Morgan drops to his knees, not seeming to mind the cold and wet seeping through the holes in his jeans. He holds up a bare hand as if he’s warming his fingers on an open fire.

“Can you feel it?” he asks, his eyes wide and glassy.

All I can feel are tired legs, my cheeks numbed by the cold, and sweat making swamps of my armpits—wait…and something else too, like there’s someone else in the glade with us.

“It’s coming from the stones.”

Whatever I’m feeling isn’t just coming from the tonttukivi. It’s in the air and under my skin. I crouch beside him and hold out a hand to the stones. My palm itches.

“I have to concentrate really hard,” he says. “It comes and goes. It’s pretty weak, actually.”

The itch in my palm certainly isn’t. I must be developing an allergy to moss or lichen.

The light dims and the stones stop glowing. Seven seconds pass before they flicker on again.

“Hardly any energy left now, but it still feels so good.” Morgan peels off his mittens and buries his hands in the fallen leaves up to the tattoos.

“Are your palms itchy?” I ask.

“No, it’s nothing like that.” After a moment, he frowns and pulls his hands back. “I’ve only ever felt this kind of energy once before, back home in Ireland. We have a few sacred druid sites, really ancient monuments, like Newgrange, where the energy gets like this at certain times of the year.” Tentatively, he brushes his fingertips against the base of the tonttukivi.

“Should you be doing that?” I ask, worried by the glazed look in Morgan’s eyes as he presses both hands to the stone.

The blue light instantly glows brighter, igniting beneath his hands and traveling up his fingers in shimmering tendrils. His tattoos light up too, with a sizzle I can only hope isn’t the result of burning skin.

Freezing wind whips through the grove, throwing ice crystals into my face in a violent swirl. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m not—it’s the stones, they’re…” Morgan doesn’t finish his sentence. The light flows out of him, back into the stones, and he topples over before I can catch him.

“Morgan?” I shake his shoulder. His wrists are bleeding, spattering red across the frosted ground. “Oh gods, Morgan! Please, wake up!” I shake him harder. Nothing. With trembling fingers, I check his pulse and let out a breath in relief. Just unconscious. He’s fine.

Are you sure? The little voice pipes up. What if he doesn’t wake up? What if he ends up like Natalie? It’ll be all your fault.