Me: What??
Twig: 1832 … Ruth Vandenberg
I stare at the name, unable to believe I missed it until now.
Ruth Vandenberg was featured inEpisode 8: Cryptid Craze.And here she is, listed on Jude’s family tree. I didn’t notice her because she hardly takes up any space at all. She’s nothing but a side note. Now that I really look, all the Vandenberg daughters are side notes. None of them are listed as married with children. Each of them died at a tragically young age, including Ruth Vandenberg in 1832. She perished alongside her friend, VioletUnderwagon. The two girls were found dead in the woods. Mauled to death by a wild animal, or was it theNachtdier?
I try to focus on my phone screen, to find something about Isaiah and his wife’s death in 1930, but the search results keep blurring in and out of focus. I no longer feel warm. I feel cold. And clammy.
I shut the window and shoot Twig a text.
Chat 2morrow
I shut off my phone before he responds and crawl into bed and under the covers. With my teeth chattering, I fall into a fitful sleep.
16
SICK AS A DOG
Isprint through the woods, lungs burning, heart racing as branches scratch and claw at my face and arms. I look over my shoulder—at the rabid, snarling beast in close pursuit—and a vine grabs my ankle. I fall flat on my face with a loudoomph. I scramble to my feet and keep running. I don’t look back and I don’t stop until I burst into a clearing.
Two bodies lay in the grass.
There’s blood.
So much blood.
And a young man, rocking back and forth, weeping in despair.
I turn to flee.
But Rafe is there, blocking my way.
Fear turns to anger.
“You punched Jude.”
His smirk curls into a grin.
I wind back and clock him in the jaw. He grabs his chin. His nostrils flare. His chest heaves. His skin grows fur. He tips his head back and howls at the moon as his body morphs into the monster.The Nachtdier. His eyes glow red, and he pounces.
I lurch upright in bed, my sheets drenched in sweat, my stomach a ball of fire that hurls up my throat. I cup my hand over my mouth, fall to the floor, and grab the garbage bin next to my desk just in the knick of time.
Dad finds me.
His strong arms scoop me up. He places a cool rag over my forehead as I slip into fevered dreams.
I’m dancing in a candlelit ballroom, the faces of the guests blurred like melted wax. I’m tumbling down the stone well and there are crows at the bottom. They peck at my arms and my legs. I stand in the hallway at school with Twig, who holds a lighter in one hand, the Vandenberg Family Tree in his other.
“We have to erase all of them,” he says, touching flame to parchment.
Hooves clop on cobblestone.
A horse whinnies outside.
My bedroom door opens.
A gaunt man in a dark coat and cravat steps inside carrying a black medical bag. His eyes are sunken, his cheekbones sharp as he comes to my bedside with a mournful shake of his head.
