CHAPTER SEVEN

Isaac couldn’t stop thinking about his family. The Sullivans always haunted him, but seeing the Beast imitate his mother had dredged up an endless well of memories. Her image had reminded him of the way she’d protected him on his ritual day, the sacrifices she had made to try to keep him safe. It was why Gabriel’s insistence that they let her go had offended him so much—she’d done everything in her power to save his life. He would do the same for her. His focus drifted as he floated through another day at Four Paths High School, distracting him even further from the backlog of homework piling up in his room and the tests he’d forgotten to study for.

His teachers generally went pretty easy on the founder kids—it was the only possible explanation for Justin’s solid B average, considering Isaac had never seen him crack a textbook—but Isaac could feel himself slipping even by their lenient standards.

There was also the issue of the whispers. People had stared at Isaac a lot over the last few years thanks to all the rumors his ritual had set in motion, but lately those stares had been… pointed. Isaac was used to the town acting hostile toward him. This felt different—he just didn’t understand how.

He was determined to focus, to put his family out of his mind. And that was going just fine until he walked into the high school courtyard during lunch and saw Gabriel leaning against the concrete wall, scrolling through his phone.

Isaac’s stomach lurched. He wanted it to be the Beast again, or his own imagination. But he knew it wasn’t.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, closing the distance between them. His gaze darted to the other students milling around. He didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to this, but surely someone would figure out what was going on before long. And if news of another Sullivan in town got around, well… Isaac didn’t know what would happen, but he knew he wouldn’t like it.

Gabriel looked up from his phone, his face utterly impassive. “I am an alumnus, you know.”

Isaac scowled at him. “You’re still trespassing.”

“I have a visitor pass,” Gabriel said mildly. He slid his phone into his pocket. The tattoo on his inner forearm—a wolf—bared its teeth at Isaac. “Also, people have been reporting suspicious activity in a woods clearing where a recent police investigation took place. The people at the Pathways Inn had a lot to say about it last night. There are quite a lot of rumors about us founders now, did you know that?”

Isaac froze, his heart thumping in his chest. So this was why Gabriel was here: to talk to him about the ritual he and Violet had tried to do.

“I…” he began, unsure what to even say. “I was trying…”

“I told you not to come out here.” The voice was so loud, Isaac was sure it was addressing him. But when he turned he saw that Cal Gonzales, one of Justin’s track friends, was standing at the other end of the courtyard, speaking very loudly.

Beside him, the clear target of his ire, was Justin Hawthorne.

Isaac had walked through many hallways with Justin over the years. He knew how people reacted to his friend: a mixture of awe and friendship that he’d never managed to earn for himself. Today though, Cal was staring at Justin with obvious disdain. Isaac looked around at the rest of the courtyard: Their expressions matched his.

Unease coursed through his stomach. He’d known things had worsened at school for Justin after the truth about his lack of powers had spread, but he hadn’t realized it had gotten this bad.

“Hey.” Justin’s voice sounded strained. Isaac had never seen him alone like this: no friends beside him, no powers to shield him, just a backpack and a feigned smile. “Just trying to eat lunch, man.”

“Not with us.” Cal gestured to the people clustering behind him—the rest of the cross-country team. People Isaac had heard his friend talk about for years with so much respect, so much care.

Justin’s gaze flicked across the courtyard, meeting Isaac’s, then widening a bit as it caught on Gabriel. But he said nothing to them. The expression on Justin’s face hit Isaac like a bullet. Not because he looked angry, but because he looked resigned.

Isaac’s temper roared in his ears. He could make everyone in this courtyard kneel if he wanted to—force them to apologize. Force them to admit that they had no idea the pressure the founders were under, the lengths Justin had gone to in order to protect them. His power was already tugging at him, begging him to use it. It would be so easy to let it loose.

But Gabriel was watching. Everyone was watching. So he used his words instead.

“Cal,” he said. The boy turned toward him, the disdain on his face changing into something else entirely. That same look Isaac had been noticing more and more often. “He’s eating with me.”

The track team murmured uncomfortably. Cal stepped back, raised his hands slightly.

“If you say so,” he said. “I don’t want any trouble. Not with you.”

Justin walked over to him reluctantly, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. Isaac caught his eye, and they walked out of the courtyard together, Gabriel trailing behind.

“Why—” he began softly, but Justin shook his head.

“Don’t.” His voice was gruff and low. “They used to listen to me. Now they listen to you.”

He stalked off then, and Isaac sagged backward in the hallway, struggling to remember how to breathe.

He wished he hadn’t understood Justin’s words. But he did. He had assumed that after news of Justin’s deception got out, the rest of the town would automatically distrust all the other founders alongside him. But that wasn’t true. They were punishing Justin, and that look they were giving Isaac—that look was respect.

It was a look that terrified him, because he knew he’d done nothing to deserve it. If the person the town felt safest turning to was a Sullivan, they really were all in trouble.

“Things sure have changed around here,” Gabriel said, and Isaac jolted. He’d half forgotten that his brother was behind them, but at least Gabriel looked distressed, too. “What happened while I was gone? Why are they being so hard on the Hawthornes?”

“He doesn’t have powers. The town found out,” Isaac said shortly. His breath was still coming a shade too quickly. “Honestly, the founders’ track record just isn’t what it used to be.”

Gabriel’s brow furrowed. And then he said the last thing Isaac expected.

“So let me help,” he said. “I’m a founder, too. I know you’re involved with whatever happened in the forest—”

“No.” The word flew out of Isaac’s mouth before he could even think about it.

He couldn’t trust Gabriel. Not with his failures, not with anything.

Because every time Isaac looked at Gabriel, he saw his older brother standing over his chained-up body, holding a knife to his neck, ambivalence in his eyes.

Harper stood beneath the tree she had turned to stone, guilt churning through her stomach. It was a cloudy fall afternoon, but the sun still shone brightly enough to illuminate the stiff, unmoving branches. It was red-brown stone all the way from the top of the tree’s gnarled branches to the place where the trunk sank into the soil.

She knew exactly why Augusta Hawthorne had arranged for her to come here for her first training session. It was meant to destabilize her, to give Augusta justification for whatever she was about to put Harper through. Harper was determined not to let it get to her.

“You’re late.” Augusta appeared in the Hawthorne house’s back doorway, her lips pursed into an annoyed grimace. Her mastiffs loped into position behind her a moment later. They were bigger than Harper remembered; on two legs, they would easily have been taller than she was. Another show of force. Another not-so-subtle reminder that while Harper had successfully stood up to Augusta and Juniper, neither of these women were pleased about it. “I said three thirty.”

Harper pulled her phone out of her pocket. It was 3:31. Annoyance built in her throat, but she forced it down. She would not let Augusta rattle her—not visibly, anyway.

“It won’t happen again,” she said smoothly.

Augusta inclined her head in a sharp nod. “Good.” She wore black from head to toe, her hands ensconced in their usual leather gloves. A trench coat fell to her ankles, the tails flapping slightly in the breeze as she made her way across the lawn, her dogs trailing behind her. Harper had known Augusta Hawthorne her entire life, but that was not enough to overcome the sheer presence she exuded. Something about her demanded focus. Harper had thought for ages that it was a Hawthorne thing, but when she’d seen it in her siblings after they passed their rituals, she’d realized the truth.

It was a founder thing. They all knew how to be watched—something Harper had yet to learn.

“Before we begin,” Augusta said, locking eyes with her, “there are a few things we must cover. Firstly, I’m well aware you do not trust me. I do not expect you to, not yet. But I do require your respect. Can you do that?”

Harper’s throat was tight, but she nodded. There was no world in which she would ever trust Augusta Hawthorne, but she’d always respected her. Even when she’d hated her.

“Good.” Augusta’s voice was as chilly and brisk as a fall breeze. “Secondly, I want you to be aware of what we’re facing here. Four Paths is in a time of turmoil right now, and the town needs all of our strength to steady it after what happened with the Church of the Four Deities—we’re still feeling those aftershocks. Something strange occurred the night before you agreed to train with us, at the place where the Church attempted their ritual.”

She drew out her phone and showed Harper a series of photos. Harper stared, frowning, at the iridescent liquid oozing through the lines of the founders’ symbol, the deep grooves in the dirt.

The night before she’d agreed to train with them. That was the night Violet had been out late.

“Do you know what that is?” she asked Augusta.

Augusta shook her head. “Something new,” she said sharply. “Something dangerous. Which means there’s no more time to waste.”

At first, Harper just exercised. Stretches, which Augusta modified for Harper’s residual limb; lunges, a quick jog around the yard. Harper was sweating and glad she’d worn workout clothes by the time they were done. After forty-five minutes of physical labor, Harper chugged most of a bottle of water, then sank to her knees beneath the tree she’d turned into a statue, panting. The branches above her head shone in the light of the setting sun.

“Now that we’ve dealt with the basics”—Augusta’s boots appeared a foot away from Harper’s knees, crunching across the desiccated autumn leaves—“let’s discuss your powers.”

Harper tipped up her head. Augusta’s face was impassive, but Harper wondered if her mind was full of the same memories Harper was now replaying. The night Harper had gripped her arm and tried to turn her to stone. The night she’d fallen into the lake. The night her life as she knew it had changed forever.

“All right,” Harper said, starting to get to her feet, but to her surprise Augusta shook her head.

“No, I’ll join you.” She lowered herself into the leaves, crossed her black leather boots, and placed her gloved hands primly on her knees. Harper wasn’t sure she’d ever actually been eye to eye with Augusta Hawthorne before. She’d expected the woman’s gaze to be even more piercing up close, but it was softer instead. The setting sun deepened the crow’s feet around her eyes, set her feathery blond pixie cut ablaze, and it occurred to Harper that this woman had watched this town crumble in her grasp, that she held the very weight of the forest itself on her shoulders.

“What happens when you turn something to stone?” Augusta said mildly. “Describe your technique.”

Harper hesitated. “It’s like… I push,” she said, extending her palm. “And it sort of flows from there.”

“Localized in the hand, naturally,” Augusta said, her brow furrowing. “Sounds as if the power comes when you call, so what’s the problem?”

“I don’t know when to stop.” The words tumbled out of her, shameful and soft. Harper had always thought she’d excel as a founder if only she had powers, that the meticulous control she’d put into her weapons training would be easily applicable. She’d even judged Isaac for his inability to keep his powers in check. But now she was out of control, just like him.

Maybe she would have learned if Augusta had given her a chance instead of cutting her off. Maybe fewer people would have died in the Gray. The knowledge of how unfair it was surged through Harper’s chest, and she knew that Violet would have let it take her over, stood up and stormed out.

But Harper wasn’t Violet. She knew Augusta had wronged her—and she knew, just as well, that she could not change the Hawthornes’ betrayal. But it didn’t mean there was nothing to learn from the sheriff. So again she stayed silent, and to her surprise, Augusta’s face creased not with derision, but sympathy.

“I had the same problem when I first came into my powers,” she said, almost gently.

“Really?” Harper asked, surprised.

“It is extremely unpleasant,” Augusta continued, rather stiffly, as if the very words made her uncomfortable, “to feel as if you are merely a vessel instead of the one in control.”

Harper’s surprise deepened. She hated being used. She’d hated it when her father had done it, when Augusta and Juniper had tried to do it. But most of all, she hated that the power she had waited her entire life to have felt like it was just using her, too.

“Yes,” she said, trying not to show how much it meant to her that someone else felt that way, too. “It is. So how do I stop it?”

“Well, the difficult thing is that you are a vessel. All of us are. That is what our rituals do—they make us proper receptacles for power. Which means you must learn how to tame it before it tames you. You’re good with a sword, yes?”

Harper nodded. “Very good, thank you.”

Augusta’s lips twitched. If Harper hadn’t known better, she’d have said the older woman was amused.

“Think of your power as a blade, then. One you must wield internally. Hone it in your mind. Call upon it with clear intention. Set boundaries, and do not allow it to surpass them.”

This all made sense to Harper—too much sense, almost. It seemed so simple.

“I see,” she said slowly, and then: “I want to try it.”

“I thought you might.” She gestured to the leaves scattered on the ground. “Perhaps you can begin with one of them. Turn something small to stone. See if you can stop.”

Harper’s heart thudded in her chest as she lifted a browning leaf into the air. She twirled it in her fingers, thinking of Augusta’s words—Call upon it with clear intention—and pictured the leaf transforming to stone, just that leaf, nothing else. Then she pushed her power into it, exhaling. Immediately, stone spread from the tips of her fingers, rushing up the leaf’s stem and engulfing it in reddish-brown.

“There,” she said, setting the thin piece of stone down gently on the grass.

Augusta gave her a sharp, approving nod.

Harper was about to smile when she felt something course through her again, another wave of power. She slammed her palm against the ground and shuddered as a wave of stone rippled out from between her fingers, this one spreading across the ground. Augusta scrambled hastily out of the way as it rushed toward her.

When the surge of power faded, Harper was left staring at a swathe of stone leaves and grass before her, extending perhaps five feet outward from where her hand had struck the ground. She felt dizzy and disoriented again. Her residual limb ached as her frustration deepened, phantom pain twinging through a left hand that no longer existed.

It hadn’t worked. Of course it hadn’t worked. Harper hated that she was disappointed. She rose cautiously to her feet, the world still spinning, and braced herself for whatever insult Augusta Hawthorne was about to hurl her way.

But instead, Augusta was staring at the damage Harper had done, an unreadable expression on her face.

“Hmm,” she said. “Perhaps asking you to work on this here was unwise. We’ll try your lake next time.”

“My lake?” Harper asked, trying not to sound dubious. “It doesn’t belong to me.”

“Yes, it does.” Augusta gestured to the tree behind her. “The founders’ rituals might be different, but they are all based around specific places. The Saunderses’ attic. Your lake. Our tree. The Sullivans’…” She trailed off, shook her head. “The point is, place matters in Four Paths. It puts you in tune with the bargain you made and enables you to focus. Why do you think we hold the Founders’ Day ceremony on the seal?”

“I’ve never really thought about it,” Harper said honestly.

“Because that’s where the founders sacrificed themselves for the Beast,” Augusta said. “It is an important place for us all.”

Harper had never known that. There was a lot she didn’t know, she realized, guilt rising in her. Maybe the Hawthornes had deserved to have their focal point taken away, but she wasn’t sure the town deserved to lose so many of its defenses. Before she had her powers, she had seen the stark reality of what it was like to live in Four Paths, to put your safety in other people’s hands.

Revenge on Justin’s family had seemed so simple. But Harper knew she could not just consider her own feelings about the Hawthornes anymore. She held the power she had always craved in her small palm; she could not justify misusing it. That would make her no better than her father. No better than Augusta.

“What would happen,” she asked quietly, “if all of those places were destroyed?”

Augusta froze. Her gloved hands twitched ever so slightly as she stared at the pile of stone leaves Harper had created.

“I don’t think any of us would like to find out,” she said finally. “That’s why it’s so important that you gain control of your powers. And when you do gain control, I hope for all of our sakes that you use your power wisely.”