Founded two centuries ago by a powerful tribe of Gottwa Indians, Rowan was a quiet town, so quiet that I fled after graduation. Staying away was the plan, but Mom died suddenly.
Dad said she suffered a stroke after she dug up one of the ancient graves in our backyard, which happens to be the town cemetery. Creepy, I know. Creepier still, there was no corpse inside the old coffin, only fresh rose petals.
As we made preparations for Mom’s burial, new people began arriving in Rowan, unnervingly handsome and odd people. I begged them to leave, but they stayed, because their enemies—my ancestors—were beginning to awaken.
Olivia Wildenstein grew up in New York City, the daughter of a French father with a great sense of humor, and a Swedish mother whom she speaks to at least three times a day. She chose Brown University to complete her undergraduate studies and earned a bachelor’s in comparative literature. After designing jewelry for a few years, Wildenstein traded in her tools for a laptop computer and a very comfortable chair. This line of work made more sense, considering her college degree. When she’s not writing, she’s psychoanalyzing everyone she meets (Yes. Everyone), eavesdropping on conversations to gather material for her next book, baking up a storm (that she actually eats), going to the gym (because she eats), and attempting not to be late at her children’s school (like she is 4 out of 5 mornings, on good weeks). Wildenstein lives with her husband and three children in Geneva, Switzerland, where she’s an active member of the writing community.
I trembled as I advanced toward the ring of rowan trees t
hat protected the sacred piece
of land in which my ancestors were buried. The cold wind a
nd thick snowflakes stung
my cheeks, but cooled the welt the faerie guards had exacted on my hand. I spun
around to see if the faeries had remained, but no bodies lit up the cold night. They
probably fled back to their island to inform their fellow faes that another hunter had
risen.
The wind blew Gwenelda
’
s waist-long black hair against a long, broad, bare torso
that
ended in a face so chiseled it looked carved from stone.
I trailed my eyes down the
man
’
s chest, over the inked arabesques tattooed on his skin,
over the animal-hide
loincloth that covered so little of him...
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