The Forest of Sleepers (Nowhere Book 2)

f o r t y - t w o : c h o i c e s

 Wyatt watched the scene before him with a horror he'd never known before.

There was Ophelia, bleeding in the grass, and Birdie cradling her to her chest, weeping.

He'd seen this vision over and over and over in his mind. Every time, it had left him feeling cold, nauseous, terrified.

That was nothing compared to witnessing all of his nightmares coming true right in front of him.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," Silas whispered beside Wyatt, scrubbing at his shaved head in disbelief.

Wyatt wanted to be angry at him. To blame him for turning Marigold into whatever that thing was that hovered over the pond.

But there was nothing left inside him.

Nothing, except a resolve that increased as he watched his Bernadette clutching the body of Ophelia while Marigold was being consumed by the darkness behind them.

Her sisters.

His friends.

When he'd been trapped in the cathedral hatch, he'd been scared. Scared of the nightmares, of the memories.

He'd been haunted all his life, but when he finally faced the ghosts, he realized that he was stronger than they were.

Now he realized that he wasn't scared anymore. Not of his past or his family or his fate or even death itself.

There was only one thing left for Wyatt Best to fear.

He was afraid of losing the Penny sisters.

So, he lifted his head toward the gray sky, took in a long breath of musty air, and went to Birdie.

As soon as he knelt beside her, she clung to him, shaking with the weight of the horrors she'd just experienced.

Wyatt held her, memorizing the exact shade of her brown hair as if he'd forget it if he looked away.

There was the distant memory of Birdie being a stranger. He remembered the first time he'd seen her.

It was during his first day working on the Penny farm. It was early morning when the sisters came outside to meet him.

Back then, he'd described Birdie as looking like the embodiment of a human biography. It had been a mere observation rather than an intuitive decision.

Now, he knew she was like poetry. Not in the way a poet would describe her, with dark strands and honey eyes and a smile that contested for the sun's attention.

No, Birdie Penny was like poetry in the way someone like Wyatt Best would describe it: hard for one to understand, but a treasure one would kill to find, to learn about, to touch.

That was what she was to him. And so for her, he would die.

Wyatt gently pried Birdie away and cupped both hands against her cheeks.

Birdie knew instantly. He saw it in the way her face contorted with the same pain he felt inside.

"No," she begged, clutching at the collar of his sweater vest. "Don't leave me. I can't...don't make me do it alone. Please."

"I wish it were different," Wyatt said. "I wish we had more time, but we don't."

"It shouldn't be you," Birdie sobbed.

"But it is. And I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." Wyatt kissed her forehead, squeezing his eyes shut and hoping, for a moment, that when he opened them it would all be a dream.