Chapter 1

A disfigured animal skull hangs on the wall over a wooden staircase. Its jaw yawns out with long, snaggled teeth and gnarly curled tusks. Definitely boar. Judging by its size, Carpathian.

Dad’s favorite prey.

I climb the first few steps to investigate. Wood creaks beneath my black Converse. Twelve hours of uncomfortable silence on the road from Germany to Romania can turn even a victimized animal carcass into a conversation starter.

“Looks like your kind of place,” I state, removing my black-framed glasses. I wipe their lenses with the bottom of my tank top.

Dad strides over the cabin’s tile floor, silent in his shin-high Gore-tex boots. He motions to the boar and his chestnut beard twitches around a smile. “A hunter’s welcome.”

Beaming. Boastful. Smug.

Chartreuse. Maybe more like lime hues.

Mom calls me a human mood ring because I color-vibe auras—something I picked up as a little girl. Mom says it’s because I’m a born artist. Of course, mothers are supposed to say things like this—positive reinforcements that suggest their kids have a shot at their dreams. Color-vibing was the only way I could make sense of her extreme emotions. Bold reds, reckless yellows, detached grays, all of them Mom’s typical mood palette. I used to wish for frillier tones—bright corals, peachy oranges—auras like that of my friends’ moms.

But I learned to find meaning in intensity. And in audacity.

“Morgan,” Dad says. “I rented a moped. That’s how you get your Wi-Fi, at the café in town. On one condition—work comes first. The property has to be hunter-ready by Monday. Our first summer client arrives next week.”

Even though he’s lived in the States for the last thirty years, Dad’s retained the burly accent of his native German. He grew up in Romania, so he speaks Romanian too. His tri-lingual abilities are the only things about him that have ever impressed me. You’d think with a brain that could understand three languages, he could remember to keep his promises—like the one he made me before we left: available Wi-Fi.

I stomp up the stairs. “Fine. But don’t get any dictatorial ideas like a curfew. Mom never believed in them.”

Besides the fact I’m eighteen now, Mom always said curfews promote rebellious natures. Naturally, I agree.

Dad returns to the foyer, where his weapons litter the floor. He picks up a long rifle case and props it against the wall. “Your mother makes terrible choices. Curfews teach responsibility.”

Her first lousy choice was marrying him. He’s the one who moved away from Georgia to Tennessee when I was five. Yet he never passes an opportunity to complain about Mom’s parenting. Her days may be muddled in hazes of wispy grays—shades of pewter and ash—but she’s always been there for me.

“No reason to be out at night anyway,” Dad says, fondling another rifle case. “Our work days will be long. I think first, I’ll teach you to track wildlife. Tracking’s important if you’re to become a skilled hunter.”

Dad believes that whatever ails you can be cured with nature, hunting, or meat—if possible, all three simultaneously. Mom would never let him take me halfway across the world as a minor, but for some unknown reason, when I was nine, she promised him the summer after my graduation. Since then, it’s been all Dad’s talked about—the future summer when he’d steal me away to the wilderness of his cherished homeland. What choice did I have but to come? He’d have never let Mom hear the end of it otherwise. But Mom and I both know his ulterior motive has always been to groom me as his apprentice.

Fat chance.

Confession: I have an ulterior motive, too. Dad’s co-signature on my student loans for the art institute will allow me the funds I need to cover full-time classes, dorms, and some extra to help Mom with bills at home. If I can get my application in by the end of August, I’ll have enough time to set up fall classes.

If the only way to do it is by getting my hands dirty in the cringy wilderness, whatever. Desperate times, and all.

Upstairs in the narrow hallway, a framed print hangs off-center on a blotchy wall. A time-yellowed scroll map of Transylvania is pressed under its glass. Its black ink looks done by hand, like something from another age—diagrams and sketches—of mountains and castles and horses and carriages. Tiny towns and villages dot the cartography. An extra large castle rises from the town of Bran in detailed gothic grandeur.

I won’t lie, exploring medieval cities and landmarks of lore gives me all kinds of vibes … right up until I remember who I’m here with. My gaze settles on a small onyx bat, wings extended, hovering over a mountain peak dead-center of the map. Its glaring blank white eyes seem to mock me in a shock- face to my sentiment. Maybe the artist forgot to color in its vigilance.

I claim the smaller of two bedrooms and sling my bags onto the stiff twin-sized bed. Smells like basement mildew in here. Oh, to be back in my bedroom in Atlanta—on my papasan, blinds shut, AC set to arctic-blast …

A set of glass doors take up one wall, and just outside them, a weather-worn balcony forgotten by modern times. On the distant horizon, tree-clad foothills bow before the Carpathian Mountain range’s stark fortress. Jagged peaks pierce the sky on one side and drop off and splinter apart on another into deep crags and secret niches. The now-setting sun casts a long shadow over them, mutating a palate of umbers, violets, and jades into some alien shade reserved for this dusky hour.

iPhone Notepad:

Hazy secrets

Internal monsters

Darkness from the inside out.

Bits of verse and haiku often pop into my head at random. Like my art, my poems come steeped in gloom. It’s not Mom’s fault, and it never was, no matter what Dad says. Besides, I’ve never presented any of her symptoms. Not yet, anyway …

Sometimes, I wonder if that’s why Dad stayed away all those years—fearful of some genetic inferiority of what I could become. Not that that makes it okay.

I unpack my things in hard-won, blissful privacy. After that long road trip of only two bathroom breaks, I think I could sleep for an entire day. Sleep is a luxury, Dad would say. He’d flown solo into Germany a week prior—a trip he does twice a year for his hunting clients. From his home in Nashville, where he runs a small gun range, he travels to his small apartment in Munich, where he still has some family since most of his VIP clients are German. I met Dad there yesterday, before the road trip from hell. Or was it to hell?

Either way, Dad and I hardly spoke to each other the entire drive. What could I say to him after he missed my graduation? Mom took the blame, as usual, and as usual, Dad fell back on his signature apology: ‘too busy preparing for another trip, unexpectedly understaffed, and having to pull extra duties.’ The man can take down a bear three times his size, but he can’t handle the emotional challenges of Mom’s disorder face to face.

Knock, knock. Dad cracks open my door.

I scowl. “Geez, I could’ve been changing.”

He shakes his head. “Scheisse. Sorry. I forget you’re not a little girl anymore.”

No kidding. Probably because you missed most of my childhood.

I fling my favorite army-green jacket with the broken zipper onto the chair in the corner of the room. “What d’you want?”

Dad paces over the floorboards to my glass door and slides it back. It scrapes over what must be months of grime and grit in its grooves. A calm, steady breeze sweeps in.

“No one’s stayed here in months.” He examines the balcony. “Leave it open tonight, air out your room.”

“Um, not all night.” I push a stray swath of long black bangs behind my ear.

“This isn’t Atlanta. You’re safe out here. Nothing but farmland and mountains. Varig is a small, uneventful town.”

I point to my head. “Stuffy nose, watery eyes, headache … any of these ring a bell?”

Dad’s great at ignoring the traits and quirks that make up a person’s package deal—allergies, tics, irrational phobias. For instance, he doesn’t know I was almost fourteen before I could tie my shoes. I couldn’t bring myself to attempt a bow unless the loops came out in perfect symmetry. Nor does he know the inner work and growth it took for me to get over that compulsion. Ironically, I’m not sure I’ll ever get over the trauma of wandering his gun range as a child. His morbid hall of animal cruelty was too much for me to bear. Even during Mom’s darkest moments, I’ve never felt emptiness like that—lost in the gun range hallways, shrouded in midnight blue, with tears of anxiety and confusion puddling in my eyes. I shuddered beneath the lifeless gazes of his trophies mounted on the walls.

“No AC here,” Dad says. “You’ll sleep better with mountain breezes.” He steps into the hall, glances at the framed map with a bit of scoff, then back at me. “Tomorrow, I’ll show you how to ride the moped. You can find your precious Wi-Fi and get acquainted with the area. Wednesday, we work.”

Without responding, I pull the rest of my things from my rucksack. Dad doesn’t need to know why I need Wi-Fi yet. He’s not ready to swallow my future plans. He’s still convinced my future starts and ends with him. Aside from that, I promised Mom I wouldn’t run up the cell data.

Dad tugs my doorknob. “See you in the morning.”

I set my tablet on the mattress and nudge my door shut. “Night.”

“Gute Nacht, liebling,” Dad says from the other side.

A ribbon of crimson and sapphire swirls around my heart and pushes against my ribs.

When I was little, and my imagination was overacting, or a spider found its way into my bedroom, Dad would march in and tell me, ‘No such thing as monsters—you’re a Jaeger—tough and strong.’ He’d smash the spider with his fist, leave, and close the door, always calling Gute Nacht, mein Liebling back through the cracks.

I shake off the memory, shower, and put away the rest of my things. In my trusty terry-cloth robe, I plop on the bed and grab my tablet.

Complicated Beauty expands onscreen. Bits of psychedelic blaze in neon-reds and oranges shape butterfly wings, emboldened in obsidian-black. Tiny, intricate faces and expressions scream from the detailed framework as if imprisoned. This piece is my twist on the phoenix from the flames. Definitely my best work to date. But is it enough?

I can’t shake the notion it still lacks something. I don’t know what.

I roll onto my back and fold my hands behind my head—breezes from the open glass door careen in, over my skin. Past the balcony, a thick blanket of mist smothers the lower peaks beneath the indigo sky. Night swallows the atmosphere.

Maybe this wilderness air will spark a creative breakthrough.

Without Wifi, art is all I have. My gaze travels to the blotched off-white ceiling. Damn, I can’t even stream shows or post to my socials. Thank God I downloaded some audiobooks before I left. I can draw while I listen. Like old times at home, when Mom read me the classics, and I sketched or painted freehand on the floor of our tiny apartment.

Plus, I have my playlists. That’s what—

Caw!

Thump.

Outside. Fluttering.

Rustling.

I spring to the foot of the bed.

The lamplight from my bedroom sheds a dusty glow onto one half of the balcony. An enormous black bird waits on the railing. It’s the size of a cat, with talons that grip the wood. Feathers shine like sable in the soft, deceiving light.

A raven? No, a crow. And an allergy attack waiting to happen.

Nice birdy, stay outside …

Its head tilts as if it hears me. A calculating gaze peers into me. 
Blink. Blink. Its eyes are milky white.

What the …?

I inch toward the glass, my bare feet on the uneven ridges of floorboards, my hand grazes the long handle …

Caw!

The bird hops down to the balcony floor.

Hop, blink, hop, blink. Closer now.

Its eyes lock with mine, pale and cold. Tiny hairs on the back of my neck bristle, then slacken in waves of static. So bizarre … I can’t put my finger on this sensation. But a thread-like aura of sterile silvers and polished steels envelopes me.

Transparency? Yes.

Those pearly eyes don’t just see me but see into me. Hypnotic. Somehow, they slice into me and my private apprehensions emerge from my soul like fresh-winged moths.

Ugh. Birds eat moths. Don’t they?

“Get!” I shoo a hand toward it.

Blink. Hop.

The bird turns, cocks its head, and focuses on the ground beneath the balcony.

I lean in, ready to slide the door shut.

An image catches my eye and I freeze.

On the driveway, a person appears. Slim build, arms at his side, his body stone-still. Moonbeams highlight his pale, chiseled jaw.

At once, he reaches into what looks like a vest pocket and pulls out an item that glints in the moonlight. He gives it a twirl. A pocket watch?

I duck back behind the glass door and urge the heavy glass shut. It struggles against the grit in its tracks, retching and scratching.

Caw! The bird flies up to the railing as if speaking to the stranger.

I push at the door. Harder now.

Silly, Morgan. Jaegers aren’t afraid of monsters.

The man moves closer.

My pulse wallops against my neck and wrists, thumping, throbbing. Oxygen leaves my lungs. Typically, a good-looking guy has a more positive effect on my insides. But hell, I don’t know what to feel in this moment.

Sliiiiiiiiide. The door gives way. Just a crack more …

A voice manifests from below.

Drifting, and smooth. Velvety words emerge in a language I don’t understand.

The bird glides down to the man and lands on his shoulder. He angles his head in the silvery moonlight. His eyes flicker icy-blue with vivid awareness.

My heart thrums and vibrates like the solo metal riff from an electric guitar.

Closer the young man moves, the hems of his pants dusting the gravel beneath his bare feet. He pauses under the front porch’s shadow.

And I cannot move a muscle.