Another oddity about Haven: the weather is strange around here. Locals know it, and it keeps outsiders away. There are other measures, too, other precautions meant to keep this place secret and safe. As we pass the faded road sign that says Welcome to the Inn at Havenfall, I look at the trees on either side. My uncle employs a dozen people to keep watch outside town year-round. I know I won’t see them—they’re stationed deep in the woods, in cabins or converted deer blinds. There to make sure that no magic escapes the boundaries of the town.
It hasn’t happened in years, and when it does, it’s usually easily explained—a maid sneaking out a bottle of Fiorden wine without realizing the power it holds, or a bored noble taking a ride through the woods that ranges too far. But once every few years a delegate will decide to try to smuggle magic out for profit. I don’t know what the punishment is for that, but I’ve never seen any of the offending delegates again.
The clouds finally crack and rain drizzles down as we round the mountain and see the town of Haven up ahead, a smattering of buildings clinging for dear life to the mountainside, encroached upon by the trees and the mist. A bright river snakes down across the mountain before disappearing into the valley below us. And my heart leaps to see it, because Havenfall is just beyond the next ridge. The fog sparkles like a mirage. I glance behind me and see all my fellow passengers glued to the window, even the baby, looking out with round blue eyes.
We reach the crossroads just outside town, the place where Marcus usually picks me up in his jeep. Ahead is the general store, a big log building with a generous wraparound porch, spilling welcoming yellow light from inside. Two women chatting in rocking chairs on the porch look when the bus stops and the passengers file off. I’m relieved when Silver Teeth Man exits, his fillings flashing as he gives me one more broad smile, and then disappears into the store. But then the anxiety slides back in. Maybe Marcus didn’t get my text. He isn’t here.
When the door closes, the driver meets my eyes in the mirror. “Someone coming to pick you up?”
I nod, holding on to the feeling of anticipation. No, it’s not anticipation. It’s need. Havenfall, my uncle and friends, Brekken—all less than a mile away now.
“We can wait a few minutes, but I can’t take this thing any farther up these damn roads.” The driver slaps the dashboard with a mixture of exasperation and affection. “And …”
He lifts a hand, pointing at the dark clouds coming in from the north, the curtains of rain in the distance. Even if he doesn’t know why, he knows that the weather gets more freakish the closer we are to Havenfall.
“Sorry about this.” My voice catches as I shift in my seat, trying to call Marcus again. But I don’t have service here. It’s dead air. “My uncle should be here in a few minutes.”
But a few minutes pass, and then a few more. No one comes.
The general store’s lights have gone out; the doors are closed. And the storm is near, the scraggly pine trees around us stirring in the wind. My mouth is dry, my stomach heavy. The idling bus grumbles beneath me.
I’m used to being forgotten—it beats the smirks and stares that usually come with being noticed. When you’re the loner, the weirdo, the daughter of the Goodwin Lane Killer, it’s better to not be seen at all. It’s different with Marcus, though. He’s always had a place for me at Havenfall. He’s never failed to be here at the crossroads when the bus has come in.
At least, not before now.
I dig through my backpack until I find my umbrella, then get up and thread through the aisle toward the driver, wishing I’d thought to pack a raincoat. “I’ll just walk into town a little ways,” I tell him. “I usually get service once I’m higher up.” This isn’t true, but I’m suddenly anxious to get off this bus, despite the rain. He must have places to be. As do I.
His brow crinkles again. “Are you sure, dear? I don’t want you out when the lightning starts.” He gestures at the road. “There’s a diner about a half mile up the road that stays open all night. Ask Annie to let you use the phone—”
“Okay.” I cut him off without meaning to, but the idea of spending another moment away from Havenfall puts a pit in my stomach. I lift my umbrella. “I’ll be fine, I promise.”
The driver doesn’t look happy about this, but he pulls the lever to open the doors. Cool, pine-and-rain-scented air pushes into the bus, raising bumps on my spine. The smell of Havenfall. But tendrils of anxiety wiggle through me.
“Be careful,” the driver reminds me as I stop on the stairs to open my umbrella. “If there’s lightning, knock on someone’s door, or find a ditch and hunker down.”
“Thank you. Will do.” I smile at him, meaning the thank-you but not the rest of it. I’ll walk all night if I have to.
He stays idling there as I walk up the deserted, darkening Main Street, my old Converse squelching in the mud. The incline here is so steep I can see it, and I internally groan thinking of the hike ahead. My duffel strap is already cutting into my shoulder, and this dollar-store umbrella won’t hold up against Haven weather.
But I lift my hand, giving the driver one last smile and wave. Then I start the long trek up to Havenfall. A little walk, a little rain won’t stop me from getting to the one place where I actually belong.
2
Most of the townsfolk of Haven don’t know the truth, I think, about Havenfall and the Adjacent Realms and the Accords that we commemorate every summer with a summit. But everyone knows there’s something special about this place—an undercurrent, a breath of wind from another world.
A few different stories float around town, passed along when you’re getting your hair cut, in line at the general store, chatting on sagging front porches. That a tiny village once here disappeared from the face of the earth, and no one knows where everyone went. That a cult leader during a camp meeting walked a group of devout followers off a cliff. That Lewis and Clark types came here a little later in the nineteenth century, trying to map the Rockies, only to all vanish. People say the mountain has a will of its own. It can be magnanimous or cruel. If you come here with ill intentions, you’ll find yourself beset by rain, hail, and wind strong enough to dislodge rocks above and send them tumbling onto your path. But if you come here for refuge, the fog will swallow you up like a protective blanket and hide you from whatever you’re running from.
The point is, people know that this is a place where you can vanish, even if they don’t know why. We’re hardly in Briar County, Colorado, anymore. We’re elsewhere.
Giving up on keeping my feet dry, I look up from the ground and take in what’s around me as I walk through town. The other bus passengers have dispersed, and I pass a handful of clapboard houses built right into the mountainside, with flimsy wood porches overlooking the valley. Faces appear in windows as I go by. Then there’s the post office with its yellowed newspaper notices. That’s where gossip is traded, where to go if you want to know the stories about this town. There’s a sharp-eyed clerk there, Debbie, who’s run the place as long as I can remember. She always greets me by name and asks after Marcus when I stop by to pick up packages.
There’s Dr. Abram’s house, the doctor-slash-veterinarian who almost certainly isn’t licensed but who everyone trusts anyway. There’s the shell of an overturned livestock truck that went into a ditch years ago and no one has ever picked up, which now seems to be home to a family of coyotes. I catch a glimpse of a skinny tail disappearing behind a ragged metal panel as I plod by.