In front of me are three figures clustered around a small fire. A spit for roasting meat rests over the orange flames that flicker slightly in the chilling wind. A girl with short red hair and a quiver full of arrows is speaking loudly, waving her hands animatedly in the air to emphasize her point.
"I don't care what you say, Felix, the creek isn't frozen enough to cross over! We go all the way around or we don't go at all."
"But, Fal." The boy who answers has the same shade of light red hair as the girl, and he sounds frustrated, like he's been trying for too long to be patient. "Felix is right. If we cross near the falls, we can tie lines to the top of the hill. That way, if the ice doesn't hold-"
"The ice will hold." This speaker is another boy, mostly obscured behind the fire and cooking meat. He turns the spit slowly and drawls his words in a bored tone. "We don't even need lines. It'll be fine."
"Let's cross," Echo interrupts. "But let's do it tomorrow. School starts in an hour."
"Hey, Echo," says the boy who isn't roasting meat, but the red-haired girl grabs her bow and aims it at me. The motion was so smooth and fluid that I didn't even see her noche an arrow.
"Who are you?" she demands.
I hold still. "My name is Riley Fey."
"Fey? Like the witch?" someone asks, but I can't see who. I'm focusing on the scary girl with the arrows. Fog is gathering around her, clouding the fire and the forest behind it, but she doesn't seem to notice.
"What are you doing here?"
"She's coming to school," Echo says. "Riley, this is Fallon O'Byrne and her brother, Anvil."
"Nice to meet you," says the red-head boy. Anvil. "Fallon, put your bow down."
She lowers it, never taking her eyes off me.
"Riley?" The boy behind the fire stands up. His hair is dark blond, dirtier and greasier than it used to be, and his black t shirt and jeans look old and worn out. When I knew him, he was chubby and smiled easily. Now, his jaw is grimly firm and his body is covered in muscled leanness. But I still recognize him.
"Bradley?" I ask, and the letters materialize from my lips with the same stiff, grieving hardness of a cemetery carving.
I should know.
I've seen his name on a tombstone.
YOU ARE READING
Rimwick
Fantasy"The night is totally black, now, except for the guardian light of the street lamps. No one is out besides me. I fold my arms, missing my army jacket's warmth, and head home quickly. It's dangerous to be out at night. But I don't run. If you run in...
