I MUST HAVE dozed off, because then I was dreaming. The dreams were always the same, a tangled knot of memory and nightmare—the sea, the cold, the shore. A sky empty of stars. And lastly, always, the dark angel.
The dark angel was a hole in the world in the shape of a man. Six wings grew from its shoulders, and it hung above me, its outline surrounded by streaks of light like fractured glass. It pointed at me—
And I woke. I sat panting in bed, sweat sticking my shirt to my skin. The light in the hall was off, and I glanced at the alarm clock beside the bed. Just after two a.m. It was dim outside, though not quite night. There was no true night in the summer here.
Something clicked softly against the window.
My head whipped up. For a moment all I could see was my startled reflection. Outside there was only the sound of waves and wind, of rock tumbled against rock, scrape and hush, and of the terns calling.
Or was it more? The scrape of rocks became a footstep; the tern’s scream became the wail of someone crying. Then back again. I crept from the bed and turned off the light. When I turned to the window, my twinned self in the reflection had vanished. In its place was the mist.
And in the mist, a shadow. Someone was outside.
I bolted to the window, but the shadow had receded into the gloom.
I bit my lip, my mouth dry and sour with adrenaline. Everyone I’d met so far had told me this place was dangerous. Mr. Nguyen, refusing to set foot on the shore. Mikhail, with his parting warning. Mrs. Popova, locking the doors against an empty island. I should stay put. Any sensible person would stay put.
But I wouldn’t find out anything by staying safely indoors. And it wasn’t like I had anything to lose, except my life. And it wasn’t a life worth fretting over.
I grabbed my phone for its flashlight and hurried for the back door, doing my best to move quietly. The house was old and creaked with every step, but no one stirred. I twisted the deadbolt on the back door and yanked it open. Frigid air blasted me immediately, but at least there was only fog. The storm had stayed out east after all.
Mrs. Popova’s house backed up to the water. I walked slowly toward it—between the darkness of the cloud cover and the mist, I could barely see my own feet. It would be easy to fall, crack my skull on the rocks, and be carried away by the hungry tide. Just another one of the vanished.
I’d reached the edge of the water. The surf slapped at the pebbles just ahead of me, foamy, flecked with grit and bits of seaweed. It sloshed, shushed—dripped. But no, that last sound was behind me, and with it the scrape of rocks. A footstep.
Fear jolted through me, rooting me in place. I should have turned, but the terror held me still. Another footstep came, and with it a soft exhalation of breath.
Angrily, I shoved my fear into the emptiness of the void. For an instant, it vanished—and then it rushed back, like a wave retreating only to crash against the shore once more. I sucked in a startled breath, and bit down against a low moan of animal panic.
“Who’s there?” I whispered. My voice was too weak to overcome the ocean.
Fingertips brushed the back of my neck. I held myself perfectly still as they trailed lightly down my back to a point between my shoulder blades, then fell away. The person behind me sighed, and their footsteps fell back. I forced myself to turn slowly, my heart hammering.
The mist was thick. Thicker than any fog I’d ever seen. The figure in front of me stood no more than four feet away, but all I could see was a gray shadow through the mist. A person, but featureless, nearly formless. Silent, except for the persistent drip of water. A damp, earthy smell seemed to emanate from them.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Who are you?” the figure repeated. Voice a croak like a raven’s.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“What do you want?” Less of a croak now. Almost human.
The figure faded. It took me a moment to realize they had stepped back—and back again, the mist swallowing them until all that was before me was a featureless expanse of gray.
I was alone.