Isaac stood and picked up his pack. The spine of his copy of Frankenstein appeared as he set the casket inside the pack and he paused. His two books, brought from home: Frankenstein and Grimms’ Tales.

Monsters. Magic.

The magic he’d read about in Grimms’ fairy tales and wished was real. Flying on dragons. Receiving a magical power. Wielding a weapon. Being the hero. All that he’d dreamed about happening to him if fairy tales came true.

Now magic seemed to be happening, but it had not been what he’d expected. He hadn’t mastered the moment. Instead he felt what the monster in Frankenstein felt: awkward, fearful, and lonely.

The sun began to fade. Be wary of the night. They come strongest with deepest dark. That was one instruction Isaac had no trouble following. He had no more time to wait here, in this hut. He turned and made for the door.

*   *   *

In the courtyard outside the hut Isaac paused again at the standing stone. In the waning light it cast a long shadow across the dirt, longer even than Isaac was tall. He placed his hand on the stone, his index finger tracing one long vertical groove to other runes at the base of the mark, faint beneath lichen.

Isaac’s gaze followed the stone’s shadow, which stretched toward a swale in the moors. Smoke rose in the distance. Isaac stood taller. Smoke meant people. There were at least two ribbons of smoke. Which meant a village.

Maybe even a village with a sign with the eternity knot, which would be comforting, for he would know that he was on the right track.

The wind made a low moan as it rounded the crumbling barn, and the sound sent a chill up his spine. It was time to move.

Isaac Wolf made for the village as fast as his long legs could carry him.

CHAPTER 8

Isaac

1942

Having legs that were long for his age meant that Isaac was a walker. He could walk a good distance and faster than any of his friends. He was pretty sure he’d make that village before nightfall.

Even so, as night came on, so did his fear, and he sped up to a jog. Whoever they were, if they were anything like the monster at the hut, he didn’t want to meet them.

The sun skimmed the horizon as he reached the narrow lane leading into the village that was tucked right at the edge of the moors. A dozen or so houses, a stone kirk, and a pub.

Above the pub’s door a sign creaked on rusty hinges: The Witch’s Broom. Below the name was an image of a tangle of tree branches that stuck out like spider legs in all directions.