He pulled the gate back, and I shoved my card in my pocket before pedaling inside. The gate whispered shut behind me as I entered what might as well have been another world.
Whereas Mothwing Falls was cramped and crowded, with apartments layered over shops and artisan studios pressed between them like putty, Thornwood was a place of shade and mansions.
Enormous willows hung over the street, glimmering with pixie lights, and each manor was encircled with stone walls and plaques declaring the names of old Gentry families. More than one guard stalked the shadows, their unseen eyes on my back as I pedaled through the district.
It was almost entirely silent, although at times I’d catch a wisp of laughter, the clink of glasses, a cut-off moan. I kept my eyes on the road ahead, only stopping to check the name on the last package.
Oddly, there was no name, but the address was legible. It was near the very back of Thornwood, in the old sector. There were rumors that some of the older houses in Thornwood were actually where Queen Titania had lived and founded Avilion, before the Seelie Palace was built.
I sighed and pedaled harder, even though I’d already busted my time limit on being out past nightfall.
The manicured mansions gave way to the original buildings. More than one fairy ring of mushrooms glowed under the moonlight on front laws, and the stone walls surrounding the houses became rougher, overtaken by moss and tipped with sharp iron spikes.
I finally found my address nestled at the very end of a dead-end street, and found myself wondering if maybe, just maybe, it would be okay to lose a package this one single time.
The house was painted with shadow, the windows dark. A gnarled blackthorn tree rose above the stone wall surrounding the house like a sentinel.
I leaned my bike against the wall, tucked the package under my arm, and tried the gate. It opened easily under my hand, unlocked and inviting.
This looked like exactly the kind of place the Ghosthand Killer would live.
Maybe I was walking right into a trap, and my body would be the next soulless husk they’d find sprawled out on the street… I could already imagine Oriande Snowdrop adjusting her pearls as she prepared to give a moving eulogy and boost her ratings…
I shivered as the gate closed itself behind me. I was being dramatic because I was tired and ravenously hungry. I wouldn’t even turn down an apple right then.
I picked my way over a stone path lined with foxgloves and belladonna, all the way up to the black front door. A piece of paper had been pinned to it.
“‘Please deliver to the back entrance’,” I read, and scowled. Suddenly my theory about the Ghosthand didn’t seem so far-fetched at all.
But there was a beaten path in the overgrown grass leading around the side of the house. I jumped off the porch and followed it, cursing when unseen thorns brushed my legs and drew blood. “This is why we need real pants, Numa,” I muttered.
I rounded the corner and my stomach cramped. There was another blackthorn tree, but scattered around it was smaller bushes, each dripping with faerie fruit.
The berries seemed to glow under the moonlight, crimson red and bruise purple, promising to be tart and sweet and plump with juice. My mouth flooded with saliva and I thought back ruefully on the free tart I’d turned down.
They weren’t my fruit to eat. The sooner I dropped the package, the sooner I’d be home to make myself dinner.
I found my way to the back door and porch, where a stone sat like it was expecting the package. I placed the paper-wrapped parcel on it carefully, just in case the owner was watching, and paused when I felt eyes on my back.
Every hair on the back of my neck rose.
I decided to take a risk. Keeping a tight rein on my magic, I felt for my fellow tree, the blackthorn with twisted branches. What lives here? I asked.
The tree said nothing in reply, but it gave me the distinct impression of being smug and watchful. It was a well-fed tree, happy with its sun and water and rich soil.
More feelings twined into my mind as I reached out: the faerie fruit bushes, cajoling and caressing me.
They’d worked so hard to dig their roots deep; their owner tended them with a loving hand, gave them everything they needed to thrive. As a tree-sister, wouldn’t I just try one bite?
I swallowed saliva again, imagining how fresh and tangy the juice of those berries would be.
I didn’t even realize I’d left the porch and high-stepped through the grass to the bushes until I blinked, and realized I held a clump of berries in my hand.
My stomach growled, twisting painfully. This morning at the bakery seemed like a long-distant dream, the day a blur of keeping my mind busy. I hadn’t thought of food or water in hours.
I picked one of the berries off the twig I held, rolling it between my fingers. Its ruby-red skin was dusted with gold that transferred to my fingertips, and a bead of juice welled out of the fruit and stained my skin.
I sucked the bead of juice off my finger without thinking, and every taste bud in my mouth suddenly exploded, clamoring for more. It was as tart and sweet as it’d promised to be, but it also tasted like sunlight and wine and spices…
I popped the berry in my mouth, followed by another. Then I tried one of the purple ones, licking the juice that rolled down the side of my hand. The purple berries tasted like the night felt, comforting and close, sweeter than the red with a floral tinge.
Before I realized it, I’d eaten every berry off the twig I’d plucked. It fell from my hands as I licked my lips, determined to get every last drop of faerie fruit. My stomach had gone silent, apparently happy with its tiny feast.
It’d been ages since I’d eaten faerie fruit. The apples of Emain Ablach were the same way, but berries didn’t tend to grow well on our island, not when the apple trees choked them all out. Besides, I loathed apples with a passion.
I’d eaten five of the berries. The bushes hummed in contentment, their leaves stretching towards me like they were trying to brush my skin.
One more, they seemed to say. One more, tree-sister.
“One more,” I breathed, plucking a purple berry from a branch. They were my favorite, suiting my rather dark mood and comforting in their syrupy sweetness.
I licked the gold from its skin and rolled the berry in my mouth, wanting to make it last. Not even Web and Peaseblossom could make a dessert that tasted like this.
I stepped back and lowered my stained fingers, determined to leave. I couldn’t stay here all night, no matter how plaintively the trees called to me, nor could I eat all the fruit. It wasn’t mine. I was just lucky I hadn’t been spotted.
Guilt welled up under the greedy satisfaction. There was just having a taste, and then there was stealing. I felt vaguely like I’d crossed into stealing somewhere after berry number three.
I tripped over something in the tall grass as I backed away and windmilled my arms, but that didn’t save me. I landed hard on my ass with a sharp “Ooof!”
The moonlight sparkled over the grass, illuminating what I’d tripped over like it was shining a spotlight. The tangy sweetness in my mouth went to ashes.
It was a foot. A foot, still wearing a leather sneaker, the laces tied… and the ankle ending in a ragged stump. There was no blood, but there was no mistaking the glint of ivory bone and the ragged flesh, either.
I jerked to my feet, almost choking on the last berry before forcing it down. I had to leave now. My instincts were right, this was the home of the Ghosthand Killer, and I’d walked right into the trap like a rabbit in a snare-