Abigail The car hums in idle as my eyes comb over the invitation one more time. This wooded, isolated drive doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. The vellum is fine, with the invitation itself handwritten in red ink in a swooping, calligraphic style. The envelope itself was even sealed in a rich, red wax. The address is more plainly written, and assuming this isn’t some kind of a trap—which I haven’t ruled out—I’m headed in the right direction. Straight on the path to Briarton

Elijah This isn’t what I had in mind when my boss said that I was going to be working in New York. I’d pictured cities, high rise apartments, and claustrophobic, unwalkable streets that somehow, thousands of people managed to walk anyway. The Big Apple. But no. Somehow, Mr. Jason Richards came up with the incredible plan to send me out to the middle of bum-fuck nowhere. I can’t even see any civilization through all the trees when I see the sign boldly claiming that I am now e