A voice boomed throughout the old house. “And these are your Sunday morning Hollow Headlines. Happy August third. Keep safe out there, and remember, no one is safe after 3 am.”

 

The intro to Haunted Heart by Christina Aguilera followed, dragging me up from the iron bed. Outside the French doors of my new bedroom, dusty grey clouds moved lazily across the dewy sky. 

 

I rubbed my eyes and took the stairs down at the same pace as the clouds.

 

Gramps' coughs echoed down the hallway. When I turned the corner, he was sitting at a small breakfast table with a steaming cup of coffee, a newspaper spread in front of him.

 

Any other granddaughter might've thrown her arms around his softened muscles, kiss his cheek, shed a few tears at finally meeting her grandfather for the first time. But I'd read the letters, where he'd complain about the paperboy tossing the latest issue of The Daily Hollow beside the mailbox instead of by the front door. The reckless teenagers leaving broken liquor bottles at the rocks behind his house. And Jasper Abbott falling into a rage during Bingo night at Town Hall. But each week, I'd looked forward to his letters. Somehow, this cranky old man fulfilled my mundane days.

 

“You shouldn't be up and about. You should be resting,” I said casually, stepping into the butter-yellow kitchen overlooking the sea.

 

His eyes jumped to me, his tissue-holding-hand slowly lowering from his chapped lips as if he'd seen a ghost. Then, from under the rim of his tan fedora, he stared at me for a long moment, perhaps seeing pieces of my mother—his only daughter—in me. I could see it in his glassy brown stare, and how I transported him back to twenty-four years ago.

 

Finally, his stare broke, eyes falling back to his crossword puzzle. “Six letter word for neither dead nor alive?” he grumbled, fixing his giant, round bifocals.

 

I spun on my heel, facing the countertop, and touched the side of the coffee pot to see if it was still warm. “Undead,” I said, opening the cabinets in search of a mug.

 

“The coffee's shit,” he warned, more coughs following. The wet ones that come up from your chest. “Yah better off headin' uptah town. Don't go into the diner, they put somethin' in the coffee. Go to the Bean. But bring yah own mug. They don't like people from away. Order a few stacks while yah at it. No pukin' it up either. Yah all bones.”

 

My eyes snapped to his. “I'm not—”

 

“What are yah doing here, moonshine? I didn't ask yah to come,” he snapped, then coughed into his tissue before continuing. “I don't want yah here.”

 

My brows raised—a punch to the gut.

 

He told me he was sick. Gave me instructions to Weeping Hollow. Put a key in the mailbox for me. If that wasn't asking me to come, then why go through all the hassle? Maybe he'd forgotten about the last letter he'd sent. Maybe he regretted sending it in the first place... Or maybe his memory was worse than his cough.

 

“Well, I'm here now. I'm not leaving you. I'm all you got, so let's make the most of it, alright?”

 

Gramps mumbled through another coughing fit. “How long? I'll call Jonah, get yah a job over there at the funeral home to keep yah outta my hair. I don't know why yah into dead bodies… Sick if yah ask me… Yah need to keep yah-self busy… Jonah will get yah the job…” he rambled on.

 

To be a mortician was a calling.

 

There was beauty after death, like a wilted rose, petals stiff and fragile.

 

Timeless and enchanting.

 

A casted spell and oldest tale.

 

Stories frozen in time within the ruins.

 

Like the stories Marietta had told of Weeping Hollow.

 

I pulled a mug at the back of the cluttered cabinet. “Thanks, Gramps.”

 

“Call me Benny. Everyone around heyah calls me Benny.”

 

I smirked. “I'll call you Benny when you stop calling me moonshine.”

 

His burly brows pinched together. “I'll call yah whatevah the hell I wanna call yah.”

 

There was a hint of a smile in his words, an extra wrinkle beside his lips.

 

Maybe he was happy to see me after all.

 

“Now, tell me. What did the doctor say about your cough?” I poured coffee into the mug that read: real women marry assholes. Must've belonged to my late grandmother.

 

Ignoring me, Gramps snatched up the pencil and leaned over the newspaper, filling in the boxes. My tailbone hit the counter, and I crossed my ankles, bringing the mug to my lips. 

 

“Please tell me you saw a doctor …” I said into the steam. He tapped the eraser on the wooden table a few times, avoiding the question as a child would. When he peeked at me from the corner of his eye, I shrugged. “Fine. I'll just call them myself.”

 

Gramps fell back against the wooden chair, pointing the tip of the pencil at me. “Yah have to know somethin' about us, moonshine. We do things differently here. We go 'bout things our own way. This virus, it's outta the doc's control. There's nothin' anyone can do. Yah wanna piece of advice? Mind yah own. Just do your”—he waved his wrinkly hand out in front of him— “dead-body thing. You'll stay busy with all the death goin' 'round.”

 

“Mind my own?” I laughed. “You think you're just gonna get me this job to keep me off your back? That I'm just gonna stand back and not help?”

 

Gramps dropped his elbow on the table, going back to his puzzle.

 

“Fine. I'll take this coffee outside and enjoy the view.” I kicked off the counter. “And I'm heading into town later. Try not to die while I'm gone.”

 

He grumbled under his whiney breath. “If yah go into town, don't take the car. Only stiff-necken snobs drive a car around here. There's a scootah in the garage.”

 

I held back a smile as I passed by him.

 

Behind the house, I walked the stone steps toward until I reached the edge of the cliff, the salty sea mist brushing my cheeks. I closed my eyes under the somber song of the crashing waves, the winds twirling in my hair as I took another sip of coffee.

 

Gramps was right. The coffee was shit.

 

When I opened my eyes again, the ocean stretched far and wide, fading into the morning. Then down below, under grey-clouded skies, where the waves crashed into rocks, was a guy.

 

In a black coat and a hood pulled over his head, he stared out into the blackish-blue ocean, all alone. Content and at peace, one arm hung off his bent knee, one leg stretched out in front of him. He stared out into the horizon as if he was seeing something so much bigger than the sea, like he wanted to be a part of it.

 

Ivory foam fizzled at his feet when the water spilled over but never touched him.

 

Nothing could touch him. 

 

I looked left then right, seeing if anyone else was out at this hour. 

 

But it was only us, gazing out into the same vast ocean, under the same smeared sky.

 

He picked up a small stone, examined it between his fingers, then chucked it into the waves. From the top of the cliff, I stepped closer, when loose rocks tumbled down the sharp drop between us.

 

He looked over his shoulder at me.

 

A black mask covered his face. Only his eyes—the same color as the silvery skies—fell over me like snow on a cold wintry night. Light and gentle. A shiver swept across my skin. 

 

Neither of us moved a muscle or said a word. 

 

He was staring at me as if I'd caught him in an intimate moment, like he was making love to the morning. Turning my eyes away felt impossible. I should've walked off, went back inside, gave him the space he came out here for. Perhaps a normal girl would have.

 

But instead, I called out to him.

 

“What are you doing down there?”

 

His hand hanging off his bent knee lifted. 

 

If he had replied, his words were washed out by the crashing waves.

 

My mouth went dry. I tried to swallow. 

 

“I'm Fallon. Fallon Morgan,” I called out, hoping he could hear me and not the nerves leaking into my voice.

 

He hung his head for a moment before peering back up at me.

 

Seconds passed in that pause, our eyes locked.

 

Then I felt myself smiling. I brushed my fingers across my lips to be sure, wondering if he was smiling too behind the mask.

 

I needed to get closer. 

 

My gaze traced the edge of the rocky cliff, looking for a way down. 

 

When I spotted one. I balanced one hand on the rocks, the other holding my mug steady, coffee spilling over the rim. Nerves skipped up my spine as I stepped down barefoot.

 

He stood tall, rubbing a stone between two fingers, watching me as I teetered on the rocks until we were on the same ground level. With every inch closer, his muscles twitched as if he might bolt from the scene at any moment, but something was keeping him rooted in place.

 

I walked around him, stepping up on the higher side of the rock.

 

“I couldn't hear you.”

 

He turned, keeping his eyes on me, watching my every move.

 

“And you took that as an invitation?”

 

Our gazes caught, and his cold eyes froze any warm thing left in me. 

 

This chill rushed from my head to the tips of my fingers.

 

I inhaled slow to control my breathing. “What's your name?”

 

His eyes flicked skyward as he faced the water again.

 

“Okay...” I sipped from my coffee, when another wave came, splashing over the rock and sweeping across my bare toes. The glacial temperatures pricked my skin like a thousand needles, but I didn't jump back. My eyes steered back to him, noticing the way his were distant, uninterested, locked on to the horizon.

 

“You always come out here in the morning?” I tried again.

 

“Not always.” He bent down and picked up a handful of stones.

 

“You like the water?”

 

His jaw clenched, a vein in his neck popping. He darted a stone far past the waves, and it skipped along the smooth surface, past the choppy whitecaps. “I despise it.”

 

“Then, why come?”

 

He chucked another stone against the water's surface. “If I tell you, will you leave?”

 

“Depends. Will you be real with me?”

 

His chin dropped, and his chest expanded before looking back up at the water through thick lashes. “You wouldn't know the difference.”

 

“True. But I'm a stranger. You have no reason to be anything but real.”

 

He finally looked at me—really looked at me. Only a few feet stood between us, but he still managed to collect my breath with the one sweep of his gaze. His eyes, dispassionate as bullets, traveled over my features with unnerving thoroughness, unearthing me, studying me, learning me.

 

Then he let go as if he'd dropped me from his arms.

 

He turned back to the ocean. “If I said... when I throw a stone, it makes a ripple, and this ripple becomes a sound wave—” he pitched another stone “—and this sound wave can cross to the other side and send a message, would that be real?”

 

“Yes.” Another wave splashed over our rock, and the foam sizzled at the toe of his boots. “Can I help?”

 

The stones popped up in his palm again. “It's a one-person job.”

 

“Well,” I started to say, looking down and around at the rock we were standing on. I bent over, placing my mug behind us. “Maybe, between the two of us, we'll reach whoever you're trying to send a message to. Plus,” I continued, balancing myself beside him again, “I'm a pretty badass stone-skipper.” I held out my palm, offering a smile. But his eyes remained distant and as lifeless as the bodies that passed over my table at the morgue back in Texas.

 

He dropped a single stone in my hand, “Let's see it.”

 

“You give me one?”

 

“Make it count.”

 

“The pressure. Okay.” I popped the stone in the air, a little too high. When I went to catch it, my foot slipped on the rock.

 

The guy snatched my arm in time, keeping me from falling into the ocean.

 

“The stones aren't toys,” he scolded.

 

His eyes darted to his hand on my arm. Then he cleared his throat, releasing his grip just as quickly. As if he'd touched something that burned him.

 

“My bad,” I whispered.

 

He straightened his shoulders. “Rookie mistake.”

 

Seagulls squawked above, interrupting us.

 

I rubbed the stone between my fingers, feeling the smooth surface, still feeling his eyes watching me, his chilling stare sliding over my body like a cold blanket of something fierce and familiar, like home. It flared goosebumps across my skin. I tried to shake it away, to focus.

 

With a flick of my wrist, I threw the rock.

 

It didn't travel far, only a few feet out, plopped into the water, and sank.

 

He cleared his throat with a nod. “You're right. That was… badass.”

 

“Hey, you!” someone shouted in the distance, making us both turn. Following the cliff's edge above, a woman was marching toward us wearing a robe and rain boots, curlers in her hair. She waved a newspaper high in the air. “I thought I told you to stay off our land!”

 

My gaze snapped to his, and he nudged his head with a crinkle in the corners of his eyes. More threats boomed from above, the woman shouting about taking his trespassing to the next Town Hall meeting as she drew closer.

 

But when I looked back at him, he was already gone.

 

 

My bedroom was on the second story with its own bathroom and views of the coastline. Wood planked the cathedral ceiling, low beams running across. A set of French doors led out onto the balcony facing the sea, a staircase curved to the ground below. After a cold shower, I took the stairs down to the detached garage. After a few tries, the garage door lifted, dust clouds ballooning out as it folded at the top. 

 

Inside, boxes lined the walls. 

 

And dead center, a white scooter was parked.

 

It hadn't been used in quite some time, the key still resting in the ignition. I ran my finger across the seat, dragging it through a layer of dust, imagining my mom last sitting there, wondering if they'd been the last time anyone's driven it.

 

After turning the key a few times, the little thing purred to life.

 

Surrounding the gazebo in Town Square were tiny shops; a bookstore called The Strange & Unusual, a post office, Hobb's Grocery, a doctor's office, The Corner Store, and The Bean coffee shop Gramps had mentioned.

 

The grim town was decorated in dull oranges, yellows, and browns as if it weren't summer. As if the town was trapped in fall. Artificial autumn leaves wrapped around the spindles of the gazebo. Hay bales and pumpkins decorated storefronts. The depressing scent of the season's decay was laced in every fierce breeze, unlike the warm and playful winds back in Texas.

 

I parked in front of Mina Mae's Diner.

 

The second I stepped inside, a dozen pair of eyes drifted in my direction.

They stared as I plucked a menu from the sleeved-pocket and slid into an empty booth beside a window. Three elderly ladies in fancy hats stared at me, lowering their voices to a whisper. I turned my attention to the menu, feeling their gazes move to the back of my neck.

 

“Let me guess,” a voice said, causing my head to pop up. “Fallon Morgan.”

 

A guy in his mid-twenties stood in front of my table, wearing beige slacks and a newsboy hat.

 

“Yeah,” I said, looking around to make sure he was talking to me, even though he'd said my name. “And you dress just like my grandfather.”

 

“Cranky ole Benny?” He sat across from me, dropping a pile of books and papers between us. “I'll take that as a compliment. You see,” he lifted a finger, “that man is a legend.”

 

My brow arched. “Is that so?” I leaned back. “How do you know my name?”

 

“Word gets around.” He lifted off his hat to reveal soft-brown, side-swept hair that curled at the ends. “I'm Milo, by the way. Where did you come in from? New York?” He was slender with soulful, honey-brown, eyes and a million stories in his smile.

 

I narrowed my eyes. “Why New York?”

 

“You stick out like a sore thumb,” he gestured to my wardrobe, “with all your fancy clothes going on here.”

 

I bit my lip, looking down at my boxy silk blouse, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “No, San Antonio,” I corrected, looking back at him.

 

“Mhm … Never would've guessed.”

 

An elderly lady approached our booth, a long grey braid hanging off one shoulder. She shrieked with her hand over her mouth, staring at me with a twinkle in her eyes.

 

“Oh-my-word. Yah Benny's granddaughtah.” The sweet-faced waitress laughed in disbelief. “I'd hug yah, but I don't wanna freak yah out.” She turned to Milo, slapping his shoulder. “Milo Andrews, give the girl some room, would yah? Can she be here more than five seconds without the paparazzi swarmin'?”

 

“No, no. He's fine,” I insisted. “It's a nice change for once, talking to someone who doesn't have a stick up their ass.”

 

“Oh, Benny?” She clicked her tongue. “Don't let that man fool yah, he's gotta heart somewhere… Deep, deep, in there.”

 

Milo flashed me a side-eye and a crooked smile. “Mina Mae and Benny go way back, if you know what I mean.” He wiggled his brows.

 

Mina slapped Milo upside the head. “Don't be spreadin' rumors, boy.”

 

“Hey, now. A good reporter only states the facts,” Milo said, palms up in defense.

 

Mina sighed, pressing her pen to the notepad. “Whatarya havin', dear?”

 

“Hotcakes on me,” Milo was fast to say. “Let me treat the flatlander.”

 

Mina flipped the pad shut and shoved it into her apron. “Fallon Morgan is no flatlander,” she hissed before leaving.

 

“That lady scares me sometimes,” Milo admitted, watching her walk away. “But she makes a damn good hotcake.”

 

After breakfast, Milo convinced me to walk with him through Town Square. Our boots hit the herringbone pavers as I tried keeping up with his long strides.

“We don't get many flatlanders. Ya know, people from away,” he said, balancing the pile of books between his arm and hip. “And forget about trying to get information from the outside world. The founders cut us off to protect us from societal manipulation.” When we reached a crossing, he paused to face me. “There's no point in trying to use your cell. Here, it's useless.”

 

He glanced left, right, then stepped off the curb to cross the street. “Still can't believe your here. It's only a matter of time…”

 

I looked both ways before catching up to him. “Matter of time for what?”

 

He stopped sudden in the middle of the road, and turned to face me. “Well, for your initiation,” he said, matter-of-factly, as if I'd asked a stupid question. He studied my confused expression. “That is why you're here, isn't it?” He cocked his head, my confusion passing to him. “You don't know?”

 

I threw my palms up at my sides. “Know what?”

 

Milo continued walking, his smile just as baffled. “It's all making sense now, the reason Tobias took you away,” he muttered to himself, but the mention of my father cracked open my chest. “Two witch covens caught in a tangled web—”

 

“Whoa—witches?” The balls of my feet burned in my ankle boots, and I gripped his bicep to slow him down. “Speak English.”

 

His tweed cap cast a shadow over half his face. “Your mother, Freya Grimaldi, chose Norse Woods Coven.” He pointed toward the woods. “But your father?” Milo's finger steered toward the sea. “He was from Sacred Sea Coven. The upper class who controls the east, all the way up to Crescent Beach. You just drove into a feud your father started before he left.” Milo patted the top of my head. “Sooner or later, you'll have to join Sacred Sea where you belong.”

 

 

Milo continued up the sidewalk, leaving me stunned still with a blank stare. He said witches, and suddenly, all of Marietta's stories came crashing down.

 

I thought they were all just bedtime stories—midnight tales.

 

Norse Woods and Sacred Sea, I hadn't heard those names in so long.

 

And yet, Weeping Hollow was real. Could all the stories be real too?

 

“Hey,” I called out, catching up to Milo, who was already ten feet ahead. “I'm not a witch. I'm just here to take care of Benny and see that he gets better. What if I don't want to be a part of any of… that?”

 

Milo's pace slowed. “I don't know, but nothing good can come of it. You belong with Sacred Sea.” His eyes dipped down to my wary ones, then his features softened. “It's a lot to take in. Let's just… forget I said anything…"

 

The fog had thickened, hovering the slick streets as we headed back to my scooter. But when we reached the crosswalk, Milo stopped, something catching his attention. I followed his gaze down the narrow road and into the fog.

 

One by one, silhouettes broke through the damp mist, walking right toward us. Four men in dark coats, worn slacks or jeans, and boots. Their faces, pinned straight ahead, were hidden and masked from the world around them. One wore a bandana, one a Halloween bunny mask, and another a plain black mask. But the one front and center wore the skull of an impala, long ash-brown horns pointing toward the clouded skies.

 

“Who are they?”

 

It came out in almost a whisper as they drew nearer.

 

Milo laid a hand on my shoulder and pulled me closer. “The last four of the five original descendants from the Norse Woods Coven. Beck, Zephyr, Phoenix—”

 

“Who is the fourth?” 

 

Less than fifteen feet away, the man in the animal skull hesitated his pace. 

 

Familiar silver eyes struck mine, steadfast and binding, holding my breath in their clutches, my gaze in its grasp.

 

“That's Julian Blackwell.”

 

Julian. The man from the rocks.

 

He ripped his gaze from mine, continuing right past us.

 

They walked with purpose. They walked with certainty.

 

They wore a shield, callous and unaffected.

 

Milo's grip tightened on my shoulder.

 

“Those are the Hollow Heathens.”