The Devouring Gray(97)

There was a twinge of panic in May’s voice now. “Our mother’s already seen this. You need to look—now.”

Justin was curious, despite himself.

But he was tired of protecting May when she’d shown, very clearly, that she didn’t care at all about protecting him. He had stopped being that person the moment he turned in his founders’ medallion.

May’s voice had turned shriller than he’d heard in months; shriller even than it had been in their mother’s office. “At least open your window.”

Against his better judgment, Justin slid the pane of frosted glass upward, sending the dark, sprawling form of the hawthorn tree into sharp focus.

And gasped.

Because the hawthorn tree, from root to tip, had turned to red-brown stone.

Petrified branches spiraled from a lifeless trunk. Confused birds perched among frozen leaves that would never float softly to the ground, chirping in low, panicked voices.

And as he stared at the evidence that Harper had gotten his note, that she’d believed him, that she’d listened, Justin couldn’t stop himself from grinning.





Isaac Sullivan reached the edge of the ruins just before dawn.

They were easy to find. All he had to do was let his muscle memory take over as he left the main road behind, winding through the trees, until he reached the remnants of what had once been his home.

Isaac paused at the place where the grass gave way to a crater of scorched earth. Three years ago, the Sullivan mansion had stood here, tall and proud and full of life.

All that was left now was a crude foundation of charred brick and timber.

As far as Isaac was concerned, it was an improvement.

He took a moment to admire his handiwork, pushing down the impulse to mentally overlay the ruins with the house that had once been there—the stained-glass window above the doorway, the great stone pillars that held up the gables like a pair of hunched shoulders.

Every time he came here, he left remembering less of the house it had once been and more of the pile of rubble it was now.

It was why Isaac visited so often. It was why he’d destroyed the Sullivan mansion in the first place.

He wanted to forget it.

And because this was where he came to forget things, it was the right place—the perfect place—to get rid of everything that reminded him of Justin Hawthorne.

He had brought the three most important traces of their friendship: This Side of Paradise, the only novel he and Justin both enjoyed; a pair of running sneakers Justin had given him, which he’d barely used; and a tiny silver figurine shaped like a tree, which Justin had stolen from the sheriff in a moment of anger and stashed in his apartment.

Isaac destroyed the figurine first; his mind narrowing with concentration until the silver had smoldered into ash. Then he disintegrated the shoes.

He hesitated over the book. Isaac didn’t like to hurt books. But when he flipped open the cover and saw Justin’s name written inside in his familiar chicken-scratch handwriting, the hurt coursing through him was enough to make his palms turn hot.

His loyalty to Justin had deepened into an inability to put himself first. To say no. For a long time, he’d thought that was love.

He’d been wrong.

But knowing that didn’t make it hurt any less.

He raised his hands in the air and let the remnants of the novel trickle to the ground, then dusted them clean.

Through the cloud of soot he’d left behind in the air, a figure stirred on the other side of the crater.

Isaac took in the figure’s large hands, made for closing into fists, the tattoos that ran from his wrists to his shoulders, and a face that had only grown sharper and crueler in the years since he had seen it last.

The scar on Isaac’s neck began to pulse in time with his heartbeat as Gabriel Sullivan met his eyes.

“Miss me, little brother?” he asked, the words echoing across the ruins, and Isaac knew, for the first time since his fourteenth birthday, what it was to be afraid.





Acknowledgments


I had the idea for this book when I was a college student abroad. I’d traveled to Europe hoping to find inspiration, only to realize that I needed to write about the upstate New York woods I’d left behind. I didn’t know then that it would change my life. I didn’t even know if I could write it. I just knew that I had fallen in love with Violet, Harper, Justin, Isaac, and May, and I had to tell their story.

I’m so glad I did.

But no book is ever created alone, and without all of the following people, The Devouring Gray would not be what it is today.

To my agent, Kelly Sonnack, thank you for your tireless guidance and wisdom, your thoughtfulness, and your impeccable editorial insight. From the very beginning, you’ve understood The Devouring Gray on a level I’d only dreamed of—and you’ve understood me, too. I’m so lucky to have you in my corner, and so grateful for all you’ve done for me and my woods book.

To my editors, Hannah Allaman and Emily Meehan—thank you for reading my book an uncountable number of times, and for understanding my vision for this duology from the very beginning. You are a total dream team, and I’ll forever be honored that you chose to go into the Gray with me. Hannah—thank you for loving these characters just as much as I do, for the Hamilton references, the mutual lack of chill, and the impressively fast e-mail responses.