is different. His eyes are different. He's bigger, stronger, meaner than he looked in his missing poster.

This Tanner has quicksilver eyes and hair that curls over his forehead in gold and black. His hat has gray wolf ears that swivel in my direction, and his shadow is flicking a forked tongue like it's scenting the air. His silhouette is unnatural, split in half and sporting a pair of tails.

Tanner lifts his hand toward the metal mask on his face, skin etched with an arcane tattoo. A crescent moon and triangles and a wolf trapped in a pentagram. Those rough fingers grip the mask, drawing it down and dragging the chains off his ears.

His mouth is bloodied, too, and there's a dripping pelt thrown over his shoulder. Crimson streaks his naked chest and blood pools at the waistband of his leather pants. It takes a minute for him to find a response, and his voice is absolutely fucking wild when he speaks.

"No." The word drips with enough satisfaction that it almost feels violent. "Not at all." He stretches his lips, like he'd smile at me if this weren't the single most important moment of his life. Instead, he savors it. Drinks it in. Feasts on it.

Shit, shit, shit.

Tanner stalks forward, and the crow flaps its wings in annoyance.

"I'll treat you real nice," he promises, pausing directly in front of me. Tanner smells like blood, but like something else, too. A breeze. Fresh air. Salt. Desire. "I'll worship you."

That doesn't sound like a good thing though, does it?

His attention slips past me, studying something I can't see. I look over my shoulder, and my entire body flash-freezes. Shock hits me like frostbite.

My shadow has horns.

I turn slowly back to Tanner Skye.

"North," he breathes, and then that smile finally sticks. It's like the word has two meanings. I pretend not to notice the suggestive undertone.

"North?" I repeat as all three men stare at me with vastly different, but equally horrifying expressions.

"South," Brooks says, pointing at himself. His antlered shadow looms over me, peering down from the ceiling above my head, and all six eyes on his hat are sly and hooded with satisfaction.

"East." Tanner steps so close to me that blood from the pelt drips onto my naked foot. I'm killing them all once this is over. Both of the wolf ears on his hat flatten against the brim, and his crow tilts its head curiously.

"West." Marlowe rises to his feet, putting his hat back on his head. The red roses on the brim have turned green, and there's a snake curled around the base of the cone that wasn't there before.

"You're not ... religious, are you?" Brooks asks me, putting his big hand on the edge of the table again. The wood creaks with the weight of his body, and his eyes tell me: if you are religious, too goddamn bad because we're doing this anyway.

Fuck.