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Anyone on the other side was just gone. The Fae sent a few of their leaders to talk to our side, and they quickly confirmed that not a single mortal survived what they called a terrible accident of magic.
It wasn’t until later that we were told the truth: The twisted magic from the explosion turned the humans who didn’t die into darklings. And the residue from that same polluted darkness was present everywhere in the borderlands.
The attacks began shortly afterward. Some of the darklings came from breaches in the Shimmer. Some spontaneously transformed in public places. A girl even changed in my high school. I didn’t see it, but they said horns sprouted from her head and her bones twisted and bent, her body growing into some grotesque monster not quite Fae, and not quite human.
She escaped out a window. Most darklings only attack humans if they’re cornered, injured, or starving. They prefer Fae flesh.
Still, the human government erected borders between the borderlands and the outside world as they worked to contain the spread of tainted magic.
Both Aunts were home during the Lightmare, waiting for their families to come back from an auction near Denton. When Aunt Zinnia rescued me in Dallas, she was there looking for her daughter, Grace. Someone had called to say they spotted Grace, but it ended up being a false lead.
Instead, she found me. Not that I could ever replace her daughter. That was obvious. But somewhere in mending my wounds, physical and mental, she’d helped heal her own.
And now I’m about to break her heart again. The thought makes me sick. I grab my favorite pen and start her note. It takes nearly all evening to properly convey how grateful I am that she first saved me and then adopted me all those years ago.
More than once, I have to blink back tears.
For Aunt Violet, I write a more practical letter with the information I’ve found on the neverapples, plus a detailed account of the area of the Shimmer to avoid. I mention Chatty Cat too, begging her to keep him for the kids’ sake. Every kid needs a pet, even a feral, mangy one.
I also detail everything I can recall about the Fae who harassed me in the woods, along with a description of the brand on my arm.
I don’t think for a second the police will do anything. They’ve pretty much disbanded in the borderlands anyway. Taken over by prominent families like Cal’s who pretend to maintain law and order while really just consolidating their power.
But, in case I just disappear, never to be heard from again . . . I want there to be an account of my story.
By the time I get to Jane’s letter, the gibbous moon has already peaked over the ridge, and my clock says 11:20 p.m. An owl hoots nearby. Probably the same one I saw earlier.
I’m starting to wonder if he’s a spy for the Fae.
Remembering the Evermore’s warning, I scribble out a haphazard note on the location of my traps, the best places to find edible berries and best rivers to fish. I add in useful tips on stuff I’d always thought I had time to teach her—how to cut up cotton flannel to use for pads, making a tincture of fennel, ginger, and cinnamon for cramps—but that brings tears to my eyes.
I should be here for her. Aunt Zinnia will try, but she disappears for days on end sometimes, hiding in her sewing room or whatever chore she can throw herself into to forget her lost daughter. And Aunt Violet can be helpful, but she’s trapped behind a prison of grief that no one can break through.
Jane is about to go through the toughest, most confusing years of her life, and I won’t be there.
There’s no time to really say what’s in my heart, the sorrow and guilt I feel for leaving her without a proper goodbye, so I simply scrawl:
I’m so sorry. Please don’t hate me, and understand that I had no choice. Don’t come looking for me. And remember, mind Aunt Z and Aunt Vi.
Also, don’t pick on Tanner. Or Julia or Gabe. Or anyone.
Also, ALSO. I love you. See you in four years. That’s a promise.
I almost don’t write that last bit. What if I don’t return? Is it fair to give her false hope?
But if I don’t make myself believe that I can survive, then I won’t. From this moment forward, I have to cling to that hope, have to believe it with everything I have.
“I’m coming back home,” I say aloud, breathing my own sort of magic into the words. Then I fold the three letters and place them on top of my made bed for them to find.
The house has gone completely quiet, the only sound the owl hooting near my window.
I throw on a huge blue-and-gray Dallas Cowboys hoodie, a pair of heavy jeans a size too big, and two pairs of inside out wool socks that cramp my old work boots. The rowan-berry charm goes in my pocket.
Finally, the hideous lilac and chartreuse scarf and mittens Aunt Zinnia knitted for me last Christmas add a pop of color.
I’m a hot mess and a half.
The girl in the cracked dresser mirror agrees. My snowy-white hair tangles around me in chaotic waves, branches and leaves caught in the knots. My cheekbones come up at sharp angles and cast deep shadows in craterous dimples below. Even tinted by the sun from days outside, my skin carries an unhealthy pallor from months of living off canned goods.
