Crysta Rosemeyer has spent her life seeing the things other people can’t—the faeries in the rain, the monsters lurking after dusk, and the ghosts that refuse to stay dead. She’s learned to survive by keeping her head down, trusting her charms, and never letting the Others know she can see them.
Then a blood-enchanted letter from a dead great-aunt names Crysta heir to Hawthorn Manor, an isolated estate where the veil between worlds runs thin. The inheritance promises everything she wants: freedom, answers about her mysterious bloodline, and a chance to begin again.
There’s only one problem.
Her great-aunt’s ghost left her a warning: Beware what lies buried beneath the hawthorn trees.
As Crysta settles into the manor, family secrets begin to surface, old magic stirs, and the truth of what she is may prove far more dangerous than the creatures she’s spent her life avoiding.
Voice, speed & continuous listeningUses the voices already available on your device. Narration starts only when you press Play or enable continuous listening.View story content warnings
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Adult Language
Sexual Content
Violence and core
PTSD
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Hello, gorgeous, gorgeous, reader! Here is another project I've been working on alongside A Kingdom of Ash and Bone. I have plans of getting it published sometime in 2027 :) Hope y'all can give me some loving feedback
Rain drizzled from the sky, speckling the asphalt below as I made my way across the street, toward my building’s cluster box. Around me, the world was calm—a softening canvas of dripping Spanish moss and wrought-iron fences. One by one, the street lamps flickered on, illuminating the darkening walkways. Nothing seemed awry. Cars coasted down the adjacent road, disrupting puddles. Wrens hopped about in the grass, pecking at the softened earth. Nevertheless, I could feel my heart fluttering inside my chest, my nerves taut as a stitch pulled too tight.
Venturing out at dusk was always a gamble. Dangerous things lurked in the dark. Beings born of legend, of nightmare, never meant to be seen by mortal eyes. Tightening my grip on the keys in my pocket, I kept my gaze locked ahead, determined to not turn back around.
You’re nearly there. Just a few more steps.
For weeks, I had avoided making this trek, too much of a coward to linger in the gathering dark. Now, after days of dragging my feet, I could procrastinate no longer. There were bills that needed to be paid, potential notices piling up. I had to be brave. With trembling hands, I shoved my key into my compartment and reached inside, retrieving the roll of neglected envelopes and damp newspapers.
Peering about, I noticed my surroundings remained much the same. Glistening beads of rain still clung to the browning magnolias, and the sounds of the city settling down filled my ears.
“So far, so good,” I muttered to myself, turning back around.
Then, from the corner of my eye, something moved. Something big and woolly. It kept to the shadows, blending with the green leaves of the hedge groves that lined my street. Stomach lurching, I pretended not to notice, choosing to ignore the ever-growing desire to break into a sprint. Running would only make matters worse. There was no outrunning a beast like the Cù Sìth—not with human legs, at least.
I had no intention of becoming the next captured play thing of a faerie…or worse, an overgrown hound’s snack. It was best to let it believe that I was oblivious to its hulking shape and glowing red eyes. Nothing good ever came from letting the Others know you could see them. I took another steadying breath and forced my legs onward, not allowing myself to remain rooted in place. I made sure to look both ways before crossing the street. The Cù Sìth had seemingly decided to wander elsewhere, causing the knot in my stomach to loosen. Good. One less thing to worry about.
Above, the light drizzle of rain had begun to change, morphing into a more sprightly spattering of raindrops. I itched to pull the hood of my coat over my head, but resisted the urge, remembering my mother's firm scoldings. Anyone foolish enough to muddy their periphery is someone welcoming the concept of being prey. Are you prey Crysta, or are you my smart girl?
I would just have to bear through having my hair drenched and my mascara smeared.
Warily, I shuffled toward my apartment, allowing myself to quicken my pace only slightly. Just because I could no longer see the fae hound didn’t mean it had vanished for good. It could still be prowling the block or keeping to the shadows with its Unseelie master. More frightening still was the possibility that something far worse waited nearby, half-starved and listening for the hurried beat of human footsteps.
Thoughts of apartment 235 flashed across my mind, of the yellow barrier tape still stretched across his door. He had left for a camping trip sometime last week and never returned. Shreds of his clothes had later been found tangled in the treetops.
Local authorities suspected an animal attack. But no local predator I knew of dragged its prey into the treetops. A Rakshasa, however... or a Wendigo…
Nearby, the sound of tinkling laughter flitted through the trees, pulling me from my worrisome thoughts. A trio of Sylphs were gliding through the twisting boughs of an oak, pirouetting about carelessly in the rain. I grimaced and trudged along, avoiding the iridescent puddles of street water. Stormy autumn days were always the worst. Lots of the fair-folk enjoyed the rain, and with Samhain quickly approaching, the presence of the Others would be exceptionally high. I need to stock up on more salt and white sage.
A swell of relief billowed through me as I approached my apartment complex. It was an old building, made entirely of brownish-red brick with a collection of dark-framed windows and wrought iron balconies lining the facade. I, mercifully, lived on the second story, so the bothersome task of jogging all the way up and down a curving flight of stairs was not my penance to pay. Conveniently, it was also only a few bus-stops away from the Savannah College of Art and Design, which had been a lifesaver when I was attending. Now, as a graduate, its short distance from the school was more irksome than advantageous.
Nearby, the sound of tinkling laughter flitted through the trees, pulling me from my worrisome thoughts. A trio of Sylphs were gliding through the twisting boughs of an oak, pirouetting about carelessly in the rain. I grimaced and trudged along, avoiding the iridescent puddles of street water. Stormy autumn days were always the worst. Lots of the fair-folk enjoyed the rain, and with Samhain quickly approaching, the presence of the Others would be exceptionally high. I need to stock up on more salt and white sage.
A swell of relief billowed through me as I approached my apartment complex. It was an old building, made entirely of brownish-red brick with a collection of dark-framed windows and wrought iron balconies lining the facade. I, mercifully, lived on the second story, so the bothersome task of jogging all the way up and down a curving flight of stairs was not my penance to pay. Conveniently, it was also only a few bus-stops away from the Savannah College of Art and Design, which had been a lifesaver when I was attending. Now, as a graduate, its short distance from the school was more irksome than advantageous.
After moving in four summers ago my little sister, Reverie, brought home more college flings than I could be bothered to count, which wouldn't be so troubling if she could manage to set her sights on partners a little less preternatural. More often than not, though, her romantic tastes stretched beyond just that of normal, mortal men and women. It wasn't out of the ordinary to find a frat boy-turned-werewolf scrounging about in my fridge, or a mermaid belting out Ariana Grande in my bathtub. Unlike me, she had taken our mother's warnful chidings and disregarded them entirely the first chance she got.
As a child Reverie had vehemently chosen to believe that the Rosemeyer sight we had inherited from our father was more of a hereditary gift rather than a generational curse and had sworn to live her life how she saw fit the moment she turned eighteen. True to her word, she spent her days here in Savannah living wild and without fear, dating whom she pleased and befriending whatever creature glided her way. She enjoyed engaging with the Others, finding beauty in their otherworldliness, while I continued to do the same three things I always did: I commuted to and from work, kept to our apartment, and fretted over her antics ceaselessly. I could only pray that the little protective charms I stitched into her clothing would be enough to ward off any truly wicked entities.
I refrained from mentioning Reverie’s doings to our older brother, Alaric, when he would periodically call to check up on us, insisting that we were both fine and not to worry. I did all that I could to keep us safe and financially afloat. Neither of us really had to fret over money. If push ever came to shove, we could technically ask for funds. We came from an old family with deep pockets, but chose to keep ourselves cut-off. It was better to live and work like paupers than have to stay in close contact with our parents. All the wealth in the world couldn’t atone for the cold, spurned treatment we had received as kids. In our home, love came second to survival. No amount of training, of running laps or memorizing protective prayers and incantations, was enough to appease them. We were always one step too slow in an unwinnable race.
"Rev," I called out, staring at the golden trinity of twos that marked our front door. "It's me. Let me in."
When there was no response, I decided to bang my fist louder against the door. “Rev.”
Nothing. The post was beginning to slide in my arms. Frowning, I glanced down at my waist where I could feel my keychain digging into my side. There was no way of fishing my key from my pocket without dropping everything onto our welcome mat. I dared a peek at my watch, careful not to shift my left arm too much. The screen read that it was a quarter past seven. It was beyond time for Reverie to be back from class, and she knew my work schedule like the back of her hand. It wasn’t like her not to greet me at the door. A small sprout of worry began to gnaw at me.Was everything alright? Had she just gone out with some friends and forgot to text me?
“She’s probably out,” a woeful voice responded.
Goosebumps pimpled my skin, and the air around me turned to ice as I shifted my gaze to the right. Floating nearby was the spectral figure of Bonnie, our floor’s tearful flapper ghost. She was hovering above the stairs, her translucent face tear stained, with an equally lucent cigarette glowing in her gloved hand. She ashed her cigarette and blew out an illusory puff of smoke, the cinders from her cigarette never making it to the ground.
“Let’s hope not,” I answered back, fumbling to get a better grip on the slipping post in my hands.
“I’d give you a hand if I could, doll.”
I offered the glitzy specter an appreciative smile and tried to keep my expression free of any sympathy. “Thanks, Bon.”
Bonnie wasn’t exactly what I would consider a particularly spiteful spirit. She mostly stuck to haunting the hallways, crying to herself, and mourning the loss of her soldier beau, who had bravely enlisted to fight in the first world war and never returned home. That didn’t mean she was without her tricks. The first time I offered her my condolences she angrily wreaked havoc on the plumbing throughout the building, leaving everyone without running water for a week. She refused to believe her brave soldier had passed on, and would hide away items or break appliances if she caught you looking at her pityingly. Not wishing to be without running water or a functioning Mr. Coffee, I kept eye contact with the ghost to a minimum and made sure to watch my tone in her presence.
Shivering and irritated, I groaned and rearranged the haphazard stack of mail in the crook of my arm and decided to dig around inside my pockets for my keychain once more. Just as I was about to thrust my key into the door it abruptly swung open, and I was snatched inside.
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