After a full day of cleaning, organizing, and enduring aggressive amounts of human interaction with my new coworkers, logic dictated that I should pass out the second my head hit the pillow.

My nervous system does not respond to the dictates of logic.

I lay on the unfamiliar mattress, staring at the cobwebs on the ceiling. Leah hummed something slow and tuneless on the other side of the wall. The clock crept toward midnight. Her bedsprings creaked a few times and then everything went quiet.

A humid breeze whispered through the screen-covered window. Crickets and frogs filled the air with their steady nighttime rhythm.

Like a "Sounds of the Forest" white noise video, it should have been soothing.

But something else slipped into the soundscape.

Fabric against fabric, just outside my window.

My breath stalled halfway through an inhale.

I listened.

Footsteps on sandy earth. Stealthy footsteps. Just a few feet from where I lay.

The memory of that enormous paw print on the path elbowed its way to the front of my brain.

As quietly as possible, I pushed the blanket aside and eased out of the bed, every movement as slow and deliberate as if I were diffusing a bomb instead of walking around my own room. The crow pendant tapped against my chest when I moved.

My hand flew up to touch the warm metal. I distinctly remembered taking it off before my shower, leaving it on the edge of the tiny sink.

Had I put it back on without thinking about it?

Another footstep yanked me out of my thoughts.

I cracked the curtains a millimeter apart and peeked through the teeny space.

Moonlight silvered the forest, painting the grass, the pine needles, and the thin path sloping toward the woods in dim, shimmering, fairytale light. Near the tree line, still and dark as the shadows, stood a tall man.

Barefoot.

Shirtless.

Sculpted to perfection.

Griffin. Of course Griffin is wandering around the woods half naked at midnight.

His head tipped to one side as if listening, and then he slipped into the woods silent and fluid as a ghost.

Go back to bed, Emmilyne, the practical voice in my head said. You do not need to be involved in whatever shirtless business that man is conducting at this hour. This is how girls in movies die. They go chasing into stupid places at dumb times for idiotic reasons like they don't have the sense God gave them.

But the part of me that felt utterly helpless against the relentless tug of that invisible chain already had me putting my sneakers on. I reached for my cell phone before remembering I hadn't bothered to charge it, since it didn't work anyway.

I tiptoed onto the front porch and eased the door shut behind me. The path behind the cabin narrowed into a tunnel of trees. I strained to hear Griffin's footsteps.

Somewhere in the darkness an owl asked, "Who? Who?"

Just a ridiculous woman sneaking into the forest after a man who clearly hates her.

No. Just no. I'm not doing this.

I reached back for the door handle when I heard the soft splash from the direction of the lake.

I ran, heedless of the noise I made, feet slapping against the ground, leaves rustling, twigs snapping underfoot. Harold's warning played over and over in my mind.

But Griffin was already in the lake once and he was fine.

What if that meant he'd used up his share of luck?

I stumbled to a halt at the end of the path.

Griffin stood knee-deep in the black lake. The water reflected the full moon in a warped silver line. A single, shimmering streak of light, shining across a puddle of spilled ink.

He didn't move for a long moment. He stood still as if waiting for the water to settle around him before he moved deeper into the dangerous depths. The water didn't ripple around him so much as it seemed to absorb him.

What is he thinking?

The lake is the monster.

Griffin's hands curled into fists. The muscles in his back bunched tight, like steel cables drawn to the snapping point. His head dropped forward and a low sound rolled out of his chest. Not quite a groan. Closer to a growl.

Is he having some kind of seizure?

I took a step. A twig cracked under my foot.

Griffin's head snapped in my direction. Even from that distance his eyes glowed like those of a predator caught in a beam of light.

I forced my words past the sharp lump that formed in my throat. "Are you... Is everything okay?"

Stupid question. Nothing about this is okay.

He didn't move. Didn't relax. If anything, he tensed up even more.

"You shouldn't be here," he said in a low, strained voice.

"Neither should you," I shot back.

A low, pulsing wave surged from the center of the lake, rolling toward him as if some huge beast beneath the thick water had pushed it forward. It shoved hard against his bare skin. He flinched.

Fear punched through my ribs. "Griffin—"

"Just stay back," he growled.

Another wave came. Higher. Stronger. It surged up to his chest, wrapped around his body, seemed to hold on and pull him.

He fell into the depths.

My heart stopped.

I opened my mouth to call for help, but sound refused to come.

A full second passed. Two.

Griffin broke the surface, gasping, and staggered toward the shore. Each step appeared to be a fight against the water that actively resisted his movement. It clung to his legs, pulling at him, until he collapsed onto the rocks and crawled forward, gasping.

I don't remember crossing the distance between us, but I was there beside him, kneeling on sharp stones that gouged into my flesh.

"What the hell were you doing?"

He flinched away from my outstretched hand. "It's fine."

Nothing about any of this was fine.

He shivered so hard his teeth clattered. Water streamed down his chest as he pushed himself upright and shoved his dripping hair from his face. His voice sounded even scratchier than usual, as if his throat and lungs had suffered from the onslaught of the cold water.

"I didn't ask if anything was fine. I asked what you were doing."

He turned his feral glare on me. "Just go back to your room."

Rage burned away the chill of my fear. I shoved to my feet. "You know what? Fine. Drown out here alone next time. Enjoy your swim in the murder lake."

I stalked away. Made it maybe six steps before his soft voice stopped me.

"Emmilyne."

My name on his lips did something deeply uncomfortable to my insides.

I stopped.

When I turned back, he looked different. Less like he was fighting the universe. More exhausted. Maybe even vulnerable.

"Why did you come here?" he asked. It was barely more than a whisper, but easy enough to hear in the quiet of the night.

"I saw you walking toward the lake."

He planted one foot on the ground and rose to his full, somewhat intimidating, height. "Why did you come to this camp?"

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

I didn't have an answer. I certainly wasn't going to tell him about invisible bonds pulling on my heart.

"I don't really know," I admitted.

He studied my eyes, not with his usual look of anger, but as if my words meant something important.

"Did you see a job posting?" he asked. "When you applied, were you thinking it would relate to your degree or be a nice break from the academics?"

The interrogation hit harder than it should have.

Not because his questions were invasive, exactly. He wasn't asking anything particularly private, but I didn't have answers. Not real ones anyway. Not the kind a normal person should be able to provide about a basic life decision.

And that made the whole world feel wrong.

Griffin shook his head, sending droplets across his bare shoulders. "Forget it. Let's get back to the dorms."

He walked past me toward the trail, obviously assuming I'd follow along docilely.

Rude.

I should snap something witty at him. Inform him that it was bad form to interrogate someone and then stalk off like a tortured Victorian hero.

But I really, really did not want to be alone at night beside the lake.

When a long, sharp howl lifted up from the far side of the forest, I jogged to catch up to Griffin.

Not because I was scared, obviously.

Just being wise.

Because, clearly, this whole situation is one a wise woman would get herself mixed up in, my most sarcastic inner voice chided.

We walked in silence, but his questions kept looping in my head.

How had I heard about the job?

It must have been online. Everything is online. A social media ad, maybe?

Except, I couldn't actually remember seeing anything like that. Couldn't remember clicking a button that said "apply now." Did not recollect filling out a form of any kind.

I did remember the phone call.

Harold's voice had boomed across the line, friendly and helpful as if he'd already decided to hire me.

Accepting the job had felt as inevitable as taking my next breath. Not something I considered. Just something I did.

I paused. "Griffin?"

He stopped and looked back over his shoulder without really turning.

"What do you actually know about this place?" I asked.

"Nothing." His golden eyes glowed. Had I ever seen someone's eyes light in the dark like that?

"That feels a little worrisome," I said.

He nodded. "Yeah."

We walked the rest of the way and he went into room ten, because of course he was staying in the creepy room, without saying goodnight, or goodbye, or kiss my ass, or any of the things a normal person would say.

Jerk.

Stupidly sexy, ridiculously good-looking, gravel-voiced jerk.

Another howl split the air, closer this time. I quit musing about Griffin and his jerkiness and hustled into my room, locking the flimsy door behind me.

None of what had happened in the last half hour was going to make sleep any easier. Leah could probably hear the hum of my nerves buzzing through the wall.

I sat on the edge of my bed and took a deep breath. My brain served up the image of Griffin in the lake. His body had gone rigid as if he was... what? In pain? Angry?

Had the water really come for him? Surely my imagination was turning normal waves into something more.

When have you seen a normal wave on that lake?

Maybe it was grief twisting him up like that.

That thought landed uncomfortably close to home.

I remembered clawing at grave dirt with bare hands, shredding my nails down to bloody stumps. I'd screamed things. Horrible, hateful, angry, hurting things. My whole body had ached with the tension of my rage and sorrow and helplessness.

Had I looked like a lunatic, being swallowed by an inky black monster?

Undoubtedly.

Empathy. What a shitty, inconvenient emotion.

I shoved off the bed, wincing at the squeal of the springs, and padded over to the sink to fill my travel mug with lukewarm tap water. The Camp Legends book still lay on top of the dresser where it had been when I moved in. I snagged it and returned to the bed, settling in on top of the rumpled covers.

The homemade book was printed on cheap paper and bound with plastic rings. The cover featured a rough sketch of the five totems, but the crow dominated the image, larger and darker than the rest.

The first page listed the contents. Ten stories:

The Crow's Bride

The Shadow Under the Dock

The Lantern Man

The Singing Pines

The Black Crow Totem

The Stolen Face

The White Stag

The Cursed Fire

The Vanishing Cabin

The Crow King

That last one made something in my chest tighten.

The pendant rested warm and heavy against my collarbone as I flipped to the page indicated.

Another crude illustration: a tall man with shaggy dark hair draped in a cloak of feathers. Even in black and white, the artist had somehow captured the glow of golden eyes.

My hand shook as I turned the page.

She knew upon their first meeting that he was no ordinary man.

The Crow King walked the razor's edge between life and death, cursed with a hunger not for food nor drink, but for what beat beneath the ribs of every mortal being.

Across nations he'd been given many names, but in every story, the crows followed his steps.

A sudden flap of wings smacked against the screened window.

I yelped, threw the book across the bed, and lunged for the window, slamming it shut and twisting the lock.

Okay. Okay. Deep breaths. You are an adult. You are not afraid of stories in pamphlets. You are not afraid of birds.

But I stood there for a long time, back against the wall, hand pressed to my thumping heart.

And I'd have sworn someone was listening on the other side of the paper thin wall.

Someone very still and, really only inches away.

He had to have heard the window slam.

He probably thinks I'm unhinged.

And, you know, fair.

"He's just a guy," I whispered.

Outside, the crow cawed as if it disagreed.

Dawn was painting the edge of the pale sky pink when I finally slipped into a thin, restless sleep.