Page 75 of The Troll’s Summer Flame

“You’re welcome, Lieutenant,” Alban says.

I hang up and kiss Andrea on the forehead. “I will be right back,” I whisper.

“Love you,” she mutters into her pillow.

“Love you,” I reply, and Chopin gives me an indignant “Mrp!” from the floor. “Yes. You, too.”

Andrea: Where the hell are you?

I can’t text while I’m driving, but now that Andrea is up, I call. “I’m on my way to meet my brother.”

“Without me?” she screeches.

“Yes. In case he is murderous and violent. If he is not, I will take him to my cabin. Our cabin.”

“Okay. And if you can’t?”

I hesitate, but then a light flickers on in my brain, mirroring my solution. “I will keep him in the woods, away from others. I will have backup. I will keep him there until sunlight. If he is truly good, the sun won’t hurt him, and he won’t rush to get away from it. If he is evil, the sun will do what it has always done, and eliminate creatures of darkness. If he turns to stone, I will place him in the back of the truck, and I will drive him out to where the Pine River meets the larger Chenango. I will bury him in the water and stones.”

“I’ll come with you. Either way. I’ll be waiting at the cabin at daylight, and if you call and tell me it’s safe, I’ll have a huge bunch of pancakes ready for you guys.”

“You shouldn’t have to cook. This has been an ordeal.”

“I’m sorry, but there’s no way I’m not cooking for family. I might not be the daughter my mother wanted, but I’m the one she raised, and I still know that when family comes to town, you feed them,” Andrea says, voice bright and sassy, hiding something thick and tearful underneath. “And... And if it’s just you and the statue in the truck, I’ll pack sandwiches. We can go out to the river and take a picnic. Say some words over him. Tell a good memory?”

I drive past the White Pines Estate, heading for the forest and lake behind it, public land that adjoins the sprawling 1920s mansion and grounds. Good memories. Good memories?

I cannot find any right now. “I will call. I love you.”

I stop my truck beside Alban’s car and get out.

Alban looks tired and not at all like his usual handsome white-collar model-meets-lawyer. At least the other night he looked somewhat rested. Now, he looks stubbly and haggard. He passes me a crystal that flickers like a disco ball, bright silver beams blinding me until I close my fist over it. “The brighter it is, the closer he is. You sure you don’t want me to—”

“No. I do not. I want you to sleep. I see Duncan and Genesis are covering the sky.” My eyes point heavenwards, and then back to the crystal. “Into the woods.”

Alban nods. “Be safe.”

In the woods, it’s black and spooky, even for someone like me. There are things in the woods, they say, things that are ancient and don’t care to be known. There is a herd meeting place for the local centaurs, the ones who usually stay isolated, and I know that even beyond the lake there is another unnamed pond somewhere in these woods, where a few Selkies and Kelpies make their home.

And they don’t usually welcome visitors.

Well, neither do I. They will have to make an exception.

I stomp through the woods, announcing my presence. I let the strobing crystal guide me, and try to think over the crunching of underbrush and broken branches and my high, shivering breathing.

There aren’t caves in this part of the woods, not that I know of, so when I suddenly see a hillock of branches and leaves and my crystal stops flashing and stays steady, I figure that I’m in the right place.

“Brother?” I call softly.

Nothing.

“Brother, it is Gordon!” I say more boldly, arm slowly starting to pull back, head on the swivel. If he was here with good intentions, he’d greet me, wouldn’t he? I brace for an attack.

It never comes.

A lanky, creeping form emerges from the shelter with wide eyes in a thin face. “Gordon?”

“Hugo!” I gasp. Emotions are swirling again. My brother is here. My little brother, the one who I had little hope would survive, the one who was more like me than the others. My little brother is here—and he looks unwell. Hungry. He moves unsteadily, uncertainly.