Ivy
In the middle of an enormous lake, on an island not on any map, from an aunt I’ve never heard of, I’ve inherited a cottage.
Well, a cottage and a store, apparently.
The ferryman helps me unload my suitcase onto the dock. Behind me, the lake we just crossed stretches wide and calm. If I didn’t know better, I would think it was an ocean. Lake Huron's waves are gentle, and the afternoon sun sparkles across the water in soft points of light.
The ferry should be pulling away from the dock, but the driver—a burly man with short black hair, a beard, and a sour expression—just ties it up. Last trip of the day, I guess.
Finding the boat had been difficult. Persuading the driver to let me aboard had been even harder. I had to show him the legal document from Claw and Law that summoned me to Moonfall Isle to claim my inheritance. Only then did he allow me to board.
I tap my phone to text my sister that I arrived and to find the address of my new cottage that my aunt's lawyer emailed days ago, but it isn't working. Pressing the on-off button and all the others multiple times does nothing. Dead? I charged my phone in the hotel room right before getting onto the ferry twenty minutes ago.
It doesn’t surprise me, though. Getting here has been far from smooth. It was a mess checking out because the hotel had a small firelast night, cause unknown. And I’d seen a rabid little creature under my rental car in the parking lot that almost bit me. Gross.
The black screen of my phone catches my reflection. My dark brown curly hair is wind whipped from the ferry. My freckles stand out darker against my fair skin from time in the sun. Even I could admit that my brown eyes looked tired. It had been a long month. Hell, it’d been a long year.
Glancing up in search of a welcome center, I find several pairs of eyes already looking back at me from the main street off the dock. Locals have stopped whatever they were doing to stare. The moment they realize they’ve been caught, they return to what they’d been doing.
Freaky small towns. I already miss the city.
Taking a deep breath, I grab the handle of my rolling luggage and march up the dock and onto the main lane leading through town.
Moonfall Isle is beautiful. As I stride up the street, colorful storefronts line both sides of the road. Water glints behind the buildings to the left. The kinds of horses you only see in beer commercials clip-clop down the street in both directions, some hauling carriages piled high with packages, others pulling equipment.
As far as I can see, the island’s main road stretches along the island’s edge in both directions. A roundabout sits at the center of town with a patch of grass at its center. A bench, some flowers, and a statue sit inside it. I stare and take a few steps closer.
“What the fuck?” I murmur to myself.
The statue is of a man in a thinking pose. Except instead of being Grecian or Italian in style, he’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. The same as you’d see on a guy who’d just rolled out of bed or finished at the gym.
The strangest part isn’t the clothing. Atop his head are huge curled horns, and at the ends of his hands are tapered talons. Massive wingsarch and spread from his back like those of a bat. His face is animalistic with a lowered brow, sharp teeth and wide features. I cross the street, drawn forward without quite deciding to.
Where in the world did I just move to that the town centerpiece is this?
The grass is lush under my shoes, and I stop a few feet in front of him. Everything about the statue is so detailed it feels like he might rise at any moment and walk away. Now that I’m up close, I realize that despite the horns and claws and odd attire, his eyes are the most disturbing thing about him.
They’re so detailed that if they weren’t gray as stone, I’d think they’d blink.
“Can I help you?” A deep voice right behind me makes me squeak and turn. A man, built like a mountain, looms over me. He looks like the wizard, Gandalf, if he were a lumberjack. His gray and white beard is trimmed close, but his long silver-gray hair is pulled into a top knot. It's hard to tell if he's thirty or fifty. He wears a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows even though it’s summer, and a pair of jeans.
One hand is still clutching my chest when my gaze flicks down to my very dead phone and then back up. The man’s eyes shine a striking blue, and I have trouble averting my gaze.
“I—yes, I’m looking for Everlane Cottage. I don’t have the address right now, but maybe you’ve heard of it?” Irritation flickers across the stranger’s face, and I take a step back.
“I see. Were you related to Ursula Shipton?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m Ivy Smith. I’m her great-grandniece?” The words come out without much confidence. Believing any of it is still difficult, especially since I’d never even heard of the woman before the letter arrived. My hand lifts anyway.
“Laz Pendragon,” the stranger says. “I’m the mayor.” He pauses, looking around. “I know where Everlane Cottage is. It’s not a big island. There’s nothing on it I don’t know about.”
A shiver races up my spine. That statement, delivered lightly, still feels pointed. Laz looks up the street. “Dolly!” he calls.
A few buildings away, a woman turns.
She’s very… pink. A soft pink dress falls to her mid-thigh. Her shoes are a darker bubblegum pink. Her hair is cotton candy-colored. As she draws closer, I notice her eyes. They’re deep magenta. I gasp. She looks at me and doesn’t blink.
“Sorry,” I say, chastising myself. Hair dye and colored contacts aren’t that shocking. Dolly’s got a real pink problem, that’s all. She shrugs and looks back to Laz, saying nothing.
