CONTENTS

  Before

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  After

  Chapter Thirteen

  Excerpt from Frozen: A Taken Novel

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Books by Erin Bowman

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  ONE

  “BREE, DO YOU SEE THIS?” Lock shouted from his perch on the rocks, a massive fish held up on his line. It was flailing away its last moments of life—tail flapping, gills puckering madly.

  Bree gave him a courtesy eyebrow raise and returned her attention to the water. She was standing in a mostly calm pool, just behind the rock jetty Lock was fishing from, water up to her knees. Silver scales flicked into view. She threw her spear and missed.

  “I don’t know why you insist on using that thing,” he said.

  Because it required skill. Because she wasn’t just waiting aimlessly, hoping some suicidal fish would come along and decide to chomp on the hooked end of her line.

  “Also, did you see this?”

  Lock hoisted the fish higher, but all Bree could see was the way his pants were hanging on his hips, a V of muscle cut off by the waistband. Muscle everywhere, actually. His chest. His shoulders. His biceps, flexed on account of the weight on his line.

  Bree wasn’t the only girl to notice how Lock had filled out his scrawny frame in the last year. They’d been flocking after him like gulls to oysters, and he certainly hadn’t been fighting them off. Bree was starting to suspect Lock’s desire to go shirtless lately had nothing to do with the heat.

  Lock shook his catch at her more adamantly. It was dying a slow, pitiful death.

  “Yeah, you snagged a fish the length of your forearm, and in shallow waters, too. You want a ribbon or something?”

  “Why would I want that when I can have your sarcastic back-talk?” He shot her a smile, then bent over to unhook the fish. Bree watched the muscles in his shoulders as he struggled with it.

  Why couldn’t he wear a stupid shirt?

  She turned back to the fish in the shallows. It was days like this that she missed her mother most. It would be nice to ask her if this was normal: a guy being able to make your knees knock even when he’d done nothing but show you a slimy, stinking fish. Bree didn’t like it.

  She threw her spear at another flash of silver. This time her angle was right, and it pinned the fish to the ocean floor. She retrieved the spear, tossed the catch in the small bucket set on the nearby rocks, and stretched.

  It had been a merciless summer, heavy with humidity, greedy with rain. Bree gazed toward Crest, barely visible at the center of the island where it broke from the trees. Her island’s freshwater came from that mountain when it rained, running down the steep rock face to fill the small lake at Crest’s base. Keeva had been yelling about conserving supplies lately, claiming less water should go into irrigation and more into their stores. Drinking water trumps crops. Bree agreed with the philosophy, but not the approach. Keeva was working everyone into a frenzy, talking like they’d be parched and dead by the next sunrise. Mad Mia was even doing nightly rain dances as a result, chanting beneath the glow of the moon.

  Like it would help.

  Like her antics ever helped.

  Granted, there was that one time she treated Lock. He’d been a kid still, with a fever nearly as bad as the one that later killed Bree’s mother. Everyone had been certain he would die, but Mad Mia gave Lock a few ladles of some vulgar-looking concoction, and two days later the fever broke. Lucky Lock, they called him after that. Course, no one bothered to drop the Mad from Mia’s name.

  Bree wiped the sweat from her forehead and inspected the cloudless sky. Last year, a stretch of weather like this would have made her desperate for winter. For cooler temperatures and snow that could be boiled for drinking water. But not now. This year was different. She was dreading the change in seasons.

  Lock had less than a week until his birthday—six days, to be exact. Bree had three months. His fate was sealed, and hers, uncertain. She wasn’t sure which was worse. At least the boys could prepare—mentally, emotionally. They’d be Snatched at eighteen, no exceptions. Gone without a trace. But for her . . . She didn’t know what would happen come December. She had theories, of course. The odds were good for girls—only about one in every ten wouldn’t make it. But the last six girls to turn sixteen were spared, and there wasn’t a skilled female hunter who’d come of age and could say the same. This didn’t bode well with Bree.

  Lock appeared untouched by his looming birthday. He was still smiling constantly, carefree and boisterous, like he had any number of days stretching before him. Bree was positive it was a front, that underneath he was shaking in his skin, but any time she tried to broach the subject he’d grow very interested in completing some chore his ma had assigned him. Or chatting about the weather. (Not that there was anything worth commenting on—it had been hot, hot, hot every day for the last three months.)

  Bree waded out of the water and strapped on her leather sandals. Half the village was still fishing, some in the water with spears, others on the jetty with their poles like Lock. She could even make out a few boats bobbing beyond the docks, checking the crab traps or trying their luck in deeper waters, but not too far. Never too far. It wasn’t safe.

  “You staying at it?” she called to Lock. The sun was getting dangerously hot, and the best fishing hours were behind them.

  He twisted to face her, and every muscle in his back came to life with the motion. Bree cursed herself for noticing. He should have stayed scrawny forever. Although maybe she would have fallen for him anyway. That tends to happen when you spend all your time with someone. It’s practically guaranteed when you spill your secrets like they aren’t precious. Her ma always said that was why it hurt so much to lose Bree’s father. She’d told him every last dream and fear, so when he was Snatched, it was as though a piece of herself had been, too. Like her soul was stolen away, never to return.

  Bree had listened, but she hadn’t heard. Not until now. She was finally beginning to understand what her mother had meant—how opening up can make you vulnerable.

  Lock picked up his bucket of fish. “Nah, I’ll head in. I’ve got a good haul here, and Ma asked me to fix a leak in the roof. You want to help?”

  “Ooh, tempting. You know how to show a girl a good time.”

  “Come off it, Bree. You’ve got nothing better to do. Patch the damn thing up with me. Please?” He made a show of it, hands clasped and everything.

  “Fine, but only because you’re begging.”

  “Course I’m begging. You think there’s another girl I’d rather patch a hut with?” He smiled and a pair of dimples winked.

  “I don’t know, Ness is pretty handy with a needle. Maybe she’s good with roof repairs, too.”

  Lock rolled his eyes. “The only labor I’ve ever seen that girl do is limited to stitching and sewing.”

  Just the other night Bree had seen Lock drawing Ness toward the lake, his grip firm on her hand. She’d laughed at something he said. He’d kissed her neck. Clearly he didn’t mind that Ness couldn’t patch roofs.

  And there was Maggie, too. And Cate. But Bree didn’t bring them up because he wasn’t asking for their help with the roof; he was asking for hers. Lock was always asking her for anything but what she really wanted.

  So take what you want or quit complaining. He could have had Conner help him.

  And then Bree remembered Lock’s best friend had been gone four weeks now. The only sign of Conner was the vague resemblance on the three kids he’d left behind. Sometimes that was all Saltwater felt like to Bree: an island filled with ghostly remains.

  “Lock?” a terse voice called, barely audible on account of the windy shoreline. “Lock!”

  Bree twisted inland. The rocky and crushed-shell beach eventually gave way to a steep, smooth rock bed, which led up to level land. It was there that Ness appeared, looking breathless.

  “It’s Heath!” she shouted, waving frantically.

  Lock’s face hardened like the sky before a storm. “What happened?”

  “It’s bad. He’s . . . well . . .” Ness glanced at Bree, then motioned for Lock again. “Just hurry up. You need to come home.”

  “Go on,” Bree said, taking Lock’s bucket from him. “I’ll meet you back at the hut.”

  A gracious, sideways glance was his only response.

  Bree watched him scramble up the rock. When Ness took Lock’s hand, Bree wondered if it was some sort of cover—Ness comes crying that something’s wrong so they can slip off into the trees. It took the duration of an exhale for Bree to regret the thought. If Ness’s words were truthful, if something had happened to Heath . . . well, that would kill Lock. Actually kill him. He’d die of a broken heart and everything, just curl up on his mattress and never move again. If there was anything on the entire island that Lock loved more than his girls, it was his kid brother. And Heath wasn’t well lately.

  To be fair, Heath had never been well. His vision had been bad since birth. Bree wasn’t sure if it was getting worse or if he was slowly going blind, but these days, Heath could barely see more than a few wingspans in front of him. He also fell sick almost monthly, like his health was tied to the cycles of the moon. It had been that way all ten years of his life, and even still, you couldn’t find a more upbeat, radiant kid.

  Bree stooped to retrieve her fish, kicking loose stones at the braver gulls that were getting too close. The rope handles tore at her palms as she hiked. She was sweating in no time, the cool lap of the water around her ankles an ancient memory. It was a shame this steep, grueling passage was the only access point to Saltwater’s fishable shoreline. Everywhere else, the land dropped away in the form of treacherous cliffs when it met water.

  Finally the rock leveled off and Bree was back on grass, crunching and brittle beneath her sandals. The cry of gulls behind her meshed with the rustling leaves ahead. When Bree stepped between the first tree trunks, it was blissful. Her skin may have been bronzed that late in the summer, but the kiss of shadows was always a relief. Muscles aching, she lugged the buckets through the trees and into the town clearing.

  Outside her hut, Mad Mia was chanting to the skies for rain, a bunch of bird bones clinking around her neck. A fish, skewered over her fire and long forgotten, was charred black. Still, she was not too distracted to ignore Bree. The woman’s eyes seemed to bore into Bree long after she’d passed by, burning through her skin, as though she were the one putting on a ridiculous display.

  It occurred to Bree that Mad Mia might be concerned about Heath. It seemed most of the village was aware something had happened, for a small crowd was gathered outside Lock’s hut.

  Bree had called the place home ever since her mother passed and Lock’s mother, Chelsea, insisted that no eight-year-old should grow up alone. Bree’s old home stood empty on the edge of the village, its roof buckling, its dirt floor cold. She visited it often, just in case the ghost of her mother was lonely. (She wasn’t. An empty house is an empty house.)

  Inside, Bree could hear Lock arguing with Sparrow, the village healer. She pushed her way through the curious crowd, buckets still in hand, and ducked into the one-room home. The air was heavy. Bunches of seaweed hung drying from the rafters. Chelsea had left a half-woven basket on the dining table. A first for her. She never set aside her weaving uncompleted. Ness, Lock, Chelsea, and Sparrow were huddled around one of the four beds on the opposite end of the room.

  “What’s going on?” Bree asked, setting down the fish.

  Ness twisted to glare. Lock’s eyes were heavy. Sparrow moved, and Bree saw.

  Heath.

  His breathing was panicked, his skin caked in sweat. A wooden spike skewered his left leg, just above the knee.

  The noise that escaped Bree was more animal than human. She knew how this had happened.

  It was her fault.

  Her trap.

  TWO

  BREE’S MOTHER HAD BEEN THE best storyteller in all of Saltwater. People would gather around the fire when she told tales, the tone of her voice and the crackle of burning wood equally addicting. She could make the imaginary real, the impossible plausible. Bree didn’t know how she did it, but her mother weaved magic with words.

  There was a certain tale she recounted most often. On an island very much like their own, villagers faced a hard summer. The sun was strong and the sea unyielding. No matter the number of lines cast or nets hauled, no fish could be summoned for the tables. Desperate, the young men of the village set out to hunt the herons that frequented the shorelines, but were stopped by a girl named Hope. She was on the brink of womanhood, her frame just starting to soften, with eyes so wide everyone assumed she could see the future.

  “Don’t kill them,” Hope warned. “The herons feed on the fish as we do. If we spare them, they will lead us to new food.”

  And so the village watched the herons for nearly a week, their stomachs growling as they ate only grass from the ocean and greens from the earth. When the birds fled across the ocean, flying to wherever better food could be found, the people turned on Hope. They claimed she’d misled them, and called for her death. She was tied to a pole in town, but before a flame could be brought to the dry leaves surrounding her, a single heron flew over the village. Following the bird into the heart of their island, the people found a small lake. There, a massive creature emerged from the woods and wandered into the shallows. It jumped logs as nimbly as a rabbit, but sprouted branches from its head like a tree. The villagers brought it down with their spears and though everyone ate until full, there was still meat to spare for days to come.

  Bree knew this tale was her mother’s invention. But a beautiful story can make fantasy preferable to reality, and a piece of Bree wished it were true. The herons became her favorite—graceful birds that promised hope and bounty—and if Saltwater was home to herons, why not also this mythical animal that could feed everyone in the village?

  Lock used to help Bree hunt for the creature. After Bree’s ma died and the two began sharing a roof, it became their game, a distraction from the pain of Bree’s loss. They’d look for the creature’s prints in the forest. They’d throw spears at fallen trees for target practice. Lock theorized about the creature’s weight, and Bree proposed an inground trap—one fashioned so the animal could wander right into their grasp. After digging, they’d lined the belly of the pit with sharpened tree limbs, then covered the opening with weak boughs and foliage.

  They caught nothing. Childhood had fled them, along with the boldness to believe such colorful tales. By the time Lock was fourteen (Bree, twelve), they’d given up on the creature entirely. Lock had suggested they dismantle the trap, and Bree hadn’t had it in her. It was one thing to not believe, another to declare it so openly. She’d argued to let the trap fall to the wear of the seasons, and that had been the last she’d thought of it.

  Until today.

  With Heath.

  She could picture it clearly, the boy wandering into the trees to escape the heat of the day. Chelsea was likely busy weaving and didn’t see him leave. Or maybe she was too preoccupied to really care. Heath’s fever had been light when Bree kissed his forehead earlier that morning. For him, it was a good day, a chance for Chelsea to breathe a little easier and set down her stress.

  Heath wouldn’t have noticed the trap—the subtle variations in the ground, the way leaves and grass lay scattered over crisscrossed branches. Not with his terrible vision. He’d likely walked right over the trap and it snapped under his weight.

  It could have been worse, Bree thought.

  Horrible, but true. The spear could have impaled his stomach, vital organs. But it only got his leg.

  “We have to pull it out,” Sparrow said.

  “But the bleeding,” Chelsea argued.

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  “Lock,” Bree muttered. Her voice was so soft, so uncertain, it came out a whisper. “Lock, I am so sorry.”

  He kept his eyes on Heath, one hand clutched around his brother’s small fingers, the other brushing sweaty hair from his eyes. They looked so alike despite the difference in years, difference in fathers, even. They’d inherited everything from Chelsea. The same green eyes, as brilliant as seaweed. Same dark, shaggy hair.

  “Lock,” Bree said again, more firmly this time.

  Ness wheeled on her. “This island’s got fish. And plenty of birds and rodents and even a few rabbits. Nothing needs a trap that size.”

  So Lock had already spoken of the trap in Bree’s absence, explained the origin of the spike. There was no other explanation for why Ness would know of it.

  “It was an accident,” Bree insisted.

  “All you’ve managed to do is hunt our own people!”

  “Ness, quit it,” Lock said.

  “Heath’s speared straight through the leg on account of—”

  “It’s not her fault!” he snapped.

  Chelsea and Sparrow hovered around Heath, muttering over how they should remove the spike, control the bleeding. Sparrow’s eldest son, Cricket, appeared with bandages in hand. He was barely Heath’s age, and yet he could patch up wounds nearly as well as Sparrow.

  Ness kept a hand on Lock’s shoulder. Heath continued gasping for air.

  “What can I do?” Bree asked, feeling completely useless. Feeling horrible.

  No one answered.

  Sparrow took the spike in her grasp. Cricket stood ready with clean rags.

 

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