CHAPTER 1
Lyra
Crescent Hollow was exactly as I’d left it: boring, suspiciously quiet, and crawling with small-town nosiness. The kind of place where secrets didn’t stay buried, no matter how deep you shoved them.
I hadn’t even been back for five minutes before Mrs. Riggins from across the street poked her head out of her window, clutching her ancient Pomeranian like a furry grenade. Her eyes narrowed in on me like I was a burglar, not a former resident returning to the fold.
“Lyra Winters? Is that you?” she hollered. The dog yapped, which I’m sure was meant to back her up but only added to the chaos.
I plastered on my best fake smile. “Nope, just someone who looks exactly like her and definitely isn’t regretting this trip already!”
Mrs. Riggins didn’t laugh. She never did.
With a sigh, I dragged my suitcase up the steps of my grandmother’s old house. It loomed over the neighborhood like a relic from a Gothic novel—complete with peeling paint, sagging shutters, and a porch that creaked ominously under my weight. It was less Welcome Home and more Enter If You Dare.
Which felt about right.
The inside wasn’t much better. Dust coated every surface, and the air smelled faintly of lavender and abandonment. My grandmother had passed away two year ago, and since then, the house had been left to fend for itself.
“Why did I think this was a good idea again?” I muttered, dragging my suitcase through the living room and leaving a trail of disturbed dust in my wake.
Oh, right. Because my landlord back in the city had decided that rent increases were a fun game to play, and I couldn’t keep losing. Coming back to Crescent Hollow was supposed to be my chance to regroup, save money, and figure out my next move.
Not that I’d told anyone that. To the nosy residents of this town, I was just the prodigal granddaughter coming home to “reconnect with her roots” or some other cliché nonsense.
I dropped my bag by the stairs and flopped onto the couch. A cloud of dust erupted around me like I’d just set off a smoke bomb, and I coughed violently.
“Perfect. Just perfect.”
I spent the next few hours trying to make the house somewhat livable. By the time I finished sweeping, scrubbing, and swearing under my breath, it was almost dark.
I stepped out onto the porch, breathing in the cool evening air. Crescent Hollow might’ve been a nosy, backwater nightmare, but I couldn’t deny that it had its charms. The sunsets, for one. They painted the sky in shades of gold and purple, making the whole town look almost magical.
Almost.
As I leaned against the railing, a faint sound caught my attention. A low, mournful howl echoed from the woods at the edge of town, sending a shiver down my spine.
“Wolves,” I muttered. “Great. Just what I needed.”
I’d heard the stories growing up—the tales about the woods and the creatures that supposedly lived there. But they were just that: stories. My grandmother had always been big on “keeping traditions alive,” which mostly meant scaring me half to death with legends about cursed wolves and haunted trees.
I wasn’t a kid anymore, though. I didn’t believe in fairy tales.
The howl came again, louder this time, and I couldn’t help the tiny flicker of unease that curled in my chest.
“Pull it together, Lyra,” I said to myself, shaking my head. “You’re not scared of some oversized dogs.”
But as I turned to go back inside, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—was watching.
