Secrets of Moldara: Moldara, #1

By Brianne Earhart

CIRCLE THE MOON AND CROSS THE TIDE

BEYOND THE WATERFALLS, PROTECTORS HIDE

LEAVE THE LAST SECRET AT THEIR DOOR

AND THEY WILL DEFEND YOU EVERMORE

The woods around Lotty's childhood home are filling up with dangerous people. Her grandmother's death has brought the family back from Chicago and triggered a secret Lotty was never meant to face alone. Guided by a desire to finally solve her Grandpa's disappearance, Lotty has enlisted the help of farm hands that are keeping their own deadly secrets. Together they will have to learn to trust again, relying on each other's will to fight, if they are going to survive the truth that waits for them all in Moldara.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Myth Machine
• Release date: Dec 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386996552

Brianne Earhart

Brianne Earhart spent most of her childhood dreaming up stories.  She would pretend there were knights and fairies living in the woods behind her house, her animals could talk to her, magic was a superpower, and that her imaginary friend really did have a house in that fallen tree across the horse trails.  Struggling with learning disabilities throughout her schooling, she was very insecure because reading was a challenge.  Her imagination and creative expression were her safe place and creating stories through works of art, her liberation. After years of self-education, she had enough confidence to trade her paintbrush for words and create The Moldara Series. Brianne Earhart loves being outdoors, creating art, all things yoga, and dark chocolate.  She lives with her husband, Tony, and their 5 kids by a lake in Northern Idaho. 

Book preview

Prologue - Trell

Trell paced the floor of his study, cell phone still in hand, his thoughts racing. The doctor had said Mable had only a few months to live; six at most, unless the cancer spread faster. As much as Trell hated the thought of his best friend’s wife dying, he knew at her age, there was nothing they could do except make her comfortable. After eight years secretly looking for Elion, she deserved to be at peace.

Had it already been that long?

The task of explaining Mable’s condition to her son, Bill, wouldn’t be a pleasant one, but as her caretaker and friend, it was the least he could do. Trell started punching in Bill’s number and stopped, suddenly wanting a few more minutes to collect his thoughts.

He knew Mable’s wishes—that Bill and his family return to the homestead in the event of her death. That meant dealing with a situation he hadn’t had to be responsible for in years.

Damn it, Trell muttered, rushing over to his writing desk and pulling out parchment. The ink stained his fingers as he uncorked the bottle and took up his quill. He still had the upper hand here, and he wanted to keep it that way.

As the quill scratched out symbols known to only him and the Sages, Trell’s mind raced with possible scenarios, strategies for protecting Elion’s secrets. His secret now, he corrected himself, while he communicated the sudden changes in his post and urgently requested orders.

The study door burst open and the quill tip broke.

Sir, Chasky panted, his usual indifference disturbingly absent. Perimeter alert. Multiple breaches.

Do we have a visual? Trell demanded, pulling out a knife to reshape his quill. Most of the time, the motion sensors were set off by animals and other forest life.

Chasky held up a tablet with a still image of three figures leading horses.

Those are not Sages, Trell said, hearing how ludicrous that observation was as it left his lips. It was mid-February, months away from the summer solstice. And no one on a higher learning sabbatical traveled with so many weapons and that much gear. This was no friendly delegation waiting for him to integrate them into this world’s culture.

Not Sages, Chasky agreed.

Trell set his quill down, covered the half-finished letter, and darted out of the room, Chasky on his heels.

In the surveillance room, Trell found every camera pointed at the gateway paused on a single image. He checked the time stamp and rewound the video several times to be sure of what he was seeing. Any hope that they might be Sages crumbled as he zoomed in on shadows of three large birds that followed the mysterious horsemen.

Trell’s blood boiled and he couldn’t help an absent-minded brush of the iridescent lines that ran up his neck. His shoulder still bore the scars of the first giant eagle he’d destroyed. All the trouble he’d gone to exterminating those cold-blooded killers, and there were three more flying out of the cave in broad daylight.

They have a five-minute lead on us at most, Chasky said, tossing him a radio.

Bring the Defender around front. I’ll get the guns, Trell ordered, catching the radio midair.

Yes, sir, Chasky said, disappearing.

Trell ran to the dusty armory that had once been an extra pantry. He passed the almost forgotten swords and various other weapons in the corner, reaching instead for two shotguns and a smaller handgun to strap to his belt. He hadn’t carried a blade in years, and that was fine by him.

His wife’s voice rang out from down the hall. Body armor!

Grateful for such a sharp woman, he finished filling a bag with ammo and grabbed the vest hanging behind the door.

High-powered binoculars in hand, he raced out the door and met Chasky around the back of the European-styled manor. The old Land Rover pulled up to the barn, and Trell jumped into the passenger seat.

As Chasky slammed the vehicle into gear, Trell noticed that the other man was also wearing body armor. He nodded in approval, the gray in his bodyguard’s hair suddenly more pronounced as the two men barreled into the forest.

Do you want to try scaring them off with the vehicle? Chasky asked as he wound through the trees.

Get close enough that I can make the rest of the trip on foot, but stay nearby. If they want a fight, you’re my backup. Trell slid shells into the shot gun and chambered the first round.

Understood.

They kept the path clear of debris, but years of use didn’t soften the potholes and rocks that emerged with each rainfall. Spring runoff had swelled the few streams they crossed, but it was hardly an obstacle worthy of the Defender’s snorkel. Mud splashed the windshield, and Trell had to brace himself against the seat. Chasky kept both hands on the wheel, making a hard right turn. He stopped just below the ridge line of the next hill.

Keep this ready. Trell handed over one of the shotguns. I’m keeping the one-way mic on channel three so you’ll hear my signal. Don’t hold back or hesitate.

My favorite part. Chasky grinned. Fifty bucks says one of them wets himself.

If this is that easy, I’ll double it. Trell’s stomach tightened as he remembered the videos. Something about this group was different. Keep your eyes open. I don’t want any other surprises today.

Chasky saluted and Trell exited the SUV. He clicked the safeties off his guns as he ran for the hilltop. At the crest, Trell scanned the area from behind a thick stand of saplings. Sure enough, in front of the opening of the cave were the three men, consulting a parchment. Trell aimed the military grade binoculars at the man holding the map and took in every tiny detail.

The stranger clutched the reins of a roan stallion that danced behind him, its ears swiveling in an effort to pinpoint the location and threat level of the Defender. With a gloved hand, the man passed control of the steed to one of his companions and shielded his eyes to check the position of the sun, raking dark wavy hair in frustration as he directed his attention back to the map.

A fur-lined hooded cloak hung open at his shoulders, revealing two long blades hanging at his waist. The crossbow, slung over the far shoulder, dropped to his boots as he examined the map closely. And those were only the weapons Trell could see.

The other two men, each standing to either side of the map holder, were identically clothed and armed, which made it impossible to pinpoint the leader. Their body language was also deceptive. One didn’t yield to the other in any way that gave up clues as to a hierarchy.

Trell noted the high cheekbones and narrow green eyes of the leaner man on the map holder’s right. He held the reins of a black gelding and moved like a coiled spring, his gestures animated. The third man was the tallest and had the bulk of a linebacker. He had amber eyes and warm brown skin and held the reins of a paint mare. He reached back to the roan stallion, and at his touch, the animal stopped snorting and pulling.

The clear, distinct color of their irises, like jewels floating in the milk of their eyes, banished any hope that these were lost backwoods-men from this world. Yet in all his years of watching the entrance, Trell had never seen friend or foe come through the cavern in such gear, and never ones so young. They were nineteen, maybe twenty years old, and were already surveying the clearing like seasoned generals. Taking a calming breath, Trell straightened his shoulders and started down the hill in full view of the trespassers.

The map disappeared as all eyes turned to him. The sound of metal pulled from scabbards rang through the air. Trell counted two daggers and one long sword, but he didn’t stop until he was twenty feet away. With no way of knowing the deadly force he was packing, the men held their ground.

You’re lost. Turn around, head back through the caves, and no one dies, Trell ordered calmly.

That’s a strange request coming from an unarmed man, the tall one with amber eyes commented. Trell hadn’t heard that thick of an accent in years.

It’s not a request, Trell countered. It’s your only warning.

We’re happy to go back, as soon as we get what we came for, the green-eyed man challenged in the same accent.

And what would that be? Trell demanded, hoping Chasky was hearing every word through the radio at his hip. He ignored the sweat soaking his under shirt. His finger found the trigger of the shotgun.

The men hesitated, looking to each other as if unsure of what to say. The blue-eyed man in the center measured Trell, sizing him up before he finally spoke.

The blood call has been answered. We come for the last secret.

Behind him, Trell heard the Defender’s engine rev. The blacked-out, jacked up, monster-vehicle burst over the hill, catching air before crashing down in a cloud of debris and dirt. Skidding to a stop behind Trell, Chasky threw the switch and sent a half dozen flaming exhausts in a final display of intimidation.

Trell hadn’t given him the signal, but Chasky couldn’t be blamed for reacting to those words that way. He’d never known anyone who dared to speak them aloud. Now there was no way they could let them leave the clearing alive.

The roar of the temporary inferno choked out, and the screams of the horses filled the air. The poor animals were near blind with fear, frantically pulling away from their handlers. Just when Trell thought they were about to break loose and disappear into the trees, the man who’d soothed them earlier shouted a command. The horses calmed immediately, allowing the man to gather them until their noses touched. He turned his back to Trell, and his companions stepped in front of him protectively, their faces unreadable, blue and green eyes cold.

That’s not how we expected to see our first motor carriage, Blue Eyes said, his sword going to a defensive position as his courage returned. So, I’m starting to think you have the wrong impression of us. That could be a problem for you.

You condemned yourselves when you spoke the forbidden words, Trell explained solemnly as he took aim.

Suddenly, blue-gray feathers burst out of the cave behind the horses; the giant eagle swooped down and across Trell’s line of sight. He pulled the trigger. A crack pierced the air, and the thirty-pound bird dropped between them, wings still twitching.

Trusting Chasky would cover him, Trell went to the dying creature. An examination of the beast’s body revealed that he’d nearly blown off one wing. But the kill belonged to the dagger lodged deep in the bird’s chest, demonstrating a level of skill and ruthlessness that made Trell’s choice of gun irrelevant. As Blue Eyes stepped forward to reclaim his weapon, Trell ripped off the leather strap holding the half-stone around the bird’s neck and tossed the crystal onto the nearest rock. The butt of his rifle smashed it to pieces.

As he stood to face the men he’d so grossly underestimated, Trell thought of his wife, the warmth in her eyes as she had hummed her favorite song over breakfast, of how that might be their last one together.

The green-eyed young man was clearly struggling to regain his composure, his gaze moving from the dead eagle to the remains of the crystal. You’re Trell? His sword wielding friend gave him a warning glance, but he ignored it, his attention on the shotgun in Trell’s hands. Soren should have warned us about you.

Those are not names I would use lightly if I were you, Trell answered, lifting the shotgun again and cocking it as he took aim at Blue Eyes. All three men immediately lowered their weapons and took a step back. Only two people in the world could have given them his name, and Trell was sure one of them was dead.

That’s why we spent the last five years earning the right to speak them, Blue Eyes explained, his voice echoing the determination Trell saw in all their faces. We know the oaths that bind their users, and we swore them willingly. We do not use them lightly now. Very slowly, Blue Eyes lifted his hands to the neck of his tunic and withdrew a chain. The large ring on the end glinted in the sunlight as he lifted it over his head and offered it to Trell. On our lives, we are here to see this through till the very end.

Trell motioned for the man to toss his proof to him and caught it with his free hand. As he studied the object, he couldn’t help glancing between the ring and the young man standing before him. If it was real, if they were who this ring said they were, then not only had Trell threatened an extremely powerful family, he’d nearly killed invaluable messengers. No, it was worse. They had come speaking the words that would start a war.

I was told you were an ally. Does that still stand, or has this land changed you? Blue Eyes pressed.

My allegiance has always been true, Trell blurted out defensively. Had it been so long that those on the other side didn’t know where he stood anymore? Had his silence been mistaken for something else? He wasn’t about to let possible thieves get past him so easily. And I’m going to need more than words and a trinket to believe you.

I fully understand, the man stated. Under the circumstances, I would expect nothing less.

Trell tossed back the chain holding the ring. The man slid it around his neck, tucking it back under his tunic. Then he looked Trell in the eyes and said, How’s Mable’s health?

Trell stiffened. How do you know about Mable?

A mutual friend said you would be skeptical of us, the man with the amber eyes added with a strangely familiar shrug. He wanted to make it clear we are on the same side.

If there was one thing Trell knew for sure in this world, it was that Elion hadn’t told anyone beyond the gateway, not the Sages, or Soren—no one—of Mable’s existence. Her name was as good as having Elion vouching for them. Was this part of one of his friend’s old schemes, or did he dare to hope for more?

I want all your weapons in a pile in front of you. Now! Trell commanded. The men exchanged looks of disgust. But once Blue Eyes tossed down his sword, the other two followed suit. Trell counted twenty blades hidden on each of them as the pile grew to an absurd height. No wonder they hadn’t scared easily; they were trained throwers. Any one of them could have put a dagger in his throat before he got off a shot. Except for scaring the horses, there had never been a chance of Trell doing much damage before they took him down. They had let him feel in control until they could get him to listen.

Chasky, Trell called out without looking behind him. Put your gun away and call my wife. She’s going to want to know that guests are on their way.

Trell lowered his gun, holding his hand out as an offering. Blue eyes stepped forward and took it.

I’m Roah, he announced confidently and gestured to the shorter of the two men beside him. This is Tregr.

Trell shook his hand, noting the green eyes and unique scars on his neck.

Roah turned to his amber-eyed companion. And this is Daggon. Both men are just as skilled and dedicated to seeing this through as I am.

Trell hesitated before stepping forward. Daggon. That name was all too familiar to him.

Daggon handed the horses’ leads to Roah and avoided Trell’s face as he extended his hand, oddly nervous.

Without taking his eyes off Daggon, he addressed the group.

And as long as you keep your oaths, I will do all I can to assist you, Trell offered, a thrill of pride surging through him for the first time in years. Welcome to Virginia.

Chapter 1

I pressed my back up against the barrier and exhaled with gritted teeth. Despite the half dozen towers standing between me and my target, I knew where he was hiding. The bow gripped firmly in my left hand was a natural extension of my arm; I commanded it as easily as my breath. My three remaining arrows were laced between the fingers of my right hand. I notched the first and pulled the string back.

Wait, I told myself. I had to time this just right. He was the only one left standing, and it was up to me to finish it.

I darted out from behind the wall and fired, missing him. My movement triggered my opponent’s next attack, and his arrow released wildly. It struck the wall just above my head. I dropped to the dirt, the old twinge in my shoulder reminding me to get back on the offensive before I was a pincushion again. I counted as I exhaled, slowing my breathing as I replayed his attack in my head. A pattern emerged. I grinned and notched the second arrow.

I heard him move behind the barrels to my right, creeping closer.

My bow whipped around the corner, my second shot acting as a decoy. The bolt deflected off the tower to his left. I loaded my third and final arrow, waiting.

He peered around a tree, arrow ready. Emboldened, he took a step to cross the worn path at his feet. But he was too slow. My final shot landed square in his chest. Shock and defeat crumpled his face as I stepped out into the afternoon sun. The pain of his defeat brought him to his knees. He raised his bow in one hand, my puffy, felt-tipped arrow in the other.

And number 16, Lotty Anderson, wins the Dodgebow division for the Chicago Gold team, the announcer blared through the speakers. That puts them in first, with the Montreal Marvels second, Milwaukee’s Best third, leaving the Chicago Reds fourth.

The voice melted into the sounds of the crowd as I made my way to the next staging area. Congratulations came from spectators, other competitors, and teammates. I only nodded in response. I had to stay focused and find my cousin Tyler.

You made me look bad! Tyler’s voice carried clearly over the crowd. I should’ve known you’d outlast me.

The platinum ends of his messy brown hair were an easy beacon to follow as I jogged up to him. He tossed a water bottle. I caught it and drank deeply.

Hey, someone had to stay in and show them how it’s done. You had some good hits though, I added between swallows.

I’m surprised you had time to notice. Tyler flashed the easy grin I’d loved since we were kids. It disappeared into his sweaty face as he looked at his phone, then scanned the field. But we’ll have to celebrate later. They’re already lining up for the last event. Strip your gear as we walk. You’re out of time.

Tyler grabbed my compound bow and slung my duffle bag of gear over one shoulder. A six-foot-tall hulk of a guy with brawny shoulders, my cousin easily parted a sea of people as he blazed a trail to the next field. While I jogged to match Tyler’s long strides, I pulled my helmet off and shoved it into the duffle bag. The goggles came off next. Velcro straps protested as I removed the protective vest. I traded it for the gold vest with my number on it, sliding my arms through and fastening it in place. Lastly, I shook out my dishwater-blond hair and finger combed it into a long ponytail.

Two years ago, Tyler had talked me into joining his college archery team. I didn’t hesitate. Not only did I get to spend time with Tyler, who was more like an older brother than a cousin, but I got to practice Dodgebow. I thrived in that division. Maybe it had something to do with the thrill of the chase, or outthinking an opponent on their feet, or the fast pace of all the chaos on the battlefield, or that it felt similar to the type of archery I’d practiced with my grandpa Elion, when I was younger. Whatever it was, I loved it. And I was sure if it wasn’t for my swift moves there, I would never have been accepted into this private club.

You’re first, Tyler said, his voice breaking through my thoughts as we walked behind the challenger's line looking for my place. Blake’s fourth, so it’s not all on your shoulders, but this will need to be some of your best shooting today.

Are you sure you can’t do this one? I grumbled.

Would if I could, but you and Blake are the ones with the required points, not me. Just stay out of your head, and you’ll be fine.

My only response was a sigh and an eye roll.

We stopped at the line with the number 16. The announcer’s voice blared through the muggy, June afternoon air, but I wasn’t paying attention. It didn’t seem to matter how much I practiced. I’d always felt more comfortable expressing myself as part of a team. For exactly this reason, soccer was my chosen sport in the off-seasons. No one person could win or lose a game as part of a team. I was never left alone to sink or swim; someone always had my back. And all the practice sessions I did on my own had yet to prepare me for the mind-blanking panic of solo competitions.

Deep breaths, Lotty, Tyler commanded, rubbing my tense shoulders as if to remold my posture to match his. You’ve got this. Just remember to focus on the bow in your hand and the target in front of you. And if that doesn’t help, just give me a nod and I’ll aim an arrow at you. That seems to bring out your best moves.

Deal. I grimaced as I strung my custom-made long bow. Jerk.

I needed my competitive mask if I was going to defend our team’s first place ranking. I tried to push down the dozens of pleas from my teammates that I not choke.

It’s time. Go get ’em, kid, he cheered, heading in the direction of the rest of our team.

The announcer quickly reviewed the rules and then introduced the order of the contestants. First finalist, Number 16, Lotty Anderson. Shooter, take your mark. The words echoed off the bleachers and assaulted my ears.

I stepped forward, trying to ignore the bustle of the crowd, the glare of the sun, and the accelerated throbbing of my pulse. Instead, I concentrated on the flex of the wood in my bow and the sharpness of the string between my fingers. The red in the center of the target called to me.

I notched a steel-tipped arrow and took a deep breath. Checking every inch of my stance, I tested the air to see if the slight breeze I’d felt earlier had returned. When I was positive all was calm, I pulled the string back. It cut into my fingers as I steadied the arrow.

The crowd fell silent, and I was suddenly aware of hundreds of eyes watching my every move. Make some noise, I thought. The Montreal Marvels were a close second, and every point could mean the difference between winning or letting my team down. A slight tremor shook through my bow hand, and I felt sweat on my fingers. The string started to slip.

Before I could stop it, the arrow was loosed. It sailed through the air, and the groan of the crowd told me what I already knew. I’d missed the point circle completely. The fletched end waved at me from the corner of the target stand, and I swallowed the lump in my throat.

The announcer recounted what points were needed for Chicago Gold—for me—to keep my team’s first place spot. I shook off the fail and quickly reloaded for my final shot. I was determined to make this one.

Taking Tyler’s advice to think less, I got into place. A steading breath only tightened the knot in my stomach. Taking aim at the red circle in the middle of the bull’s-eye, I released.

Everything slowed as a gust of wind pulled hair across my face. I saw the moment the current caught the arrow and pushed it off course, carrying it into the outermost ring of the center circle. It was only when I exhaled in disappointment that I realized I’d been holding my breath.

Second place.

I exchanged conciliatory pats on the back and vows of we’ll get them next time with my Chicago Gold teammates. The crowd thinned as the stands cleared, and I made my way to where Tyler was sitting, his back to me.

Well, I still froze. Good thing Blake was on a hot streak today, or we would’ve come in third. But, hey, at least I hit the target this time! I slumped onto the bench next to him as I loosened the buckles linking my custom leather hand guard to the matching wrist cuff. My fingers lingered over their shared symbol: a hand-tooled emblem from my first bow. On the second pass, I realized Tyler hadn’t responded. Hey, I said at least I hit the target this time. Did you miss it?

My cousin finally looked up from the phone he was white knuckling. Grandma Mable’s in the hospital.

What? Why? I just called her the other day. She was fine. Better than fine. She was her usual cheery self. We were making plans for her visit this summer.

I just got off the phone with Mom. Doctors say the cancer’s spread. They don’t know how much time she has. Maybe only a couple weeks.

No, I gasped, shaking my head as my chest tightened.

Dad’s already left for Virginia. Mom said they’ve decided to push up the move before she gets worse. They need us home to help pack. And Grandma was asking for you. She needs to talk to you as soon as possible, something about Grandpa Elion.

Chapter 2

The sun was sinking in the late July sky, slowly disappearing behind the Appalachian Mountains, when I finally turned down a long, tree-lined driveway. Hearing the familiar crunch of gravel beneath my tires, I rolled down the window and breathed in the scent of fresh-cut maple.

The sunset cast long shadows as I approached the front of the old Victorian plantation house; the blue siding turned gray in the fading light. I knew what would greet me inside. Even the roses my grandma had pruned every morning looked unchanged in my eight-year absence. My grandpa had been gone so long that my memories of him had started to fade, and now Grandma was gone too.

Putting my Wagoneer in park, my stomach lurched. As I released the steering wheel, the cuff on my left wrist caught my eye, and my fingers found the familiar pattern embossed in the leather. I traced the lines in the order I’d been taught to draw them. The words of a poem, written by my grandpa, filled my head:

Circle the moon and cross the tide

Beyond the waterfalls, protectors hide

Leave the last secret at their door

And they will defend you evermore

Grandpa’s made-up stories always left out what the Last Secret was, and every time I’d badgered him for clues, it was suddenly past my bedtime. I’d soon learned that to keep him talking, I had to ask about the so-called protectors, his version of action heroes who guarded a magical realm’s most valuable treasure. Only the most trustworthy and experienced were allowed to volunteer for the task, but he always hinted at a young protector who had defied all the rules to train in secret. In my childhood romps through the forest, I’d pretended it was me.

My cell phone rang and I jumped, knocking my knee on the steering wheel. After willing my heart to slow, I answered it, thankful for the lifeline back to reality.

Hello, I said, knowing my uncle would be on the other end.

Lotty, it’s Bill.

Hi, Uncle Bill. Where are you guys? I thought you were right behind me, I said, feigning innocence, hoping they weren’t about to pull into the driveway. I’d been planning this early arrival for days.

Your aunt wanted to stop and pick up a few groceries for the house. She’s still shopping, so we’ll be late.

That’s fine, I said, trying to hide my relief. I loved my aunt and uncle, and I knew they meant well, but I needed to face this reunion with my past on my terms, without well-meaning adults hovering over me.

I just got off the phone with the vet, Bill continued. Looks like Charlemagne is on the mend. Nasty bout of colic for the old guy. We’re lucky Trell and his nephews found that moldy hay before it was too late. He said they walked that poor horse day and night until the worst was past. Anyways, you must’ve just missed them ’cause they said he’s good for the night.

I’m so relieved to hear that. I grabbed my stable boots from the passenger side of the Wagoneer. I slid off my flip-flops and pulled them on, in spite of the steering wheel.

We all were, but I know Charlemagne will enjoy his recovery more with you around now. I gave you a key to the house, right?

Yup, I replied automatically before turning the conversation back to the horse’s health. So, he’s going to be fine? You’re sure?

Yes. The vet said so himself. But Lotty, no running off to the stables before you’ve gotten yourself settled. This move has taken a lot out of all of us, and this will be a difficult return for you especially. It’s okay to go slowly, give yourself time to adjust.

Yeah, of course, I assured him, but I didn’t put my sandals back on. Tyler would never forgive me if I didn’t check on Charlemagne before I did anything else.

How was the drive?

Fine, I sighed, playing with the frayed denim of my shorts. There isn’t much traffic coming into Lexington. Not compared to Chicago.

True. Thank goodness for that. Uncle Bill sighed, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

In April, after Grandma told us she had cancer, finalizing her last will had been her highest priority. She had wanted us to love and enjoy her Virginia home after she was gone—her way of still being with us, she’d said. None of us had guessed we’d be moving so soon.

Well, Karen will be relieved to know you’re there, safe. There was a pause in the conversation, and I heard Aunt Karen say something I couldn’t understand. Then Uncle Bill added, Could you check on Brandy when you get a minute? Trell and his boys say she’s been an angel, but that animal spooks so easily. It’s more likely she’s coming down with something else we’ll have to deal with.

I couldn’t help a groan. You know how Brandy is with anyone who isn’t Karen.

I know. Just do what you can. We’ll be there soon.

No rush. See you when you get here.

When the line went dead, I shoved the phone back in my pocket. I guessed I had one precious hour to myself, give or take. That would have to be enough.

I stepped out of the overloaded Wagoneer and marched toward my childhood home.

Technically, I was adopted…sort of. I had no memory of my parents, just my Grandpa Elion, who’d taken me in when I was two, and the woman he married later, my Grandma Mable. The scars down the right side of my neck and shoulder, my arm, and my right side were my only link to the people who had died in the house fire that had nearly killed me too. And they were just people to me. My grandparents had given me so much love that even when they had explained where my scars had come from, it hadn’t bothered me.

The three of us had eight wonderful years together, until my grandpa’s disappearance on my tenth birthday. The resulting manhunt consumed the entire state but failed to produce my grandpa or his body. I’d been convinced that something—or someone—had taken him. It was the beginning of a very dark period for me.

Grandma Mable hadn’t been able to handle a grieving kid. Her son Bill and his wife Karen had offered to take me in, promising I’d get to go back when things got better. Grandma had come up with one excuse or another, sometimes just outright refusing to let me come home. I hadn’t been back since.

Now as a seventeen-year-old, with years of therapy under my belt, I knew Grandma was just trying to help me cope with a loss that had devastated us both. I could look anyone in the eye and say that I knew he was dead. I couldn’t lie convincingly to my uncle about staying up all night binging on my favorite show, or make my teachers swallow my late paper excuses, but I could lie to anyone about my grandpa and make them believe it. I had to. You can only tell a therapist that the bad guys from your bedtime stories took your grandpa for so long before they start talking about sending you to an institution for a year. And as I grew up, I realized that I’d been obsessed with a fantasy.

The conflict of my grandma’s last days swelled inside me, pushing at the wall I’d constructed around my heart. Grandma had asked for me over the phone, had said there were things she needed to tell me about Grandpa, things she wasn’t supposed to tell me until I was older. When I’d finally called her back later that evening, she’d already slipped into a coma. Mable had died a few days later, and we never got to have that talk. Knowing that she had something of my grandpa’s to pass on, be it a message or something tangible, had made her death even more painful. Whatever it was, I wanted time to discover it on my own.

I stepped up onto the large wraparound porch, swallowing the lump in my throat. Walking on the old, creaky wood erased the years. I was a child again, coming home. With a trembling hand, I grabbed the ornate brass knob on the oversized front door. I knew what was behind the door—a formal parlor, classical dining room, a country kitchen, antique-styled bedrooms, and Grandpa’s forbidden study, all waiting for his return, as Grandma Mable had insisted.

My breaths came in short gasps; I couldn’t make myself turn the knob. The thought