The last jar was empty. She stood over it and rifled around inside her satchel.

  Barclay wanted no business with magic, so he whipped around and climbed back up the hill. Selby awaited him at the top, huddled behind the closest tree.

  “She has a dragon,” Selby said with a mixture of fear and awe.

  “That dragon will probably eat her one day,” Barclay growled.

  “Mitzi would never eat me!” the girl shouted. “She’s a vegetarian!”

  Barclay seriously doubted that. He took Selby by the wrist and dragged him away, but when he peeked over his shoulder, he noticed something. The girl had taken a mushroom out of her bag and was lowering it into the last glass jar. It was stout and curved, with a red dome.

  A Mourningtide Morel.

  A Lore Keeper like her probably didn’t even know the value of that mushroom. She didn’t deserve it. With his fears quickly replaced by determination, Barclay stormed back down the hill.

  “Do you know what that is?” Barclay demanded.

  The girl paused and looked up.

  “It’s a Mourningtide Morel,” she answered with a hint of pride.

  “Yes. We’ve been looking for one all day. If you give it to me, then I won’t tell everyone in Dullshire that there’s a Lore Keeper skulking about in the Woods.” Barclay held out his hand, his face burning red. He flushed when he lied. Whether he got the mushroom or not, of course he would tell the townspeople about her. And they would grab their pitchforks, and they would drive her and her Beast someplace else.

  “As if they’d dare to come into the Woods and find me,” the girl countered.

  Barclay moved to grab the glass jar, but she snatched it out of his reach.

  “Give it to me.”

  “Absolutely not. I found it!”

  “You’re not even using it!”

  “Yes I am! I’m making a trap.”

  Barclay scoffed. All she had was a line of jars. What was she trying to trap? Lightning bugs? “A trap for what?” he asked.

  “A trap for Gravaldor.”

  Barclay’s stomach filled with dread even colder than the icy mist. If she somehow summoned Gravaldor, then the tragedy from seven years ago in Dullshire could happen all over again. Barclay had already lost too much to Gravaldor to let him destroy his home a second time.

  He climbed atop the fallen trunk. Even side by side, she was still taller than him, but so was almost everyone. When he took a step closer, her dragon—or Mitzi, as she called it—bared its fangs at Barclay and gave a snakelike hiss.

  “You can’t do this,” he told the girl.

  “Yes I can. I’m going to bond with Gravaldor, just like I bonded with Mitzi.” She rolled up her sleeve to reveal a strange tattoo on her forearm in shiny golden ink. It looked just like her dragon. “Gravaldor is the Legendary Beast of the Woods. And when I bond with him, I’ll—”

  “You want to bond with him?” Barclay echoed, his voice high and fearful. Just the thought of Gravaldor made him picture his parents—the gentle way his mother treated the books that she read to her students as a schoolteacher, the apple treats his father would bake for Barclay when he learned to follow a new rule. If it hadn’t been for Gravaldor, they’d still be alive. If it hadn’t been for Gravaldor, they’d still be a family.

  All Barclay had ever done was follow in his parents’ footsteps. Because he believed, down to his very core, that if he worked hard and tried to follow the rules, he could almost get them back. He could earn the life in Dullshire that he should have had.

  He didn’t even care about the danger anymore. Or the Mourningtide Morel. Or the dirt under his fingernails.

  He had to stop her.

  “You’ll kill everyone,” Barclay seethed. “Gravaldor isn’t like your dragon—”

  “I told you, she’s a whelp—”

  “He’s huge! He’s bigger than trees, with fangs as long as you and me. He’s more powerful than any Beast in the Woods, and you’d be eaten before you’d even be able to feel sorry.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “How would you know? You’re just a farmer of…” She deflated, trying to think. “What’s the word for it in your language? They’re squishy. It’s a… a…”

  “Mushroom?” he impatiently finished for her.

  “Yes! You’re just a mushroom farmer.”

  “I know because Gravaldor once destroyed our entire town.” He didn’t add anything about his parents because he didn’t share stuff like that with strangers. Everyone in Dullshire was right. Lore Keepers were selfish, and they only brought doom.

  The girl’s face softened, but she didn’t back down. She took a few steps closer to Barclay and jabbed her finger into his chest. He wobbled but didn’t fall over.

  “I need to do this, and you can’t stop me.” Mitzi squawked in agreement. The girl kept walking and poking him until he’d backed up to the edge of the trunk. “These are the most difficult items to find in the Woods, and I collected them all.” She waved the jar with the Mourningtide Morel in front of his face. “These will summon and trap Gravaldor. It’s perfect.”

  Barclay’s eyes widened as he examined the mushroom in that jar. Up close, he realized its scarlet dome was actually crimson.

  “Wait!” he said. But the girl gave him one more jab, and he toppled off the trunk. He landed painfully in the center of the clearing, a pine cone squashed underneath him.

  “Wait!” he sputtered again. “That’s not a—”

  But the girl had already set the jar down, completing the perfect line.

  Suddenly, deep in the Woods behind him, there came a howl.

  Barclay scrambled to his feet. To his right, the trees shuddered. Then, to his left, footsteps scurried through the shade. A figure rushed by so fast, it was merely a blur.

  “Barclayyyyyyyy,” Selby moaned from the top of the hill.

  Barclay waved at him to hush. Behind him, Barclay heard the sound of something breathing. There was a low, guttural growl.

  His heart pounded, and he desperately clutched his Beast-warding charm. It usually calmed him in dangerous situations, even ones without Beasts. It helped him clear his head enough to think his way out of trouble.

  But then a pair of glowing eyes appeared through the trees.

  He couldn’t think his way out of this.

  The girl jumped down beside him. “Once Gravaldor walks closer to the jars,” she whispered, “the Lore will trap him here. Then I can bond—”

  “I don’t think that’s—” Barclay started.

  There was another growl, and she hushed him. But Barclay knew he was right. Gravaldor was massive and impossible to hide. And the mushroom she’d used wasn’t a Mourningtide Morel.

  But it didn’t matter. Even if this wasn’t Gravaldor, she’d summoned something, and now they were all going to die.

  The girl held her arms out, as though whatever Beast stalked around them could be tamed like a puppy. “Mitzi, help me.”

  The baby dragon gave a low huff.

  “Mitzi, we’ve talked about this!” the girl hissed. “If I’m going to be Grand Keeper one day, you can’t be my only Beast.” When Mitzi still did not comply, she added, “But you’ll still be my favorite!”

  At this, Mitzi seemed to relax. She crouched low on the girl’s shoulder, prepared to attack whatever monster circled them. The girl glanced down at Barclay. “Now, don’t make any sounds. No sudden movements. We don’t want to alarm—”

  “Barclayyyyyyy,” Selby cried again.

  Everything next seemed to happen at once.

  Something tore out from the trees, claws raised straight at them.

  A light burst out of Mitzi’s mouth, so bright that Barclay had to close his eyes.

  But even without his sight, he knew the growl he’d heard before. It was low-pitched and dangerous, the sort of sound a bully might make if they had backed Barclay into a dead-end alley. It was the sound of victory. It meant the predator had found its prey.

  A breath blew hot against Barclay’s neck.

  He ran. He ran as fast as he could.

  He knew better than to flee. Many wild animals only attacked once the chase began. Barclay was basically asking the Beast to eat him. But as smart as Barclay might have been, he was too terrified to stop himself.

  He heard the sound of footsteps pounding after him. He ignored them and quickened his pace. He was running faster than he ever had in his life. The gray trees blurred past him like a smear in the corner of his eyes, and the air that usually whipped at his face and knotted his hair had gone eerily still. It seemed impossible, but he swore he was going faster than the wind.

  And the pair of eyes, he realized, weren’t behind him. They were beside him.

  The Beast wasn’t running after him. It was running with him.

  The thought startled him so much, he tripped and fell facedown. When he groaned and rolled over, the last thing he saw was a mouthful of black teeth.

  THREE

  Barclay woke up covered in leaves, Selby and the girl panting over him.

  “He’s dead!” Selby wailed.

  It took Barclay a moment to remember how he’d ended up here, on the ground, aching all over, with only Selby and a stranger. But as he squinted at the gnarled branches overhead, he remembered where he was—the one place he was forbidden to go. The Woods.

  Barclay sat up and whipped around. Then a terrible pain shot through his shoulder, and he looked down to find his sleeve had been shredded and an ugly red gash stretched down his arm. Beneath it were hints of glimmering gold.

  “Where is it? Where’s the Beast?” Barclay asked, panicked. He looked around, but doing so made the world tilt like he was tumbling down another hill.

  The girl’s nostrils flared. “The Beast is there.” She poked at his wound.

  “Ow! What was that for?”

  “You have a Mark. Like mine.”

  She rolled up her sleeve again to reveal her golden Mitzi-like tattoo. Only this time the Mark moved. It padded across her skin, then curled up and yawned, as though preparing to go to sleep.

  Barclay realized Mitzi was no longer perched on the girl’s shoulder. The dragon was in the tattoo. The magic of it all made Barclay want to rub his eyes, to make sure what he was seeing was real.

  “It was supposed to be my Mark,” the girl continued. “Even if I messed up the trap, if you hadn’t been there, then I would’ve bonded with the Lufthund—”

  “Bonded? Bonded like a Lore Keeper?” Barclay winced as he smeared away some of the blood on his arm and stared at his Mark in horror. He’d barely gotten a glimpse of the Beast that had chased him, but the tattoo resembled a wolf. It moved, prowling menacingly over the top of his shoulder, its fangs bared.

  “Yes. Exactly like a Lore Keeper,” she huffed. “A Mark is where a Beast dwells when it isn’t out in the world.”

  As she spoke, the Mark on Barclay’s shoulder thrashed, and the Beast snapped its jaw.

  Selby stared at it openmouthed. “Does this make Barclay a Lore Keeper?”

  “No,” Barclay hissed. He would never become a Lore Keeper. Beasts weren’t companions—they were monsters. He might’ve broken Dullshire’s most important rule, but it hadn’t been his fault. He hadn’t chosen this.

  Suddenly he felt sick. He staggered to his feet, only to immediately throw up on the forest floor.

  When he’d finished, he held out his arm, which pulsed painfully where the Beast had slashed him. “Get it off me,” Barclay told the girl.

  “Why should I help you?” she snapped. “You threatened to have your town run me away! You tried to steal the mushroom from my trap. And now you’ve bonded with the Beast that I should have bonded with.”

  “I didn’t bond with it! It bonded with me!”

  “But that’s not how it works. Did you touch it? You would’ve felt a spark—maybe a pinch? You must’ve—”

  “I didn’t,” he insisted. All he remembered before passing out was the teeth.

  “Is it Gravaldor?” Selby squeaked.

  “No, Gravaldor looks like a bear,” the girl answered, rolling her eyes. “His Beast is—”

  “I don’t want to know what it is,” Barclay snapped. “Just get the Mark off me!”

  The girl crossed her arms. “I don’t know how to remove a Mark. Most people don’t want to! Most people want—”

  Barclay didn’t think he could hear more of this, or he might be sick again. He grabbed Selby’s shoulder. “Come on. We’re going back.”

  Selby cringed as Barclay touched him, and Barclay swallowed and dropped his hand.

  “What if the Beast gets out?” Selby murmured.

  “I…” Barclay’s mouth went dry. Then he, Barclay Thorne, Dullshire’s hardest-working but most troublesome apprentice, would become another cautionary tale. Another Lore Keeper who brought destruction with him.

  The girl shook her head. “Beasts can’t come out of their Marks unless you summon them. Or unless they break their bonds. But that’s very rare! If it was going to happen, you’d know. The Mark would start to turn black.”

  If Barclay could see the tattoo’s color changing, that would give him time to escape Dullshire if he needed to. He could run into the Woods and let the trees swallow him whole. Then, far, far away, Dullshire would be safe.

  But he would be gone, alone in the Woods with a deranged Beast.

  Barclay didn’t mind having responsibilities. In fact, every year of his apprenticeship, he looked forward to Master Pilzmann assigning him new ones. It had begun with chores—Barclay learned to chop firewood, to feed Gustav, and to fetch water from the well. As he grew older, Barclay began interacting with customers and tending to the mushroom cellar. Now he led foraging trips all on his own.

  Each time, Barclay had known that he was ready for the new responsibility. Even when it was hard or he was tired, he liked how much Master Pilzmann relied on him. Whenever his teacher called him exceptional, Barclay felt a flutter of pride in his chest. No one else in town thought of orphans like that.

  But this responsibility was far greater than anything else asked of him. If a Beast lived in Barclay’s skin, then it was Barclay’s responsibility to make sure it stayed there. It was his responsibility to keep Dullshire safe… no matter what.

  “We’re going back,” Barclay said. Though his words were firm, his voice shook.

  “They’ll let you go back?” the girl asked. “You said they’d chase me away for being a Lore Keeper. So what will they do to you?”

  Barclay’s heart filled with dread. Dullshire didn’t make exceptions. At least, not for Barclay, who didn’t have family to fight for one.

  “They won’t know,” he murmured, as determined as he was terrified.

  Then he grabbed Selby’s hand and led them through the maze of gray trees. It might have been Barclay’s imagination playing tricks, but as the wind blew and the branches prickled, it seemed as though every tree now leaned away from him to clear his path. As though the wilds recognized one of their own.

  * * *

  It wasn’t until the boys arrived at Master Pilzmann’s house that Barclay remembered he was returning from his trip empty-handed. They’d failed to find the Mourningtide Morel, and judging from the ominous clouds darkening the sky, the first snow was coming. Now Master Pilzmann would have to wait until next year.

  The house was strange-looking on the outside. When Gravaldor had attacked seven years ago, his foot had smashed the back of the house, so Master Pilzmann had needed to rebuild those walls. Several years later he’d added a second story for Barclay’s bedroom and for storage. Each addition had been built of something different, making the home like a quilt of brick, stone, and wood. And like all houses in Dullshire, Beast-warding charms dangled from each of the windows, ropes and beads and chimes that reeked and rang and warned stay away, stay away.

  Barclay and Selby entered around back, where a flyer had been pinned to the door.

  ATTENTION RESIDENTS OF DULLSHIRE

  As of today, the twentieth of Winter, four new rules have been issued by the mayor’s office:

  Rule #1192: sneezing is hereby prohibited in the town square.

  Rule #1193: all pets must be examined by sentry officials for any Beast magic, especially ducks.

  Rule #1194: Rule #827 has been revoked. Carrot cake is reinstated as a birthday cake option.

  Rule #1195: no babies are to be named Kuthbert with a C—only with a K.

  The boys took down the flyer and pushed open the door to the pantry. Inside was crowded with baskets and crates, each filled with different types of mushrooms. The whole place smelled like mushrooms, and mushrooms—for the most part—smelled like dirt. This was the only room in the house not up to Dullshire’s typical standards of cleanliness, and it was also Barclay’s favorite. He liked the smell, and he didn’t mind the filth.

  The boys crept through the door to the living room. They found Gustav curled up on the rug and asleep in front of the fire.

  Master Pilzmann made a noise of greeting from the kitchen, where he was wearing a burlap apron and washing mushrooms in a bucket of water. He was exceptionally tall—the tallest man in town. He constantly needed to hunch below doorframes, and his drooping gray mustache reached down to his chest. For special occasions Master Pilzmann wore a strange round hat that even made him look like a giant mushroom.

  “You’re back late,” he told the boys, so absorbed in his washing that he didn’t look up from the sink. “I was getting worried.”

  Barclay carefully adjusted the straps of his bag so that it covered his wound, then attempted—and failed—to smooth down his messy hair. “We’re sorry. We didn’t mean to take so long. It’s just that…” He swallowed. He hated lying. “We couldn’t find the Mourningtide Morel.”

  It’s not a lie, he told himself. We’re just not telling him the whole truth. The thought didn’t make him feel good, but it did help him keep his voice steady.

  “Is that so? That’s not like you, Barclay,” said Master Pilzmann. He didn’t sound angry, but Barclay still felt a twinge of guilt. He hated letting Master Pilzmann down.