I died at sixteen.
People said I committed suicide, but after my stepfather Manny had too many beers at my funeral and made a toast about how my curvy, young body must be pleasing the angels, murmurs rolled through the room.
The police chief ordered an autopsy. The medical examiner found arsenic
It was not the way that Geoffrey Owen Davies had envisioned his retirement working out. He had made it to the finish line in the Department of Construction with his home paid for, a lifelong income from his superannuation, and some untraceable accounts in the Caymans. His wife had left some years ago
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Yesterday, I declared war.
On a bugle.
0600. Time for “Reveille.” Our base commander, Wizard-General Lytton, won’t waste even the newest recruit mage on that duty. A simple spell makes the bugle perpetually hovering by the flagpole sound any required call at the proper time.
Until yesterday. Ten seconds into the silence
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“So, does the bureau know why they sent us here?”
Sal shrugged while cramming fries in his mouth.
Jane waited for him to swallow. “They said a passing centaur reported all the other wilderkind in the area have gone silent.” She slapped his hand before he grabbed another burger. “Aren’t you worried?”
Greg glanced at the clock: a quarter to nine. He could close early. After all, he doubted anyone would saunter in fifteen minutes to closing.
But it’s the principle of the thing. The sign says open ‘til nine. Chin in hand, he flipped a page in his magazine.
The bell above the door jingled
Yellow police tape crisscrosses the entrance to Buckbean Asylum. The plastic shines under my headlamp: fresh, unlike the torn, discarded scraps half-buried by shriveled-up oak leaves. Though the asylum closed years ago, the structure remains.
So do the spirits of the patients.
That’s the rumor, at least. I’m here to see if it’s true.
What human being, given the Gift of flight, would wish he had another one?
You’re looking at him. Er, reading about him.
Does that even make sense? Zoiks. I’m as clumsy with words as I am with people. And I’m clumsier with flight.
I hate heights. I hate speed. I hate the breathlessness
Comforting scents of spice, herbs, and fruits filled the wood-paneled room, cozy enough to distract from the cold rain—and the woeful news. Mistress Millet dipped a carved cup into the pot simmering over her fire, then shuffled over and set it in front of Ivy, who wiped away a tear she pretended
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“Work the night shift, they said.” Oscar pushed his chair back from the wall of screens. “It’ll be easy, they said.” He wheeled himself over to the small desk holding the telephone and began pressing the number for the tactical team’s head. “Well, in what world is a twenty-foot-tall praying mantis easy?”
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Nan and I were at the hives when the stranger stopped by. “Elias Carver, your new neighbor.” He tipped his hat and nodded toward the gray house on the hill. “Belonged to my late uncle. We weren’t close. I only got word a few months ago the old place’s been empty for years. Now I’m here to settle down.”
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People said the island didn’t exist. But there it was.
A shiver of excitement and pride swept over me as I lowered my chopper. The mysterious disappearing isle had long been deemed a myth, but I’d spent months researching, interviewing witnesses, and hunting the landmass that never seemed to be where the sightings claimed.
The place stank of dreams. Shattered dreams, stale dreams, rancid dreams. And nightmares. I tasted them all the moment I arrived. It was a stagnant sort of taste, like cold porridge served with moldy bread, as though nothing fresh had been dreamed there in ages. Not that I’ve eaten porridge. But I have
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