My glasses fog, smearing the police tape into a fluttering yellow ribbon against the forest. Sunlight cuts across my cheek, but it can’t shake the chill under my skin. I’m shivering as Andersen finishes the report.
“The kids disappeared, just like…” He glances at me, concern thick as molasses.
I sip my latte.
“Great,” Mo mutters. “Our plans for watching Star Trek reruns are botched.”
“Full moons always occur on the most inconvenient nights,” I sigh.
We hurry around the facility gathering werewolf hunting supplies. Mo fetches the night vision goggles and thermal imaging cameras. Dad goes for the silver net and wolfsbane tranquilizer guns.
The holes in the bottom of my shoes don’t irk me no more. My feet had gotten tough even before all this walking. ’Cause when the honeybees got sick—Mama said they was dropping like flies—food got scarce. People got hungry and then sick like them honeybees. And when people didn’t know…
Read it now
“I’d like one pixie-sized pumpkin spice latte, please.” I flash a smile, though my voice still flutters like broken wings. “Oh, and extra whipped cream.”
The barista accepts my coins and scribbles my order—the same one my sister and I used to share, before she left for college.
Has Willow really only been gone for two months?
I crept up the driveway of Sara Wyatt, aka Suspect 4B, who confronted me with a hideous scowl.
“Who dares disturb me?” Sara cackled and waved her broom toward the gap in the thick black curtain blocking off her garage. “Seek you treats on this dreariest of days? Then don’t be tricked by the
I’ve been stuck in this cave for three days. Trapped by a wildergar. Once in a while, I peek through a crack between the barrier stone and the cave wall to see her—the largest and most terrifying of the mountain cats.
Her fur floats around her like feathers as she paces back and forth…
The other thieves whisper that I’m cursed. Dangerous, like all unknowns. They say I’m cold as ice. Heartless. They call me Sixth—a nickname I’d earned in my initiation into their gang—not the name my mother gave her son.
To them, I’m nothing more than the mask I’ve presented.
They might be right.
I studied the young gnome slouching in the chair before me and forced myself to keep a straight face. Today, Tilli had come dressed as a mushroom. A large dome-shaped hat hid all but a few pink wisps of her hair.
This should be interesting. I adjusted my glasses. “How can I help you today, Tilli?”
Logbook Entry. October Fourteenth, in the humble year 2568.
Just last month, I gazed upon the old weapons and hovercrafts from the Great War. And I finished reading the faded copy of The Art of War two weeks ago. Never could I have imagined it was preparing me for my fast-approaching conscription.
Read it now
Wisely they leave graves open for the dead
‘cos some too early are brought to bed.
I flung the last shovel of dirt over my shoulder and climbed out of the hole. Tossing the shovel to the ground, I wiped my hands on a handkerchief from my back pocket.
“How many more this week?” I asked.
The biggest problem with being a scarecrow brought to life was the publicity. Memories of my prior existence in the zucchini patch remained fuzzy, but I was fairly certain there were no interviews, cameras, mobile phones, or TV crews before the kid worked his magic.
“Come on, Edgar. It’s one night.”
I panted, clutching my side as I pressed my back into the parking garage wall. I stared down at the bloody gash across my forearm. Dark veins branched from the cut.
My head spun. I was infected. I studied the progression of the dark veins. Veining became obvious in Stage Two? Stage Three?
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