Chapter 2

The Town That Remembered

Black Hollow sat in a valley between three ridges, tucked beneath the mountains like it had grown there instead of being built.

Old brick storefronts lined Main Street. Yellow light glowed in fogged windows. Smoke drifted from chimneys and disappeared into the rain. The whole town looked smeared and ghostly through the windshield, like a memory that had been left out too long in bad weather.

I passed Hollow Market first.

The sign still hung crooked over the door. Mr. Calloway used to stand behind the counter with his suspenders and his permanent frown, calling me “Frost girl” like it was an accusation instead of a name.

I wondered if he was still alive.

Knowing Black Hollow, probably. Spite preserved people here.

Next came the diner.

The red vinyl booths were visible through the steamy windows. One booth in the back had a tear along the seat where Damien once caught his pocketknife when we were sixteen. He blamed me. I blamed his inability to sit like a normal person.

He bought me fries after.

Stole half of them.

Then kissed the salt from my fingertips under the table like he had every right to be sweet.

My throat tightened.

No.

Not tonight.

I kept driving.

The church steeple rose above the rooftops, black against the cloudy night. The church itself had burned years ago, but no one ever rebuilt more than the bell tower.

That was Black Hollow for you.

Keep the haunted part.

Ignore the ashes.

I passed the bakery alley where three older girls once told me no alpha would ever want cursed blood.

Joke was on them, apparently.

An alpha had wanted me.

Then he rejected me in front of fifty people.

So, you know.

Very romantic.

The road led me toward the far end of Main Street, where the green neon sign for Hollow Creek Bar & Grill buzzed through the rain.

I should have gone straight to the hospital.

I knew that.

But visiting my mother meant questions. Her fear. Her secrets. Her pale hand gripping mine while she told me everything except the thing I actually needed to know.

And going straight to the Frost house?

Absolutely not.

Not yet.

I needed ten minutes.

One drink.

One second to breathe before the town got its claws into me.

The bar parking lot was half full.

Trucks.

Motorcycles.

One police cruiser near the side entrance.

Of course the bar was busy.

Of course half the town would be there.

Of course my first stop back in Black Hollow would include an audience, because apparently my life had never met a private humiliation it liked.

I parked near the edge of the gravel lot and turned off the engine.

For a moment, I just sat there.

Rain drummed against the roof.

My reflection stared back at me in the dark windshield, pale and tired, with damp curls escaping the loose knot at the back of my head. My eyes looked too sharp. Too guarded. Like the last six years had carved out every soft part and left behind someone who knew better than to expect kindness.

Good.

Kindness was unreliable.

Whiskey, at least, usually did what it promised.

Somewhere beyond the edge of town, a wolf howled.

The sound slipped under my skin.

My wolf lifted her head.

I shoved the feeling down and stepped into the rain.

Cold mountain air hit instantly, sharp with pine, smoke, wet gravel, and memories I did not want.

The bar door waited beneath the buzzing green sign, old wood swollen from years of storms.

I reached for the handle.

That was when I saw it.

Carved into the frame beside the entrance.

Three claw marks.

And above them, a small crooked crown.