CHAPTER 13
Jack had said to come at sunset, but it was almost full dark by the time Hazel got to the foot of his driveway. She’d snuck out of her house as soon as she was dressed, walking straight through the front door while her brother and mother were in the living room, quiet and steady so they wouldn’t notice. She left her cell phone on her bed along with a note, so Ben would know he couldn’t get hold of her and hopefully wouldn’t worry too much. She’d be back by dawn and then—then—she would tell him everything.
Jack was in the backyard, tossing a ball to the Gordon family dog, a golden retriever named Snickerdoodle. The porch light illuminated a narrow pool of grass where they ran. In that moment, Jack looked every bit like a normal human boy, unless you noticed the points of his ears. Unless you believed the stories. Then he looked eerily like something playing at being human. When Hazel got close, Snickerdoodle began to bark.
“Time to go inside,” Jack told the dog, with a glance at the woods. Hazel wondered if he could see her in the dark.
She waited, wishing she’d brought a jacket. The autumn air grew colder as the orange glow on the horizon tipped down into night. She occupied herself by gathering up horse chestnuts from where they’d fallen and picking off their spiky coverings. It hurt a little where the husk got under her nail, but it was immensely satisfying to feel something come apart in her hands.
It seemed as if she were standing there at the edge of the woods for ages, but it was probably only about fifteen minutes before a window on the second floor opened and Jack climbed out onto the roof.
Inside, she could see the television in the living room—a splash of moving color—could see Mrs. and Mr. Gordon sitting on opposite couches. He had his laptop open, and the pale glow of it made the shadows outside seem deeper.
Jack stepped off the roof and onto the bough of a tree, sidling along it, before jumping to the ground. She braced herself for the noise, for his parents’ heads turning, for Snickerdoodle to start barking again, but Jack landed nimbly and quietly. There was only the sound of the leaves rustling when he leaped from the branch—and that sounded only like wind.
Hazel met him at the edge of the woods, shivering slightly and trying to be brave. “Hey,” she said, letting the chestnut she’d been holding fall. “So what now?”
“You look nice,” he said, his eyes silver in the dark.
She smiled, feeling a little awkward. She’d put on the only thing that seemed to look right—a pair of jeans and a green velvet top she’d discovered in the very back of her closet. In her ears she’d hung silver hoops, and on her feet were her favorite boots. She hoped it would be fancy enough for Faerieland.
“This way,” he whispered, and began to walk. She followed. In the moonlight, the woods were full of shadows and secret pathways that seemed to open before them, and it quickly became clear that Jack saw much better than she did in the dark. She tried to keep up, tried to keep from stumbling. She didn’t want to give him any excuses to decide she should be left behind.
After they got a ways from his house, Jack turned. “I should warn you about some stuff.”
“Always be polite,” she said, reciting what she’d been told a dozen times by concerned adults who didn’t want any of the local kids acting like tourists. “Always do what they ask you, unless it contradicts one of the other rules. Never thank them. Never eat their food. Never sing if you suck at singing, never dance—and never brag, ever, at all, under any circumstances. That kind of stuff?”
“That’s not what I was going to say.” Jack took her hand suddenly, his skin warm. There was a rough intensity in his voice that shivered over her skin. “I’m ashamed of going; that’s why I’ve been hiding it. I know how reckless it is—how stupid it is. I don’t mean to and then I hear it, like a buzzing in the back of my head, when there’s going to be a revel. It’s like someone whistling a song far off and I can barely hear the music, but I’m leaning forward, straining to hear it better. So I go, all the while telling myself that I won’t go the next time, but when the next time comes, I do the very same thing all over again.”
He dropped her hand. The words seemed to have cost him something.
Hazel felt awful. She’d been so busy worrying about her own puzzles that she hadn’t thought about what she was asking of him. The last thing she wanted was to hurt Jack. “You don’t have to come with me. I didn’t know. Just tell me the way and I’ll go on my own.”
He shook his head. “You wouldn’t be able to keep me from the revel—no one could. That’s the problem. But I wish that you’d go home, Hazel.”
“And you know I won’t,” she said.
He nodded. “So here’s the rest, then. I don’t know how to protect you from them, and I don’t know what they might try to do to you. What I do know is that they hate to be reminded of my human life.”
“And you think I’ll be a reminder?” she asked.
“To them—and to me.” He started walking again. “Be careful. Ben would never forgive me if anything happened to you.”
The words stung. “Yeah, well, Ben’s not my keeper.”
“Then I’d never forgive myself.”
“Will you…” She hesitated and then forced herself to ask. “Will you look different there?”
That startled a laugh out of him. “I won’t. But everything else might.”
Hazel pondered what that meant as they made their way through the woods. She could tell he was trying to slow down so she could keep pace, but she could also sense his eagerness, his hunger to be at the revel.
“Tell me a story,” he said, pausing to look up at the fat, full coin of a moon as she clamored over some rocks, then back at her. “Tell me what you know of the horned boy and Amanda.”
“After what happened at school, I’m not sure I know much,” Hazel admitted. “He said the monster was hunting him, and you said the Alderking was after him. Do you think the Alderking is controlling the monster?”
“Mayhap.” Jack smiled as he said the word, exaggerating its oddness. “But you know better. You’re the one he spoke with.”
“He was looking for a sword,” Hazel told him. “He said that was the only way he could defeat the monster.”
This was deeper in the woods than she’d ventured since she was a child, and back then she’d done it with the knowledge she was crossing into dangerous lands. The trees here were old, their trunks massive, and the tangle of their branches overhead was thick enough to blot out the stars. The first rash of fallen leaves crackled beneath Hazel’s feet, like a carpet of brittle paper.
Jack looked over at her. “There was something else you said—about them using you.”
“You remember that, huh?” she asked.
“Hard to forget,” he said.
“I’ve been—I’ve been losing time. I’m not sure how much.” She’d never said anything like that out loud before.
He studied her for a long moment. “That’s… not good.”
She snorted and kept walking. He didn’t say anything more. She was glad for his silence. She’d been afraid he’d push her for answers; in his place, she might have. But apparently, he was going to let her decide what she wanted to tell him and when.
They came to the swell of a hill, ringed in thornbushes that grew in a gnarled circle, creating a thick tangle chasing steps that rose to the top of the hill, where the foundation of an old building rested among tall grass. The steps were cracked and worn, with moss oozing from the gaps and flowing up to an archway. There was a sound in the air, faint music and laughter, flickering in and out, as though blown in by the wind.
Suddenly Hazel knew where they were, although she’d only ever heard of the place before.
This was the meetinghouse one of the town founders had tried to build before he discovered this was a hill sacred to the Folk. According to the story, whatever was built during the day was dismantled at night; whatever land was cleared became overgrown before dawn. Shovels snapped and accidents left men with cracked bones and bruised bodies, until, finally, the town center of Fairfold was moved miles to the south, where the first meetinghouse was constructed without incident.
Faerie hills are hollow inside, she’d once heard Mrs. Schr?der say. Hollow like faerie promises. All air and misdirection.
Hazel shuddered at the memory.
Jack walked toward the looping vines of thorn. Scarlet roses grew there with a velvety nap on their petals, heavy and thick as fur. Stems slithered, curling up to make a path, slowly, so that if you didn’t watch closely, if you looked away and looked back again, it might seem as if there had always been a way through. He tossed her a grin, raising his eyebrows.
“Did you make that happen?” Hazel asked in a whisper, without really knowing why she was whispering. “Will the path stay open for me?”
“I’m not sure. Just stay close,” he said as a sharp tangle spiraled behind him.
And so they climbed, with her hand on his back, keeping close enough that the briars let her pass, up the steep incline.
Jack skipped up steps and then, at the arch, tapped his foot three times against the ledge and spoke: “Lords and ladies who walk unseen, lords and ladies all in green, three times I stamp upon the earth, let me in, green hill that gave me birth.”
A chill went through Hazel at the words. It was a scrap of a poem, almost like the sort of thing they would have made up while playing in the woods as kids, but it sounded far older and of uncertain origin. “Just like that?” she asked.
“Just like that.” He grinned, wide and wild, almost as if he was daring her. “Your turn.” Then, stepping through the arch, he let himself fall backward.
Hazel didn’t even have time to cry out. She ran forward, to see if he was okay, but he was gone. Disappeared. She saw the rest of the hill, the rest of the foundation of the old building, saw the silvery carpet of long grass. Not sure what else to do, she leaped through the arch, hoping it would take her, too.
Hazel landed in the grass, losing her footing and falling to her knees painfully, brambles tearing at her jeans and the velvet top. She hadn’t fallen through into another world. She was exactly where she’d been before, and she was alone.
A breeze made the thorns shiver, bringing with it tinkling laughter.
“Jack,” she shouted. “Jack!”
Her voice was swallowed up in the night.