I read my father’s final entry.
Joe is talking like a madman. He wants to overthrow the council, start a war all for some new world order. He says he’s been seeking out Varo’s old supporters, and now he wants to start getting the guardians on his side. He wants me to be his right-hand man in this, but what he’s talking about … I hate the wood with every fiber of my being. I hate what it has done to my family. I hate that I will never know what it’s like to travel, to have a normal job, to be the master of my own life, and I hate that I have sentenced my daughter to the same fate.
But what Joe is suggesting is anarchy, and it will lead to the end of the world as we know it.
I have to stop him.
XXXVII
“Get up.”
Henry looks at me blearily, his eyes half-closed and a string of drool on his lips. His eyes widen and he brushes his hand across his mouth. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say, my voice flat. “The sun’s coming up. Time to go.”
“Is that all you have to say to me?”
I nod. “Get dressed, and take your elixir.”
I turn for the door, but he pushes up off the couch and his hand circles my arm. “Wait. What happened?”
“I told you. Nothing happened.”
“You do not look like yourself. You look like—”
“A ghost?”
“I was going to say a woman possessed, but ghost works as well. You look empty, Winter.”
“Maybe because I am.”
“Tell me what happened. Trust me, for once—”
“I don’t need to trust anyone. I don’t need anyone. I—” I’m about to say I can handle this on my own, but it would be giving away too much, and I need to keep everything locked down, bottled tight. “You can get dressed in my room. Meet me back down here in five minutes.”
He’s in the kitchen in two. We tug on our boots in the mudroom, dried mud flaking off the soles. I stuff a flashlight into my coat pocket and open the door to the back porch. “After you.”
He stares at me a moment too long, but I keep my eyes shuttered, my face vacant. I am a robot, unfeeling, unmerciful.
He clears his throat and moves forward. I follow him onto the porch, sunlight just breaking over the horizon, turning the navy-blue sky pink along the eastern lip, and stop short.
All the leaves are black. Even Henry, who should not be able to see past the glamour that makes the wood look like all the normal trees surrounding it, sucks in a breath. Which means the glamour is fading. Anyone passing by on 315 will see the dead, withered branches, the oozing black pus.
But that isn’t the worst of it. The sickness is spreading beyond the wood. The trees along our driveway have been infected, black tar rolling down the tips of the lowest leaves, droplets sizzling onto the pavement.
Poisoning our world.
“Come on,” I say, taking a step forward. “We have to stop this before it’s too late.”
Henry links his fingers through mine, stopping me.
“Tell me what’s going on first,” he says. “I am not leaving until you do.”
I gesture to the leaves and snap, “We don’t have time for this.”
He sits on the porch steps. “Then we do not have time for me to sit here and watch the sunrise either but, well, would you look at that? That seems to be precisely what I am doing.”
“Henry.”
“Winter.”
“Fine. You win.” I spread my arms open wide. “Joe’s the reason all of this is happening.”
Henry’s jaw drops. “What? How do you know that?”
“I found Dad’s journal,” I say, tears stinging my eyes. But I refuse to cry. I can break when this is all over, but not now. Not when there are still so many questions swirling through my head and only one person who can answer them. “The last thing Dad wrote was that he had to stop Joe, and I think … I think Joe may have made Dad disappear.”
I don’t know how I didn’t realize it before. Joe was the one who told us he was gone, and we didn’t question it. We asked how, but we believed him when he said Dad walked off the path, even though no guardian had ever done such a thing before. Even though I could never do it myself.
Henry’s voice is low and too controlled. “You were going to confront Joe by yourself, weren’t you?”
I stare at the ground.
“Winter.”
I sigh. “That was the plan.”
He stands, his whole body quivering like an arrow strung too tight on a bow. “And pray, tell me, are you addled, or merely suicidal?”
“He killed my father, Henry.” My stomach churns as I remember Uncle Joe standing in the kitchen, saying Dad walked off the path. I know now that wasn’t true. He was pushed—it’s the only thing that makes sense. No guardian could walk off the path on their own, but they could be forced off. Joe must have found out Dad knew too much, and Joe silenced him for it.
“That does not mean you must face him alone.” Henry takes my hands in his. “Please, let me help you. Let my parents help you. Let the council. Together, we might be able to stop him. But you, on your own—you would not stand a chance.”
“I’m glad you have so much faith in me.”
“This is serious, Winter. This man is deranged and he will not let you stand in his way—”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“Winter, please. I understand what you are feeling right now.”
“How? How could you understand? Has your father been murdered?”
His lips twist into a sardonic smile. “Not that I know of, but when my parents disappeared, I feared the worst. I became drunk on whiskey and set off for the nearest threshold, consequences be damned. It was only when I was standing at the mouth of the wood that I realized I could not help them if I got myself killed, and I returned home to come up with a better plan. Now I am telling you the same thing. You must have a clear head about this. You cannot avenge your father if you’re dead.”
There’s logic in what he’s saying, but I can’t take it in. I need to find Joe. I need to know exactly what happened to my father and make Joe pay for it, and I can’t let Henry get in the way of that.
I swallow back the lump in my throat. “You’re right. I know you’re right. Do you—do you really think the council would help us?”
He exhales. “It’s all we have.”
I nod. “Okay. Let’s go.”
We step through the threshold as the first rays of pure, golden sunlight splinter the sky, but its warmth doesn’t seep through the trees, and its light is muted by the black, twisted trees surrounding us. Our breath turns into puffs of white clouds in the frigid air, our exhalations and our footsteps the only sound in this cold, stale mausoleum.
Henry’s hand tightens around mine. “If I remember correctly from my parents’ maps, the threshold to the council chambers should be to the—”
“I know where it is.”
“Right,” Henry says, his cheeks turning red. “Of course you do.”
Wind whispers through the trees, bringing with it voices only I can hear.