Prologue

And they know we’re coming for them.

A decade has passed since Rose and her sisters emerged from Wyrd Mountain as Death, Fate, and Fortune, and now, there’s a rumbling in the dark. We can feel it. The Numina can sense a disturbance in the threads. The Sun and Moon say it echoes like the plucked chord of a harp. Even I can hear the low vibration running through the strings that connect humans and faeries to their luck and destiny.

Fearing extinction, one of the witches has cast this growing darkness, spreading an unnatural disease that’s crept from the bogeyman’s very shadows. A contagion—one that spreads like wildfire. Entire villages have been struck down with a moldy blackness that crawls through the streets, blooming through blood, and consuming the hosts’ hearts.

With the help of her husband, and some of Sparrow and Rush’s flock, Hazel has been searching for a cure. Though the practice of the Healers is once again alive and well, even the former Elder Mother has yet to heal the toxic gloom we now call the Stygian Brume.

The disease affects some faeries in radically different ways. The Pooka, those that still run rampant, escaping our clutches, are changing. For the last five years, these unchained prophets have become contorted, sick monsters. No longer do they appear in the forms of animals and deliver cryptic messages. Instead, these corrupt monstrosities, which we now call Phouka, have become shifting beasts with too many limbs or too many eyes—masses of pure, contaminated chaos. And even though Rose and I have help from some of our nieces and nephews, the Phouka are trickier now, and it seems they’ve multiplied since the Brume arrived.

Worst of all, this sickness is affecting The Numina as well. The threads from Fortune’s spinning wheel are corroded with darkness, the tapestry of life tinged with black. Even the watery visions of the future in Time’s pools are now cloudy. Everything is being polluted by the Stygian epidemic in one way or another. Poppy and Posy are the only Numina who’ve been rendered physically ill and feverish. We don’t understand how or when this infection slipped into their veins, but because of it, the sisters are blind to what’s coming next. Years ago, Poppy foresaw some uncertain times, but those paths of chance were hazy and none of us thought anything of them. That is, until a wall of roiling witchcraft, carrying the Stygian Brume, flooded the world. It was sudden. We didn’t have time to prepare, and now war is nigh. The witches must die.

Since bogeymen have no threads of luck or destiny tying them to the tapestry, The Sun and Moon must peer beneath the web, searching for crumbs of information. This is how we know that there’s only three witches left to find. But crumbs are not enough, and all three bogeys’ identities and locations remain a mystery.

As Rose’s familiar and partner, I’ve been sent out in search of these malicious women. While we both listen to the shadows for whispers of the Phouka, most days I’m following any trace of the witches I can find. My Lady Death has entrusted me with discovering the poisonous source of the Stygian Brume while she continues to ferry the ailing folk, those who accept her welcoming hand, guiding them to eternal rest in the After.

Sometimes I’m so weary with exhaustion from my pursuit that I lose track of time, but Rose is my person, my Dark Angel, and I would follow her to Purgatory and back. I would do anything she asked of me. And I always come back to her, no matter how arduous the hunt. Even lost with dirty, red sap-stained hands, and bitter breath oozing from my tongue, I return to her. I always will.

“Come to me.”

That soft, silken voice plagues my mind, so I follow it, like a length of white-flowered ribbon, deep into the forest.

Growing up, Mom and Dad always warned us changeling children not to run with sharp objects, but now, creeping through dead leaves with my siblings breathing down my neck, I nearly stab my own leg. Twice.

Kestrel is the first to knock into me while wading through the forest. The jostle causes the knife in my grip to almost graze my thigh. Robin bumps my elbow after I switch the small, salt-annealed blade to my other hand, and the flat metal hits my knee as the three of us find cover behind a craggy boulder.

“Sorry, Swan.” Robin winces, whisper quieter than a breeze.

I hush my littlest sister with a numb finger to my lips and she rolls her shoulders inwards, folding in on herself as we listen. Guilt coats the back of my throat. Robin didn’t mean any harm, and her voice hasn’t endangered us. Hopefully… Tucking the sable waves that fall over the side of her face, I brush away her meekness with a quiet smile. Cautious confidence renewed, Robin straightens to look at Kestrel. He shifts to peer over the rock, crushing my foot with his heel as his silver gaze searches. My desensitized toes and I have become used to his blunders over the sixteen years he’s been alive. So, I just tap my brother’s calf until he moves. When he does, the bow and quiver of arrows strapped to him whack me in the back of the head. Robin, also familiar with Kestrel’s clumsiness, shuffles to the side, giving me room to escape as we wait.

My fingers still wrapped around my throwing knife are buzzing, my skin hot as the nerves inside my hands burn. I stash the weapon amongst its twelve identical siblings at my hip before shaking out my damaged extremities, trying to ease the prickling fire ant pain. I’m gently blowing on my palms and the redness blooming over them, when Robin pokes my arm. A small translucent parchment bag sits in her hand. The misshapen clusters inside the package are aplenty, and I can already smell the candied sunflower seeds. They’re laced with caramelized sugar and pickings from the golden flowers the gnomes collect in Robin’s magic-grown garden.

“I made them for you this morning.” Robin leans into me as she uses a hand signed language to communicate wordlessly. “I was making sweets to keep Starling’s sugars up and figured you’d want a dose of your own.”

While I may not have a disorder of the blood like our brother, I do have a disorder of the mind. Robin grows vibrant fruits and flowers with her gift, and she says that certain plants have properties that help people like me—people whose minds are more susceptible to unprovoked depression. But sunflowers have always been my favorite and the most effective. Plus, it keeps me out of the dissociative mental attic space I tend to slip into throughout the day for longer. Taking the homemade sweets from Robin and being careful not to let the parchment crinkle, I fish out two vanilla-speckled pieces. A sunflower cluster gets tucked in my cheek before I offer my sister the other. Robin’s grin is rosy as she pops the candied seeds in her mouth.

I squirrel the bag away in my cloak, about to reground myself in the task at hand when I’m met with Kestrel’s fake, affronted expression. My brother pouts further when I mimic his deepening dramatic frown. His eyes widen, and he thrusts his hand out as if to ask, “Candy, please? Candy for the weary, needy boy?” I don’t relent. I’m the eldest child, which means messing with my brother, even for a few precious moments, is necessary. Kestrel’s mouth quivers, brows about to curl into swoops when a high keening sound rumbles through the forest, making us all freeze.

Kestrel’s eyes flash in the watery rays of sun bleeding through the sparse canopy of trees above us, searching for the source of the noise. This was what we were waiting in silence for. The three of us treat the haunting sound like a trail of breadcrumbs and work in practiced tandem to hunt down our target. I cue Robin west and Kestrel east. My sister breaks away first, heading farther into the autumn forest, the waning gold light glinting over her silver charm bracelet as she disappears.

Much like our grandparents, Kestrel hunches over and lumbers away in his heavy boots. The crunch of crisp crimson and copper leaves under his troll-like steps makes me want to hang my head. You would think two years of tracking down shadow beasts would mean he’d mastered the art of silence. But alas, Kestrel is all long, sturdy limbs and no grace. I love my brother; he’s my best friend, but I swear to The Sun and Moon, his lack of coordination will be the death of us someday.

Advancing north alone allows me to be stealthy, focusing on making my leather-soled feet glide over the dying foliage. If only I were half-goblin like my dad. Concealing myself would certainly come in handy right now—my internal wish falls flat when a familiar trill rings out. It fills the air with a bird song that sends my heart thumping. Robin’s projecting whistle shakes a few leaves from the towering tree above me, but I’m heading northeast before they hit the ground. Our godmother composed this call, a signal she implemented once us kids first left the glade and the haven of its perimeter. The tune is only whistled if we’re separated, or there’s danger nearby. Though we primarily use it when Robin joins Kestrel and me on these quiet jobs. Hazel’s song ensures her Healer-in-training always stays safe. But right now, her someday Healer is a hunter, and she has found our prey.

With featherlight strides, I race through the forest, everything a blur of fiery color. I whip past trees and hurdle over logs, pumping my arms in rhythm with my heartbeat. A poem about sprouting wings takes flight in my mind, urging me faster as a recognizable pattern of footfalls comes up on my right. Kestrel and I share the barest nod, and we hear the whistle again. It’s close but a bit more east. We adjust our course, barreling on until we discover a path of what looks like soot streaking the leaves ahead. And I know the corrosion coating them isn’t ash. It’s darkness and decay.

Slowing to a hushed crawl, my brother and I find cover behind a large elm tree. Robin is nowhere in sight. Hopefully she’s scurried up a tree for higher ground, like I taught her. The Phouka, however, is here, and it’s monstrous. A thing of pure pitch-black nightmares. This ebony faerie might’ve been a fox once, but now the lanky, infected creature is grotesque and tripled in size. Its legs are longer than they should be, crooked and spider-like, a broken shape that causes its head to hang between its shoulders like a loping wolf. But worse than the needle teeth protruding from its muzzle are its seven garnet eyes, all narrowed and seeking. Three smoky tails sweep from it to drag over the ground as it searches, and I now understand where the trail of rot came from.

“Oh, this one is hideous,” Kestrel mouths, chest rapidly rising and falling as he catches his breath.

Scanning the branches above for Robin one last time, I nod as we watch the shadow beast from about a hundred feet away. Pookas were never evil-touched bogeymen. When Uncle Grim was a Pooka, he wasn’t affected by the purifying sun, and no elder tree or ring of salt would’ve kept him out of the glade. Although now salt does affect the witchcraft-infected Phouka, but sunlight does not. Uncle Grim’s theory is that the old framework, of what the Pooka were, allows them to still wander in daylight. Like the one before us. It’s rooting around in the magic hour-dappled leaves, foraging with its toothy snout.

Its choked snuffling will be a sound that haunts me tonight.

“It’s your turn,” I sign to Kestrel. “Go get it.” He clings to the bark of the elm with a wrinkle in his upturned nose as I give his shoulder an encouraging pat.

Kestrel turns with a look that reminds me of summertime and pumpkin guts. Specifically, the day Mom told Dad it was his turn to scatter the musty compost in the garden to prepare the beds for gourd season. And yesterday, when we carved the pumpkins we’d grown and relieved them of their slimy guts in preparation for Hallowtide in two days.

“You go get it. You’re older,” Kestrel retorts with a revolted grimace chiseled deep into his face. Much like the will-o’-the-wisp lanterns sitting on our porch, waiting to be lit when night falls in a few hours.

“By a year. Anyway, you’re bigger.” The barest teasing hint tugs at my lips. “Take out one of Auntie Rose’s special arrows strapped to your back and trap it.” With a scooping hand, I gesture toward the curved elder bow clinging to his back, then toward the Phouka. We peek at the monster in time to hear a hiss of satisfaction before it pulls a squeaking rodent from the cover of brittle leaves. The Phouka whips the tiny animal into the air before it catches it…with its jaws. The crunch that comes afterward makes me wince.

Poor little mouse and its little mouse family, it will be missed.

Kestrel’s mouth is agape as he signs an echoing fraction of my thoughts, “Poor little mouse.”

Yeah, my brother and I definitely spend too much time together.

He rolls his eyes when I jostle his shoulder. “Technically, Swan, this bow and these arrows are yours. I am but a mere walking arsenal.” He glances back at the Phouka enjoying its supper and shudders. Kestrel places a broad palm on his chest as he gawps at me, a suppressed smile making his face twitch as he signs again, “Besides, you know I’m a pacifist.”

“You have literal magic perfect for hunting.” My expression is deadpan as I tug at the shell of his slightly scalloped ear, recalling hours of Dad’s lessons and years of frustrating target practice. Kestrel sat on a stump and just watched for months on end. He never needed any training because his changeling gift ensures he can never miss, no matter what he’s armed with or what his target is. And while I’ve envied our dad’s concealing ability, I’ve wished harder to have a gift like my siblings. Despite the troll-charmed elder twigs nestled in all six of our chests, just like our mother, I am the only one without a magic gift. Even Crow, at ten years old, the youngest of us all, has had his gift since he could crawl. The torturous thought of being the blackbird of the family makes me queasy. “You could be blindfolded and still pin that thing.” Distracted by my brother and pitiful nausea, I relax the clench of my jaw and sign with the airy softness of a moth’s wing, “Use your gift, Kestrel; you’re lucky to have one.”

His face drops, and the sharp, play-fighting expression melts away at my unspoken words.

Despite my giftlessness, I am skilled with weapons of the pointy variety. Auntie Rose and Uncle Grim have had me in the field hunting down Pooka and Phouka since I was twelve—with supervision, of course—Mom would’ve unleashed her trees and hunted me down in her elder wheelchair just to return me to the safety of the glade otherwise. It wasn’t until my knack for capturing loose shadows was well established that she let me go alone, though well-equipped. It’s been five years since then, and now I’ve acquired my own team in Robin and Kestrel. The latter has always had my back, whether he’s protecting me from the things that go bump in the night or even my own hurt feelings. Unlike our brother Starling, who takes every opportunity to rub in the fact that I’m the sole giftless outcast of our powerful family. But now is not the time for Kestrel to be stubborn about the strange “do no harm” motto he mysteriously adopted in our childhood, not when a Phouka is skulking near the glade.

“For Timesake.” I roll my eyes. “You’re lucky you’re my best friend.”

“Darn right I am.” My brother signs with a straight-toothed grin, knuckles thumping my leather-padded knee.

With a fond yet exasperated smile, I set the Phouka in my sights and reach toward the bow over Kestrel’s shoulder. My hand stills. The spot where the monster was snacking is empty and nothing but a wet patch of blackened leaves remains.

“Where’d it go?” we gasp in unison.

Way too much time together.

A puff of cold, fetid air rolls in from behind us, sending loose curls from the bun atop my head forward into my mouth. Goosebumps ripple over me as the sick, metallic smell of decomposition and blood shoves its way down my nose. Kestrel meets my gaze for a split second before the Phouka descends, razor claws first.

The creature shrieks when we each dive and roll in different directions. And as I tuck my shoulder under me, my tongue is freed from its hairy confines, but my body is momentarily caught. A smoky paw lands a hit to my side, pressing into my rib cage. But my momentum keeps me going, and there’s a sound like parchment tearing. My knees hit the forest floor, and I rock back on my heels. Was that the sound of my skin splitting open? My heart thunders and my torso is numb like my hands. Springing to my feet, I check for blood. All I care about is Kestrel on the other side of the beast with his weight centered and bow hanging in his grasp. I see the shaking of his right hand poised halfway between his side and the quiver of green-fletched arrows protruding from behind his head. His limb is still suspended, frozen in the pre-Hallowtide air when the Phouka’s many glowing eyes focus on him.

A shrill, tuneless whistle pushes from my teeth. “Hey,” I shout, waving my arms to pull the monster’s attention away from my younger brother.

The bogey ignores me. A clicking noise bubbles from its throat as it slowly prowls closer toward Kestrel, decay leaching from its oversized paws.

Saving my knives for the right moment, I reach into my cloak and fish out a small handful of Robin’s sunflower sweets. Then, I say a silent apology, hoping that she doesn’t hear me curse or tell on me over dinner before lobbing them at the Phouka. “You mangy buggard! Over here!”

It doesn’t even flinch. Instead, the infected former Pooka’s shoulders roll forward as it takes another hunkering step, and I realize with great sadness, the medicinal candies ricocheting off its hide are wasted. Worst of all, its inky body is coiled back, flank muscles set and ready to spring.

“Kestrel, move!” My yell is like the snap of a whip, spurring the creature forward.

My brother and I stare at each other for the better half of a second. There isn’t an ounce of fear milling about his silver eyes. Not even with the open maw of a giant mutated fox fixated on his shorn curly head. Kestrel, stupid, brave Kestrel, chooses to meet the abomination halfway. He sprints towards it before collapsing on the ground once the bogey becomes airborne. The bow leaves Kestrel’s hand and skitters forward through the leaves ahead toward my feet as he slides beneath the Phouka. But the monster is quick. Much like an overgrown cat, it pivots before all four crooked, spindly legs connect with the earth. Then, it pounces again. And I have just enough time to pick up the solid bow inches from my toes, plant my boots, and swing.

The crack of elder wood meeting mutated bone reverberates around us, reminiscent of a clap of thunder. The weapon clenched in my pale-knuckled grip is surprisingly still intact. But the Phouka’s head still swivels in our direction. Drool made of shadowy wisps, like candlewick smoke, drip from the Phouka’s bared teeth. The behemoth is angry, red eyes aflame and lupine-esque body trembling as the misty hair on its knobby spine raises. It’s ready for a pound of flesh, but so am I. Earlier, I made the mistake of getting distracted, which put Kestrel in danger, but now my hands are hot and ready. The ruined nerves beneath my skin feel like they’re vibrating as I shove the bow at my brother, now standing beside me. When the faerie starts for us, I suck in a steadying breath, and a small smile comes with it.

It’s funny how this monster thinks it’s now hunting us when we’ve been hunting it.

The moment the Phouka’s deformed front legs predictably leave the ground, I draw one of the twelve blades at my hip. My aim isn’t at the creature’s chest when I throw my knife, but at the second of its three tails. It cuts through the air, flying straight before piercing the fox’s middle tail and sinking tip-first into the earth. The Phouka’s jump is stopped short, slamming its dark, bony body into the ground. Wild keening cries spill from its chest when it realizes it’s pinned. I’m sure it feels the sizzle of my salt-annealed blade, a process that Auntie Posy’s brilliant mind invented. The purifying grains were melted into the metal by her sister’s hands; Auntie Rose doctored the whole family’s weapons to be traps. Everything from my knives to Kestrel’s arrows. Even Starling’s axes, the sharp tools in Lark and Robin’s Healer kits, and Crow’s slingshot pellets.

Kestrel stands at my side as we witness the salted blade do what it was crafted for. The Phouka is scrambling, clawing at the dirt as it shrinks into itself. It grows smaller and smaller as it’s pulled towards the throwing knife jutting from the ground until the shadow monster’s body looks less malformed and more like a formless mass. Nothing but a wriggling ball of smoke no bigger than my hand, constrained and harmless.

I whistle our family signal for Robin.

“Are you okay?” I ask, giving my brother a once-over and checking for bumps, bruises, or scrapes.

“Yeah, but Dad’s going to cry,” Kestrel remarks as he brushes dried leaves off my back, bow dangling from his other hand.

“What? Why?” I gape, checking Kestrel’s face again while I blindly pat my body for damp patches of blood.

My brother stares down at my torso, and I follow his line of sight. Any pride I might’ve had in myself for capturing the Phouka dissipates with a groan. A tear the length of my forearm runs through the front flap of my cloak. Our dad spent months embroidering the midnight blue wool. He embellished the whole family’s clothes, creating a custom pattern for each of us, designs detailing our namesake birds entwined with intricate florals or ivy weaving through fated red and fortuitous gold threads. The Phouka tore through a stitched elder tree and some variegated blooms of open and closed anemone flowers. It even split the painstaking visage of a swan right at its curved neck.

Wonderful.

My only hope of surviving death by shame is by brokering a deal with Kestrel: “I won’t tell Mom you’re the one who broke that shelf in the living room and everything on it. That weird statue she got years ago and Lark’s new ceramic mortar and pestle are all past saving. But we can save each other if you don’t tell Dad.” My plea is sweetened with my pinkie held out, hopeful for a promise.

Kestrel snorts, throwing his hands up with cool, oak-toned palms facing me.

“I refuse to get in between Dad and his sewing. Besides.” He shrugs. “Mom hated that lumpy ‘Changeling Queen, Slayer of Witches’ shrine thing; it was just a funny birthday gift from the aunties. And if Lark is going to start working with Hazel in the villages more, she’ll need a more durable stone mortar and pestle.” Kestrel grins. “So, if you think about it, I did them both a favor.”

Knowing my brother won’t save me this time makes my pinkie go limp and my stomach sink like a capsized ship. “Tell that to the fifteen-year-old who saved up her chore money all year for that handcrafted ceramic,” I sigh, frowning down at my cloak.

“It’s only two-ish months till Christmastide; I’ll make it up to her. How you’ll appease Dad, well…” Kestrel swirls his finger around my nose. “That’s up to you to figure out.”

“If you’re not careful, you’ll lose that finger one of these days. Whether by some freak accident, Starling’s cold soul, or my teeth,” I chuckle, unable to stoke any heat behind my words. Kestrel knows I’d never let anything or anyone harm him. “Guess you should’ve just made the pinkie promise.” I bat my brother’s taunting hand away from my face. “Now get out of here, you nib.”

He dances away from my reach, laughing as I whistle for Robin again. With the danger subdued now, the reason for our song is to relocate each other. Sweeping the trees and squinting past their remaining yellowing leaves, I search for my youngest sister. Not only do I not hear her answering trill, but I see no telltale sign of her ivory skin or her rusty orange cloak. Her disappearance is strange but not unusual for the fourteen-year-old. If she saw us trap the Phouka from higher ground, she’s most likely making her way home without us for dinner. It’s happened before. Instead of worrying, I ask Kestrel to summon Auntie Rose.

Plucking the gold bowstring—made from Auntie Poppy’s spinning wheel—three times in quick succession summons Death. It only takes moments before she appears with a lustrous burst of light and a flurry of scented air that reminds me of snowdrops, midnight, peat, and pine. It’s no surprise when I see her pure white, opalescent hand looped over Uncle Grim’s black-clad arm. The Numina and her partner make quite the pair. Her with her crown of gloom and uncovered stone eye, and him with his flame-like shadows and shining yellow gaze. It’s rare to see one without the other.

“Hello, chickadees. What’ve you got for me today?” My aunt’s smile is dazzling, though it’s perpetually tinged with something a little wry and youthful. Perhaps it’s because she hasn’t aged a day since she became Death a decade ago. She’ll always look seventeen, always be a little sarcastic, but behind her one real silver eye is a wizened twenty-seven-year-old woman.

“Another infected,” I say, wiping the cooling sweat from beneath the curly bangs brushing my forehead. “Lark and Crow were behind the barn putting out a little imp fire and they saw it outside the perimeter of Mom’s trees.”

Uncle Grim studies our surroundings before his pallid, unaging face falls and he rubs his abnormally reddened palms over the sides of his thighs. “So close to the glade?”

“They’re getting bolder straying that close. This darkness is spreading too fast for us to keep up.” Detaching herself from the once-imprisoned-Pooka-turned-shadow-prince, Auntie Rose strides over to the writhing shadow pinned to my throwing knife. When she crouches to examine it closer, her dress fans out around her like poetry. I can’t resist peeking my consciousness into that safe mental attic of mine to write on a slip of paper:

Amid the fiery ground of an autumn eve

A pool of ink reflecting a starry sky not yet born

Crowned by a pearl pale and sweet as the north wind

A youth captured by a garnet wire

Death pulls the shears from her hip.

Kestrel and I have seen this many times before, but watching our aunt work never ceases to make my blood bubble with effervescent excitement. Death grabs the wriggling smoke and pulls, stretching the creature until it’s as thin as a cut of thread. Auntie Rose snips, freeing the Phouka from its trap. The diseased faerie thrashes, trying to escape her hold, but Death is in control here. It’s effortless how she puts away her scissors and subdues the snake of smoke so desperate to flee. She wraps it around her wrist like a bracelet, and when her power flares to life, the beast sinks into her skin. It leaves behind another band of black, like a tattoo, and the edge of the shadow sprouting from her heels stretches and grows. The monster we caught is yet another in her collection until The Numina can figure out how to cure the bogeys.

“Auntie Rose,” Kestrel starts, plucking my weapon from the dirt and offering it to me to return it to its rightful place. “Are you ever afraid that whatever’s infecting the Phouka will affect you?”

Kestrel asked a good question, one I’ve never thought to voice. Though the world around us is quickly changing for the worse, I’ve always trusted my aunties, uncle, and the rest of The Numina to fix it. They’ve never steered me wrong. Well…besides the time Auntie Rose convinced me to put garden slugs in Starling’s bed, saying it was justifiable retribution for him pushing me from the barn rafters, where I nearly broke my arm. Although, that was long before she became Death and had divine responsibilities to mature her.

“Me? Afraid? Never.” Auntie Rose grins at Kestrel, crossing her arms over her ribcage-shaped corset in a way that displays the thin bands running up to her elbow. “I’m Death incarnate; nothing can scare me. Trapping these creatures is tiring, and makes me a little grumpy—”

Uncle Grim snorts.

My aunt fondly rolls her eyes at him before continuing, “But the Phouka can’t infect me. They’re not the source of the Stygian Brume.” The front of her brows wrinkle. “But Poppy and Po, we don’t know how they caught some altered form of the sickness yet. They’ve barely left the temple since their visions of the future were blocked, and—”

Uncle Grim abruptly spins toward the horizon and stares off into the distance, silencing us. He cocks his head, listening. To what, I’m not sure. Nothing stirs the autumnal forest. The former Pooka bows his head and pinches the bridge of his nose with his red-stained fingers before his posture stiffens. “There’s someone at the gates to The After,” he rumbles. “I must go.” Uncle Grim’s words sound odd, almost disconnected from his mind and body. But before we can say anything, misty tendrils from his shadow envelop him, crafting a blanket of blackness as he disappears.

I blink at my uncle’s quick exit. “Is he okay?”

“I’m not sure,” she sighs. “I believe my Reaper is stressed. It’s been almost impossible to track down these last few hags.” Auntie Rose rubs the Phouka bands on her arm as she looks at where her companion last stood. “He’s been coming home to Wyrd Mountain so discombobulated and dirty, like he’s fallen down a rabbit hole each time. But the spread of this epidemic has gotten to all of us in one way or another. The Sun and Moon are overworking themselves alongside the Healers and now the days are shorter, and the nights longer than they should be for the season. I don’t think they’ve been back to the Mountain in weeks. Poppy isn’t as cheery, and recently, she took the spinning wheel into her room; I hardly see her. Posy just flat-out doesn’t look good. She’s running herself so ragged, trying to peer into the past with Time to figure out how this all started, that she’s been lying down for days on end.” Gravity claims Death’s tightening features as she slips into her role as one of The Numina. Now, she’s hardened, a grown woman with the world’s weight on her shoulders. Perhaps even a portion of the world’s fate on her shoulders, considering Auntie Posy’s developing condition. “We still can’t figure out what the big black wall blocking all of her and Poppy’s visions is. Icarus’s pools of time are murky, and even present events are near incomprehensible. Something bigger than just The Numina can handle is coming very, very soon. It may be here already.”

A shift occurs as her voice peters out. Death recedes, and Auntie Rose comes to the forefront again, aware that who she’s talking to isn’t just anyone. We’re her niece and nephew, and despite our gifts or skills, we’re children scared for the world the bogeymen have tried relentlessly to destroy. A softness melts back into our aunt’s eyes as she puts a reassuring hand on both our shoulders. “But you guys don’t need to worry about that. We’ll figure this all out, and everything will be okay. I promise.”

I can see right through Auntie Rose’s frail smile when her doubting gaze darts back to the space Uncle Grim had occupied. She’s not doing well either, which makes my insides tangle into nervous knots.

“How’s Grandma Aspen and Pop Pop doing?” Kestrel asks to alleviate the pressure from our heavy conversation, like the saint he is.

“They’re doing well.” Our aunt’s smile eases into true peace. “They’re neighbors now in The After, and my father is finally back to the man he was before Black Annis’s cage.”

“Tell them we love and miss them,” I request as the sky fills my view and I realize from the position of the slow, sinking sun, how late it’s gotten. It’s time to go. “Kestrel, we’ve missed dinner. If we don’t return soon, they’ll send a search party for us.”

“Yes, go,” Auntie Rose urges us with a wave. “And tell Robin and Lark that Hazel is asking for them tomorrow. I was just in the villages ushering a patient of hers to the gates. She could use an extra hand at the Apothecary.” Our aunt winces. “Things in the villages are getting dire. The Infirmary is packed.”

Kestrel kisses Auntie Rose’s cheek. “Will do.” Then, he sticks his tongue out at me, like the mature sixteen-year-old he is, before jogging into the trees with a grin. He’s setting us up for a race back home.

Death shakes her head as she watches him go. “He’s looking more and more like Rush each day. He’s even developing that same smug look my half-brother often gave me. Mostly when Aspen was scolding me for something he explicitly told me not to do.” Auntie Rose smirks. “You’d better beat him home and bask in that win for me, chickadee.”

I’m laughing when I press a chaste kiss to her left cheek beneath her magic stone tiger’s eye. Laughing harder when I catch up to Kestrel. And all-out cackling when I sprint past him and closer to the protective ring of elder trees around the glade. Sometimes, the biggest joy of being a big sister is making your younger brother absolutely eat your leafy dust.