Chapter Ten

Jaren wiped his mouth as he stumbled down the trail in the moonlight, wondering if he was going to be sick again. He should have listened to Lars and Maggie, she of the eyebrows. Because even if the villagers had been wrong about the songs luring people into the lake—he was running away from the lake, as fast as his legs could carry him—they were still evil. He knew that now for a fact.

It had all been a stupid bet, one he’d agreed to in part because he wanted an excuse to come back here. But as he quickened his pace through the woods, the notes of that horrible song, some almost as high and piercing as the sounds of the dying animals, echoed in his head. He didn’t know how it was possible that the same people who had made such joyful music the last time he was here, or songs as beautiful as the one he still heard in his dreams, could produce anything so discordant. And while he was certainly no stranger to animal slaughter, the sound of so many animals dying at once, paired with that awful music, had turned it into something cruel and ritualistic, rather than necessary.

Stupid, stupid bet.

He had only gone back to the pub because Tadpole begged him to take her. She had retaliated for Story’s cod liver oil trick by cutting off a hunk of Story’s hair in her sleep, which had resulted in Tad being punished severely by Father (although perhaps not as severely as she should have been—Father simply couldn’t hang on to anger toward his children since his wife died). Story, who was attempting to cover up a not insignificant bald spot at the back of her head with some creative styling and a rotation of hats, had vowed to get her own revenge soon enough.

Eventually, Story either forgot about Tadpole’s betrayal, or she was playing a very long game. But his little sister watched sadly from the window every time her older siblings went to the pub, until finally, after an hour of desperate pleading, Jaren had buckled under the pressure and agreed to take her.

Summer and Story had gone to a dance in a neighboring village, and Father was visiting with his friend Klaus, the one who had invited the family to Bricklebury. Tadpole, who was giddy with excitement at finally breaking free of her prison, gripped Jaren’s arm tightly as they walked into the village. She wouldn’t be the youngest person at the pub, he knew. But he also knew that she had the energy and common sense of a chipmunk. He would have to keep a close eye on her the whole night.

Sure enough, Tadpole had quickly set her sights on an older boy, one Jaren already knew by reputation was something of a bully. While he drank his pint, he kept one eye on his sister, the other on Lars, who claimed he, too, had spotted the massive wolf.

“You saw it yourself?” Jaren asked, not sure if he should be impressed or concerned.

“Well, I didn’t see the wolf so much as its tracks. But they were gargantuan. As big as my plow horse’s hooves.”

“Maybe it’s not a wolf,” Jaren said. “Maybe it’s some kind of bear.”

Lars shook his head, and Jaren had the distinct impression his hair was waggling like an accusatory finger. “I know bear tracks. These weren’t bear tracks.”

Before Jaren could apologize, he heard a squeak and turned to see the bully, Merritt, attempting to pull Tadpole in for a kiss. He set his pint down, ignoring the ale that sloshed onto his hand, and pushed through the crowd. He should never have left her to her own devices, but he found himself drawn in by Lars’s stories, the so-called wolf and the poison lake, in a way he couldn’t explain.

“Get your hands off my sister,” he shouted, but she had already managed to knee Merritt in the unmentionables. Tears streaked her face, and Jaren tucked her under his arm. “What are you thinking?” he demanded. “She’s fifteen!”

Merritt finally managed to straighten to his full height, which was a good six inches taller than Jaren’s. “She flirted with me.”

“She’s fifteen!” Jaren repeated, because surely that was all the explanation necessary.

“She’s a tease,” Merritt spat. “She shouldn’t be here.”

Tadpole shrugged out from under her brother’s arm. “I have every right to be here. Maybe you shouldn’t be here, if you can’t handle your drink!”

A few other villagers chuckled, and Merritt’s already ruddy face turned a darker shade of mauve. “Get out! Now, before I thrash the both of you.”

Jaren knew his own limits, and there was no way he was fighting Merritt. “Come on,” he said to Tadpole. “Let’s go home.”

She started to protest, but he gripped her firmly by the arm and led her through the parted crowd. They were almost to the door when she turned.

“My brother could thrash you with his arms tied behind his back!” she called over her shoulder.

Merritt had grinned in a way that made Jaren’s stomach do a clumsy somersault. “Is that so?”

“Erm, no,” Jaren said, not about to put pride before his own mortality. “You know how little sisters are,” he said with a forced chuckle. “Think their big brothers are capable of anything.”

“Jaren,” Tad whined, embarrassed by his cowardice. “Everyone is looking.”

Jaren truly didn’t care what the other townspeople thought of him, but the expression of utter disappointment on his little sister’s face made his stomach twist with disappointment in himself. With a sigh, he started to raise his fists. Merritt’s grin widened.

And just when Jaren thought he was about to be pummeled to death by a red-faced oaf with fists the size of ham hocks, Maggie had stepped forward and whispered something into Merritt’s ear.

Merritt had chuckled darkly and nodded. “Maggie here has an idea. Personally, I’d rather kick your ass into next Tuesday. But judging by the state of you, it won’t be much of a fight.”

Jaren swallowed audibly.

“I’ll tell you what,” Merritt said. “I’ll give you a choice.”

“And since you don’t believe in magic,” Maggie sneered, “it should be an easy one.”

Merritt raised his voice so everyone in the pub could hear him. “Go to Lake Luma and bring back a vial of water.”

The crowd gasped in unison. It might have been comical under other circumstances.

“Tonight. Alone,” Maggie added, and Jaren knew he’d made an enemy for life.

“Or stay and fight me now,” Merritt said. “The choice is yours.”

At the time, it had seemed like Jaren was getting off easy. Back home, the very worst dare was jumping off of Dead Man’s Ridge into the river below, which had earned its moniker more than once over the years. But Lars had assured Jaren that a glass vial with just an ounce or two of lake water was transportable. At least, he thought it was. In theory. Jaren had decided it was worth trying, if only to buy him some time before he had to face Merritt.

Now that very vial, carefully collected from the lakeshore in the moonlight, jostled in Jaren’s pocket. He pressed his hand over it, afraid if he fell, it would break and spill poisonous water all over his unmentionables.

Stupid, stupid bet! Jaren thought, and ran as fast as he could away from that cursed lake.

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