I WOKE UP warm, which was the only good thing about my circumstances. My eyes felt crusty, and the idea of opening them was exhausting, so I took an inventory of myself instead. What I had: pain, a lot of it, shooting in jagged pulses from the back of my skull to the base of my spine. What I didn’t have: clothes. My bra and underpants were still on, wet but warm, but the rest of my skin was in direct contact with whatever rough, woven blanket was covering me.
A blanket seemed good. People generally didn’t cover you nicely with warm blankets when they were intent on bludgeoning you to death.
I couldn’t hear anything but the omnipresent ocean. It was muffled—I was obviously indoors—but close. I could smell it, the salty tang of the ocean air, but that was everywhere on Bitter Rock. Along with the ocean was the smell of woodsmoke.
Nothing for it. I forced my eyes open and found myself staring up at the wooden beams of a ceiling. Not very informative. I pushed myself cautiously upright. My head throbbed and my back gave a spasm of protest, but nothing seemed broken and I didn’t immediately pass out, which I assumed were good signs.
The room I was in was tiny and wood paneled. The smell of the blankets told me the narrow bed hadn’t been used in a long time. There were clothes folded at the end of the bed. An old, soft gray sweater, a long brown skirt, socks that looked bulky and wonderfully warm. I pulled them on eagerly. I felt a bit braver with something between me and the outside world, even if it was just wool. By the time I was done getting dressed, my aches and pains were working themselves loose. My fingers found a hole in the cuff as I stole my way to the door.
Unlocked. I let out a breath, tension easing out of me. The room beyond wasn’t as cramped as the bedroom, but it was built on about the same scale, woodstove and table and fireplace crammed together. My clothes were draped over a rack near the woodstove. A heavy coat hung on a peg by the front door, and blue curtains covered the windows, blocking the light so only the glow of the fireplace illuminated the interior. There were only three doors: one to the outside, one open and leading to a tiny bathroom, the last to my right. Another bedroom, maybe.
How had I gotten here? I’d dreamed— No. My mind grabbed at that nearly sane explanation, but I shoved it away. It hadn’t been a dream.
I moved farther into the room, and my gaze snagged against something on the mantel. Small shapes, arranged haphazardly. I had to draw close in the dim light before I could be sure what they were.
They were birds. Two dozen, maybe, none of them with a wingspan bigger than my palm, carved out of pale wood, their throats painted with a single red patch. Terns. Some had their wings stretched to the sky, others pointing straight up, still others tucked neatly at their sides. I reached out, running one tentative finger along the proud crown of one bird’s head. Like my mother’s and Abby’s, they were simple, but something in the pose of each one gave it a spark of life. No two were exactly the same.
There was only one place left to explore. I crossed to the closed door. It wasn’t latched, and I pushed it lightly with my fingertips. It swung inward with only the whisper of a creak.
It was another bedroom, and it wasn’t empty. A man stood with his back to me—a massive man, shirtless, the whole of his back covered in a blue-black tattoo: a snarling bear, claws raised to swipe and rend. He had a shirt in his hand, clearly in the middle of changing. A floorboard creaked under my foot, and he turned.
And then I screamed. It was him. Mikhail.
I jerked back, hitting the stone mantel. One of the wooden birds clattered to the ground. Mikhail held up those giant hands. “Ne boysya,” he said. “It’s okay.”
I looked at him. Really looked at him.
This wasn’t the man who had attacked me. He looked nearly the same—graying, curly hair, thick limbs, bristling beard. But his eye—the man who’d attacked me had two bright, angry eyes. Mikhail had only one clear eye, the other scarred over, pale and sightless. The way the other man had held himself, it was like he was all body, all meat and momentum. This man hunched, like he was used to intimidating people by his sheer size and he didn’t like it.
“Please,” he said. His accent was thick, his voice pleading. “I won’t hurt you.”
“Okay,” I said. It wasn’t much, but he looked relieved, almost like he was the one who’d had cause to be afraid. He lurched, and I startled, but he only grabbed one of the kitchen chairs and pushed it toward me.
“Please, sit. You are tired,” he said.
I didn’t move. “What’s out there? What were those things?”
“They are—” He gestured, swiping his hand in the air over his face. “Gosti. The Visitors. Not usually so dangerous in the daytime, but . . .” He shrugged. “Not always.”
“I saw you,” I said. “You attacked me.”
He shook his head. “No. That was not me. They look like us, but they are hollow.”
“He—” I put a hand to my throat. It was tender where he’d choked me. I flinched at even the light brush of my fingers across it. I’d been lucky.
“Prosti menya,” he said. I stared at him blankly, too weary to ask what it meant. He let out a sigh and picked up his shirt from where it had fallen, pulling it on.
“How did I get here?” I asked instead.
“I found you. In the water,” he said. “Just there.” He pointed toward the back wall of the cabin, which faced the sea.
I must have lost consciousness when I fell. I was lucky I hadn’t drowned.
A memory shimmered below the surface of my mind like a pale fish beneath the water—a hand in mine, walking down toward a rocky beach. But not the same beach. Not the same hand—or was it? I shook my head to clear it. “What is going on here?” I asked, more plaintively than I meant to. “Who are you? What was that place? What are those things?”
He stopped me, holding up his hand. “This is no way to talk. I will make tea. You sit, rest. Then ask your questions.” He gestured to the small kitchen table. I considered. He wasn’t the man who’d attacked me, but they shared the same face, and the most primal part of me refused to let go of my fear. And even if that had not been true, he was a strange man and he’d taken me here, alone and vulnerable.
A glass lantern hung from the wall on a hook, the smudges on the interior suggesting it wasn’t just decorative. I stared at the miniaturized reflection in its surface.
The man in the reflection wasn’t Mikhail. It was the other one. He had his back to us, and twitches of movement rippled over his body, his limbs, his head jerking an inch to either direction every second or two.
“What do you see?” Mikhail asked with interest.
“Nothing,” I said. I sat down in the chair heavily. “I think I’d like that tea.”
Mikhail spoke as he filled the kettle and set it on the heat. “You have figured out by now that there is something evil on these islands.”
“The Visitors?” I asked.
Mikhail shook his head. “The Visitors belong to it. They merely do as it says.”
“It. You mean the Six-Wing,” I said.
“Yes. The Six-Wing cannot leave the other world,” he said. “The echo world. The Visitors, though, they can slip out.”
“They come when there’s mist,” I said.
“Hm. No. The mist comes with them,” he said. “They are stronger at night. In the dark months. But they come in daylight too.”
“That’s why no one’s allowed here after the summer,” I guessed. “During the summer, there’s no night.”
He nodded. “It is why you must not go out in the mist, or in the night. Sometimes, nothing. You come home, all is well. Sometimes, you do not come home. Sometimes, someone comes home, and it looks like you, and it sounds like you, and it is not you.” He leaned forward, his voice urgent. “You must not trust them. Not even for a moment. Some of them are like animals, worse than animals. They will tear you apart the moment they see you. But others, they have learned to smile. To say, ‘It is all right. Come closer. It is only me, your old friend.’ But you do not trust anyone you meet in the mist. You do not trust a knock on the door. You do not trust the voice you hear, calling for help.”
“Do you . . .” I swallowed. “Do you know what happened to Joy Novak?”
Something like surprise and something like regret flashed through his eyes. “I know they took her,” he said. “I was only there at the end. The bird people had gone to Belaya Skala. It was not allowed, but smart men are sometimes the greatest fools.”
I blinked a moment, thinking he meant some kind of bird-person monsters I had yet to encounter, but then I realized he must mean the ornithologists—the LARC staff. “What do you mean, ‘at the end’?” I asked. “What happened at the end?”
“I found you,” he said, as if it was obvious. “I found you in the boat, Sophia. You were all alone, and the others were gone.”
I went still. The fisherman in the story—it was Mikhail? “I need to know,” I said. “I need to know what happened to my mother.”
Mikhail scowled. “You should not be asking these questions. Your mother would want you safe. And you are not safe here. What you can see can also see you. The island has not noticed you yet, but it will. You should go. Leave this place, and stay safe.”
“I have to find her,” I said quietly.
“The people who vanish here do not come back,” he replied. His voice was gentle.
“I did.”
He looked at me a long moment. And then he sighed. “If you won’t leave, I will tell you only to be careful. Do not trust a familiar face just because it is familiar. Some of them have learned to walk outside the mist.”
I knew I would get no more from him. Not now, at least. “Thank you,” I said. “For saving me. Twice, I guess. And for the clothes. Who . . . whose are they, anyway?”
“They belonged to my wife,” he said.
“Does she live here?” I asked.
“Oh, no. She left a long time ago,” he replied. “But sometimes I still see her. And I lock the door.”