Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
“And what exactly does your job description include? Bodyguard? Driver? Professional kidnapper?”
Hans shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I do what is needed to keep people safe.”
I study his profile—the way his jaw keeps clenching and unclenching, how he keeps glancing at me like I might suddenly combust. “How many people has Blue ‘kept safe’ over the years?”
“This is not my place to say.”
So, everyone in Blue’s orbit seems to operate on a need-to-know basis, and apparently, I don’t need to know anything.
The forest presses in on both sides of the road like something alive and breathing. Towering trees that Hans identifies as Douglas firs and western red cedars create a canopy so dense that only fragments of gray sky filter through, casting everything in perpetual twilight. Moss drapes from every branch like tattered velvet curtains, some strands so long they brush the car’s roof as we pass beneath them. The understory is a jungle of sword ferns that reach as high as my waist, their fronds creating green tunnels that lead deeper into darkness.
Mushrooms sprout from fallen logs in impossible colors—bright orange, deep-sea blue, rich purple that looks almost black in the filtered light. They cluster in fairy rings around massive tree trunks whose bark is so thick with moss they look like they’re wearing fur coats. Everything looks perpetually damp, a wetness that seeps into your bones even from inside the car.
Occasionally, I catch glimpses of something moving between the trees—a flash of white that could be a deer or something else maybe, a shape that’s gone before I can focus on it. The deeper we go, the more the forest appears to be watching us back, ancient and patient and definitely hiding something. The locals call it the Witchwood Forest, according to the brief conversation I managed to extract from Hans before he clammed up.
“Tell me about Grimlock,” I try again. “What’s it like?”
“Is . . . unusual place,” Hans says carefully. “Very old. Many stories.”
“What kind of stories?”
“Stories that turn milk sour if spoken aloud on moonless nights.”
Well, that’s reassuring.
The road curves again, and suddenly we’re descending through a break in the trees. Mist clings to everything like cobwebs, and the air through the car’s vents carries the smell of damp earth and pine, but underneath there’s something else—something that reminds me of old churches and forgotten graveyards.
And then I see it.
Grimlock sprawls along the coastline below us like a postcard that’s been left too long in the rain. The town unfolds in tiers cascading down toward the harbor, connected by a maze of narrow cobblestone streets and shadowed alleyways that twist between buildings like arteries through a body. The Victorian houses and Gothic spires emerge from patches of mist that drift in from the ocean, their steep roofs and pointed gables creating a jagged silhouette against the gray sky. From this height, I can see the harbor with its weathered piers stretching into gray water, fishing boats bobbing like toys in a bathtub. The whole place has the cramped, layered feeling of Venice—buildings pressed so close together you could reach from one window to touch another, connected by stone bridges that arch over narrow canals where seawater flows in with the tide.
The first thing that hits me is how wrong everything looks. Not obviously wrong. If you squinted, you might mistake it for any other quaint Pacific Northwest town. Charming Victorian houses with gingerbread trim line tree-shaded streets. A town square with a massive clock tower. Shops with painted signs and flower boxes.
But the longer I look, the more the details begin to unravel the illusion.
The Victorian houses aren’t painted in cheerful pastels. They’re all variations of gray, from dove to charcoal to the color of storm clouds, broken only by the occasional house with scarlet red shutters or a crimson front door that looks like a splash of blood against the monochrome backdrop. The gingerbread trim that should be decorative and welcoming instead looks like carved teeth, shadows pooling in every curve and corner. Windows stare out like dead eyes, and I notice that many of them have iron bars or wooden shutters that may be more defensive than decorative.
The flower boxes I can see are there, but the flowers themselves are wrong. Even from this distance, I can see they’re all deep purple-black, as if someone decided regular flowers weren’t gothic enough for Grimlock’s aesthetic.
“What kind of flowers are those?” I ask.
Hans follows my gaze. “Nightshade,” he says matter-of-factly. “Very popular here. People say it keeps away unwanted visitors.”
“Nightshade. As in, the poisonous plant.”
“Ja. Is very effective.”
We descend into the maze of the town proper, and I feel like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole. The main road splits into three smaller streets, each one diving between buildings at different angles. Hans navigates the labyrinth like a man who has done this a million times, turning down alleyways barely wide enough for the sedan, past stone archways that frame glimpses of courtyards where laundry hangs like colorful flags between iron balconies.