Novels by Camilla Gill

I woke up to the sound of something off. Not the sharp crunch of a branch snapping under the snow or the cabin creaking with the wind. It was deeper and sharper. The kind of sound that makes you question if you're hearing it… or if someone is hearing you. My eyes snapped open to the blinding white light and the bite of cold air on my lungs. It was seconds later that I realized I was outside. I was sitting on the porch steps, arms hanging between my knees, exhaling into the winter day like smoke from an unreal burning chimney. The air was sharp and clean, but with a sour bite that was not quite identifiable. Snow was everywhere and in all directions, the tree line a black wall of pine and shadow. I didn't remember getting out of here. I didn't remember anything. Not dreaming, not waking, not even putting one foot in front of the other to walk out onto the porch. The last thing I remembered was the weird sound against the cabin’s window last night.The wood I rested on was cold enough t

I woke to the smell of cold. Not fresh cold, not the kind that bit the nose and stung the skin. This was stale cold, the kind that clung to the walls and sank into the mattress overnight. For a few seconds, I lay there, trying to piece together the remnants of the dream I’d been dragged from. There were scratches on my skin. Thin, faint, but unmistakable. Three of them trailed down the inside of my left forearm, another pair across my bicep. The skin around them looked irritated and pink. They hadn’t been there when I went to bed. I was very sure of that.I pulled the covers back. My legs were fine, there was nothing on them. Just the arms. The marks weren’t deep enough to bleed, but they stung when I brushed my thumb over them. “Great,” I muttered, swinging my feet onto the wooden floorboards. “What did I do, fight a raccoon in my sleep?”The cabin was quiet. The clock above the small kitchen sink said it was just after seven. The snow outside had stopped sometime in the night, but

The plane landed at a village so small it didn’t even have a tower. Just a stretch of runway, a leaning building that was also an airport and a gas stop, and a blue sky that hurt to look at.I was met by a woman in a parka with a sign with my name on it. She didn’t smile. Sebastian Vega? "That’s what my passport says." She gave no smile. Simply moved and walked toward the waiting SUV. "Is this place always like that? Friendly?" I remarked as I packed my duffel into the trunk."Duskpine honors privacy," she replied matter-of-factly. "You will fit in." It was supposed to be, but that wasn't comforting.We traveled in silence. Pine trees blurred by, tall and seemingly endless. Mountains loomed ahead, their snow-crowned peaks shining brightly and shadows streaming long along the road.Somewhere around twenty minutes later, she spoke again. "There’s a team doctor. You’ll see her every week. There’s also a local therapist. Highly, highly recommended." I laughed. "Does she do exorcisms, too?

I stared at the coffee in front of me, it had already become lukewarm. My hand twitched, as if maybe I would grab it, but I didn’t. I just clenched my jaw and crossed my arms. "Sebastian," Mark started tentatively, "we all want the best for you." Here we go. "You punched a man on live television," the older rep went on, voice dispassionate. Without provocation. "He provoked me."Not technically, the younger one growled, not raising his eyes from his screen. I sank back in the chair. So this is it? You’re suspending me? Mark shifted uncomfortably. "They’re offering you a choice." As a rehab program, the older rep went on. I went pale. "I’m not an addict.""It’s not an addiction," the younger one responded quickly. "It’s… a wellness retreat. Therapy and isolation. We place you with a local team, you remain off the grid, off the press, and you heal." I snorted a harsh laugh. "Sounds like exile with extra steps." Mark massaged his face with his hand. Sebastian. Your reputation’s running a

I heard a crowd roaring from a distance. It was there, I was sure of it. I could hear it crashing over me like always when the game was this close, this critical, but this time it sounded muted, like I was underwater. My blades bit the ice with sharp intent as I glided, eyes on the puck before me. The rink felt smaller than it was supposed to be. I felt restricted, like the walls were closing in on me.Focus. That was my skill. Focusing so intensely that the world blurred out. The score was even and the clock was still ticking. Overtime loomed in our faces and the playoffs hung in the balance. I thrived on this, I always did. But tonight, something was off. Everything felt… wrong. My breath mixed with the air and my chest tightened under the weight of my gear. The tension in my body was coiled too tightly, my muscles anticipating doing more than just playing a game. My grip on the stick was too tight, fingers aching, knuckles strained. Sweat streamed down my temple although the air ar