The Edge of Strange Hollow

went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “The faeries have things you could never hope to—”
“Yeah, they have tricks. They are always trying to trap you. Fae believe they’re better than everyone—”
Nula’s bluish skin had darkened. “The Fae love to have rare things, and they love to know things first. That’s all.” She leaned to Poppy who was watching the argument unfold, unsure whether to intervene or not. She’d never seen Mack get so worked up. Dog whined, inching closer to the elf.
“They’ll fall all over themselves to dine with a human in the woods, never mind one traveling with an elf, and a … a three-headed-dog. They’re the rarest thing of all!” Nula flushed.
Mack rose and brushed off his hands. “Collecting every rare thing in the wood, just to possess it because they can, does not make them better.”
“Sure,” Nula said in a singsong voice that made Poppy hop up as well, as Mack stomped off. Poppy followed him around the next hump of roots.
She could still hear Nula humming as she walked toward Mack. His back was turned and his hands clenched into fists. “I know you want answers, Poppy,” he said through gritted teeth. “And I know we need to free your parents … but you promised if I gave you advice, you’d listen. And I’m telling you. Do not go to the faeries.”
Poppy paused. She had never seen Mack look fierce and frightened at the same time. She put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s just what makes the most sense, Mack. Nula says they like her, and—if she’s right and the faeries keep track of rare things, they’re sure to know something about the Soul Jar! Maybe they’ll know more about the Holly Oak’s geis too. I mean … don’t you want answers too?”
The hurt look in his eyes made her blood race to her cheeks. Her chest got tight, but Mack was just being overly cautious, as usual.
His shoulders slumped. “Just whatever you do, don’t make any bargains with them.” His eyes hardened. “Swear you won’t.”
Poppy nodded. “I swear.”
“They’re not to be trusted, Poppy.” He paused. “And I’m really not sure about the pooka either.”
Before Poppy could reply, Nula’s tufted ears appeared behind them over the top edge of some roots. “Peace, Mack! Come look. I made us all a place to sleep.”
They followed her back to where Dog lay asleep already. Several large piles of colorful feathers waited for them. Poppy stared at Nula. “How did you do that?”
Nula gave a delighted laugh, her blue cheeks flushing. “I changed into a Misere bird. It’s their molting season,” she explained when they gave her blank looks.
Poppy shook her head, silently promising herself she’d find out more about those birds when she wasn’t so tired. Despite her exhaustion, Poppy lay awake for a long time after Mack and Nula drifted off. In the quiet, she couldn’t avoid her fears. She stared up at the branches of the Holly Oak, and at the stars that covered the sky in bright friendly twinkles. The moon was dark, and the stars seemed to stretch out forever.
Her thoughts were like stones rolling through a flood, banging together and scattering under the surge. Her parents were gone. She had always known it would happen eventually, ever since she was a little girl. The nightmares—those came and went, but now that they were real, she didn’t even have Jute to comfort her. In the unfolding night, fear poured out of Poppy like smoke from a fire, until it was thick around her and hard to breathe.
She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath through her nose, the way Jute had taught her to do, letting it leave her lips in a single slow exhale. She did it again. Then she counted her “at leasts.”
One—at least Mom and Dad are alive, she appealed to the sky. She had to believe she would know—feel it somehow—if they weren’t. Two—at least I got into the Grimwood. Three—at least my friends are with me. Four—we have some food. Five—Dog’s here. Six—we’re safe for the night. Seven—at least it’s not too late. Slowly, as she thought of more “at leasts,” her breath steadied, and some of the weight lifted off her chest. Bits of hope reigned in her heartache, but all the “at leasts” in the world couldn’t shut down her fear completely. Not until her parents were home and safe.
Maybe the faeries would be able to help. Poppy rolled onto her side to turn the thought into an “at least,” then stilled at the sound of lowered voices on the other side of the roots.
“It sprang up out of nowhere,” one low voice snarled, moving closer.
“Nothing comes from nowhere,” the other answered.
Poppy very carefully moved so that she was crouched under the edge of the root. Whoever they were, they couldn’t have been more than twenty feet away. She peeked over the edge.
She could make out two silhouettes in the darkness. Their long muzzles and sharp ears gave them away as two of the werewolves from the pavilion. She’d read about them in her parents’ journals, but—her father’s drawings hadn’t been right at all. His drawings had shown them hunched forward, almost leaning. These two stood on their hind legs, straight and tall.
“Well, our pack leader said there was no scent left behind. The fuel was something bitter, wrapped in glass.”
What were they talking about?
“Did the grassland burn?”
A fire.
“Much of it. A passing witch was able to put it out, but now we’re in her debt, and you know how that goes.”
“Bad news. In debt to a witch.”
“Right, so you can imagine what my wife said when I told her—seeing as we just moved to that part of the forest.”
“And you with pups to think of.”
“True. True.”
“Anyone hurt?”
Did they really hunt in packs? Poppy wondered. Were they really as fast as her father said?
“One of the elder wolves was badly burned—and several shelters burned too.”
“So, you’re here to tell her about it.”
They’re here to talk to