Wayfinders, p.1
Wayfinders, page 1
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Books by Bryan Chick
the secret zoo series
The Secret Zoo
The Secret Zoo: Secrets and Shadows
The Secret Zoo: Riddles and Danger
The Secret Zoo: Traps and Specters
The Secret Zoo: Raids and Rescues
The Secret Zoo: The Final Fight
the super sports society series
The Super Sports Society, Vol. 1 (coming soon!)
the wayfinders series
Wayfinders
Book Two (coming soon!)
Wayfinders
The Wayfinders Series
Book 1
Bryan Chick
Copyright © 2024 by Bryan Chick
E-book published in 2024 by Blackstone Publishing
Cover design, and illustrations by Candice Edwards
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Trade e-book ISBN 979-8-212-27688-7
Library e-book ISBN 979-8-212-27687-0
Juvenile Fiction / Fantasy & Magic
Blackstone Publishing
31 Mistletoe Rd.
Ashland, OR 97520
www.BlackstonePublishing.com
For my wife, Barbara, who helped me find my way.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter One
Chloe squats in her garden to inspect the tomatoes: shiny, red, and ripe. She plucks one, drops it in a wicker basket, and stands up straight, wiping the sweat off her brow. It’s miserably hot for September.
“I’m going, Bob—that’s the end of it!” her mother shouts from their house, about thirty yards away. Chloe wishes her parents would close the windows—she came out here to get away from them.
“Shaylah, you don’t—” her father starts.
“I’m done talking!” her mother finishes.
Chloe shakes her head and tromps across the garden, kicking the dirt around. She picks up a rotted, unripe tomato and chucks it into the woods along the left side of her backyard. It splats satisfyingly against a tree.
“Toni lives closer!” her father shouts. “It just makes—”
A door slams, maybe the one to the bathroom, and Chloe turns so she doesn’t have to see the house. Beyond her backyard is a fifty-acre field that used to be farmland. Past that stands what remains of Gwynwood Forest, after the fires raged through the area five days ago. Trees are blackened and the ground is covered in the skeletons of other greenery. When the wind blows right, the bitter stench of smoke gets in through the windows and sticks on everything: the carpet, her clothes, her bedcovers. And it’s no use trying to get it out of her hair. What’s become of Chloe’s beloved forest is almost as ugly as her parents’ fighting.
She takes a deep breath of the stinky air. Too many things are wrong in her world. The fires, her parents, and seventh grade—which isn’t exactly getting off to a perfect start. She has no friends in her classes, and the boy she’s been crushing on since sixth grade is apparently dating some girl on the basketball team.
“Can’t we just call your sister?” her father asks, still pleading his case loud enough for Chloe to hear.
“Give it up,” Chloe says under her breath. Her father can be the most annoying person on the planet.
She moves to a new row of vegetables and discovers that the melon plants are dry. She sets down the basket, grabs the nearby garden hose, and squeezes the nozzle. Water sprays in a fine circular mist, dotting the melons with clear beads.
“Quit whippin’ the branches, man!”
Startled, Chloe turns to the new voice. Someone is walking in the woods behind the old barn on the right side of her property, maybe twenty-five yards away.
“Bro, chill!” another voice answers.
Leaves rustle and twigs snap, then two eighth-grade boys from her school stumble into her yard.
“Um . . . excuse me!” Chloe says.
One boy holds his arm above his head in a lazy wave.
“Can I help you?” she asks, hoping the irritation shows in her voice.
The eighth graders stroll over and stand just past the cloud of mist. One has a missing tooth and narrow eyes. The other has messy hair and a T-shirt with the logo for some rock band with the unfortunate name of Slayer.
“You’re in my yard,” Chloe says when they just stare at her. But still, she releases the nozzle, and the cloud of mist disappears.
“This is your yard?” Slayer asks. He looks around, as if he doesn’t quite believe it.
“Yeah, and—” Chloe says.
“We’re looking for the unicorn,” the other boy, Missing Tooth, interrupts.
Chloe raises an eyebrow, unsure if they’re being serious. Two days after the fires stopped, someone reported seeing a unicorn near Mill Creek, and people have been searching that area ever since. Chloe saw them on the news. Teenagers, mostly. And bearded men with bottles of beer wrapped in paper bags. There’s not much else to do in Copper Bay. It’s why she rides horses—or used to, anyway.
“Did you see the picture?” Slayer asks.
Chloe stares at the boys, wondering where they’re going with this.
Missing Tooth elbows his friend, saying, “Show her, bro.”
The boys step forward, and Slayer holds his phone out to Chloe. On the screen is a photograph of a black horse partly hidden by the low branches of a few trees. A horn is jutting from its head.
“It’s a horse,” Chloe says.
“A horse?” Slayer makes a farting sound with his lips. He zooms in on the image and shows her again. The horn practically fills the screen.
“It’s fake,” she says.
“How do you know?” he asks.
“Because unicorns aren’t real.” She crosses her arms, the hose dribbling a bit on her knee. “And horses are.”
“Dude!” Missing Tooth says. “That photo’s legit.”
Chloe leans forward for a closer look. “I can see the strap,” she says, pointing to a strip of leather hiding in its mane.
Slayer turns the phone around so he and his friend can inspect the photo. He cocks it one way, then another. “There’s no strap!”
Now Chloe makes the farting sound. “Behind her ears. You seriously can’t see it?”
Slayer holds the phone up to his face. As he thinks about it, Chloe fights the urge to spray him with the hose. She doesn’t have patience for stupid, especially when it walks on two legs and wanders into her yard.
“Nope,” Slayer decides, lowering the phone. “Not a strap.”
Chloe decides not to press the issue. Agreeing might be the easiest way to end the conversation and get the boys off her property.
Slayer points to the woods across the open field. “The picture was taken over there.”
“By who?” Chloe asks, her shoulders tightening. It makes her nervous that someone was on her property.
The boy shrugs. “Some guy hunting.”
Some Guy Hunting doesn’t sound like the most reputable eyewitness. He probably plucked the picture off the internet.
“Let’s check out the gravel pit,” Missing Tooth says. He heads off the way they came.
Instead of following his friend, Slayer holds up his phone to study the photo again. “Have you heard about Bloodsaw?”
“Who?”
“Some podcaster, big into cryptids and stuff. He’s offering a bunch of money to anyone who finds the unicorn.”
“Oh,” Chloe says, doing her best to feign interest. It’s pretty obvious that Bloodsaw is just trying to get people talking about his show.
“A hundred thousand dollars,” Slayer says. “That’s serious bank.”
“Dude, you coming?” asks Missing Tooth, standing on the edge of the woods.
Slayer pockets his phone, winks at Chloe for some reason, and runs to catch up to his friend. They disappear back into the woods.
“Unbelievable . . .” she says under her breath. But a part of her wishes the boys would come back. Though she clearly has nothing in common with them, at least they were people to talk to. Chloe is too lonely too much.
As she turns ba ck to her garden, her eyes catch on the old motor home parked beside the barn, a white Winnebago with brown stripes and rusty rims. It hasn’t moved in a year, not since her family drove it to a horse show at the Shiawassee Fairgrounds. A small show that turned out to be Chloe’s last.
More shouting draws her attention back to the house.
“C’mon!” her father pleads with his wife. “You can—”
Another door slams—this one to her parents’ bedroom, Chloe can tell by the sound. She faces the house and watches her father pace back and forth past the window.
“Dad!” she calls up.
He walks past the window. Then again, the other way.
“DAD!”
He stops and peers out at Chloe. Even with the distance, Chloe can make out his pale, narrow face and wavy hair, cut below the ears. She and her father look nothing alike. Chloe has dark skin, like her mother, and curly, cloudlike hair.
“Give it up already!” she hollers.
“Come talk to her, would you?” he says.
“Me?” Chloe touches a finger to her chest.
“Maybe she’ll listen to you!”
Fat chance. Her mother only wears ears when she wants to.
“Just try!” he calls.
Chloe sighs loud enough for her father to hear, which is pretty impressive given the distance. She tosses aside the hose, grabs the basket, and plods toward the house. She hates it when she has to parent her mother and father.
Chapter Two
Chloe storms into the house and almost trips on her father’s fishing tackle, which he always leaves too close to the back door. She plods into the kitchen and drops the basket on the sink counter. The force makes a bell pepper jump out.
“Talk to her,” her father says, keeping his voice down. He straightens his glasses, which don’t need straightening at all, and adjusts his fishing cap, which has a short, downward-tilting brim that circles his head. He spent his Saturday morning fishing at the lake behind the Goddards’ farm.
“And say what?” Chloe asks.
“Tell her Toni should go.”
“I’m not telling her that!” Toni is her mother’s sister. And every time Chloe’s grandmother needs some help, Chloe’s dad thinks Toni should give it.
“Why not?”
“Because Mom should go!” It sometimes sickens Chloe to see how selfish her father can be. “Grandma broke her foot!”
“Fractured it,” he says, as if that makes it any better. “And I’m not saying your grandma doesn’t need help, but Toni is—”
“Chloe, come here!” her mother shouts from her bedroom.
Chloe glares at her father one more time, then makes her way across the kitchen and into her parents’ bedroom, closing the door behind her. Her mother is aggressively packing her suitcase, which is lying open on the bed. Her thick eyeglasses have slipped down to the tip of her nose.
“I’m going, Chloe!” she whisper-screams. “She’s my mother!”
Chloe nods her head, lowering her voice so her dad can’t hear. “I totally get it.”
“This wouldn’t be a problem for any other family!” She points her finger (and the athletic socks in her hand) toward the kitchen. “He’s just gonna have to step up his game for a few days!”
“I agree,” Chloe says, instead of what she wants to, which is that she hates getting lectures meant for her father.
The door swings open and her father steps into the room, his fishing cap tilted back and his messy bangs covering most of his pale forehead. “Why’s everyone whispering?”
Her mother slings the socks into her suitcase. “No one’s whispering, Bob.”
“Then why—” He locks his gaze at the clothes she’s packing.
“What’s wrong?” her mother asks.
His interest stays fixed on the suitcase. “Huh?”
Her mother tries to trace his gaze with her own. “What are you staring at?”
“Nothing.”
Her mother shifts her stance and reseats her glasses on the bridge of her nose. “Nothing?”
“It’s just . . .” He scratches his head, still looking into the suitcase. “I’m just surprised you’re packing those socks, is all. You always complain about the seams.”
Chloe rolls her eyes at the way her father’s mind works. One moment, he’s worried about his wife being gone. The next, he’s worried about the socks she’s packing.
“Bob,” her mother says, her voice even.
“Yeah?”
“I need you to keep it together.”
He plants his fists on his hips. “Shaylah, I’m just—”
“Chloe can practically take care of herself now!” Her mother’s voice drifts toward loud again. “She’s fourteen!”
Chloe won’t be fourteen for another six months, but her mother likes to round up everyone’s age. She herself turned forty at thirty-nine, and Chloe’s grandmother turned seventy when she was only sixty-eight. It’s like Chloe’s mom is in a hurry for everyone to grow old and die.
Her dad finally turns away, then glances down at the floor. “I just don’t see why—”
“I’m going, Bob, not Toni, so stop bringing it up!”
The words echo through the house. Or maybe just in Chloe’s head.
Her mother zips up the suitcase and pulls it off the bed. As she makes her way to the door, she almost runs over Chloe’s toes. When she bumps a table, the picture frame of her wedding photo topples over, and she just tromps out of the room, not bothering to pick it up.
“Shaylah, wait!” her father says, chasing after her.
Chloe picks up the frame. Then she walks into the kitchen, where her mother is staring out the window across the backyard. Chloe can see enough of her eyes to tell that they’re wet with tears. Chloe crosses her arms and glares at her father. When he gets like this, he sucks the energy out of everyone. He doesn’t mean to, but that hardly matters.
“I’m sorry,” her father says, standing a few feet behind his wife. “I just—”
“I know, Bob,” her mother calmly says, still staring out the window. The midday sun makes her dark skin glow. “We’ve been married a long time.” She says it like it’s something she doesn’t want to admit. Or worse, like something she’s ashamed of. As she wipes away a tear, Chloe walks up and puts an arm around her.
“You can go,” her father relents. “I’ll be fine, really.”
Her mother turns her head to look at Chloe. “What do you think?”
Chloe pictures her father the way he sometimes gets. Paranoid about the dark and frightened by odd noises. His anxiety skyrockets when her mother’s not around. It’s why he doesn’t like her being out of town.
“Go,” Chloe says to her mom. “Grandma needs you.”
It’s true, even if Chloe and her father need her just as much.
They stare out the window together. The garden, the barn, the Winnebago. Chloe would give almost anything to climb into the motor home with her parents and drive around again. It wasn’t so long ago that her father wasn’t afraid to leave the house.
As if thinking the same thing, Chloe’s mother turns to look at her husband. He’s standing in the same spot, his eyes wide with worry, and holding the shirt collar away from his neck, something he does when he claims to be having trouble breathing.
“There’s enough food in the fridge,” her mother says, her voice calmer this time, “so you won’t need to drive anywhere but work.”
“What about school?” he asks.
“The bus stop is right down the street,” her mother offers.
