Shea Ernshaw
Winterwood
“A spellbinding tale of witchery, deadly secrets, and woods that hold grudges. Winterwood is immersive, atmospheric, and bewitching. I could feel the cold in my toes and the Walker magic swirling around me as I read.”
“Winterwood casts a deliciously dark spell with a rich lineage of witches, secretive boys, and a sinister forest that will pull in any reader and never let them go.”
“The beauty and mystery of the natural world infuse every moment in this lush, spellbinding story that weaves romance with witchcraft—a seductive, lyrical tale of lost boys, old legends and haunted woods.”
“Mystery unwinds at an accelerating pace for the undersupervised teens, and the malicious, haunting Wicker Woods are lovingly characterized and as compelling as the formidable heroine.… A delectably immersive, eerie experience.”
A New York Times Bestseller
Spring 18 Indie Next Pick
“The Wicked Deep is more than just a scary story, it is a tale with substance and depth, one of magic and curses, betrayal and revenge, but most importantly, it is a story about the redemptive power of love to make even the worst wrongs, right.”
“The Wicked Deep has both teeth and heart. It’s a mystery and a ghost story and a love story, all woven together with evocative prose and unforgettable settings. This is the perfect book to curl up with on a rainy night, when the swirling mists and dancing shadows make the ghosts and magic leap off the pages. Prepare to be bewitched.”
“The Wicked Deep is eerie and enchanting. I was thoroughly under the spell of the Swan Sisters, and utterly captivated by Shea Ernshaw’s gorgeous, haunting debut.”
“A magical, haunted tale of the sea, spells, and secrets. The Wicked Deep will lure you in, ensnaring you in the twisted enchantment of true love and sacrifice. Beware!”
Winterwood
To all those with wild hearts
I do not think the forest would be so bright, nor the water so warm, nor love so sweet, if there were no danger in the lakes.
PROLOGUE
A boy went missing the night of the storm.
The night snow sailed down from the mountains and howled against the eaves of the old house as if through gritted teeth—cruel and baleful and full of bad omens not to be ignored.
The electricity flickered like Morse code. The temperature dropped so fast that trees cracked down their centers, sweet-smelling sap oozing to the surface like honey, before it too crystalized and froze. Snow spiraled down the chimney and gathered on the roof, until it was so deep it buried the mailbox at the end of the driveway, until I could no longer see Jackjaw Lake beyond my bedroom window.
Winter arrived in a single night.
By morning, Barrel Creek Road—the only road down the mountain—was snowed in. Blocked by an impassable wall of white.
The few of us who lived this deep in the woods, and those who were housed at the Jackjaw Camp for Wayward Boys on the far side of the lake, were trapped. Stuck in the rugged heart of the wilderness.
We just didn’t know for how long.
Or that we wouldn’t all make it out alive.
NORA
Never waste a full moon, Nora, even in winter, my grandmother used to say.
We’d wander up the Black River under a midnight sky, following the constellations above us like a map I could trace with my fingertips—imprints of stardust on my skin. She would hum a melody from deep within her belly, gliding sure-footed across the frozen river to the other side.
Can you hear it? she’d ask. The moon is whispering your secrets. It knows your darkest thoughts. My grandmother was like that—strange and beautiful, with stories resting just behind her eyelids. Stories about moonlight and riddles and catastrophes. Dreadful tales. But bright, cheery ones too. Walking beside her, I mirrored each step she took into the wilderness, in awe of how swiftly she avoided stinging nettles and poison buckthorns. How her hands traced the bark of every tree we passed, knowing its age just by touch. She was a wonder—her chin always tilted to the sky, craving the anemic glow of moonlight against her olive skin, a storm always brewing along her edges.
But tonight, I walk without her, chasing that same moon up the same dark, frozen river—hunting for lost things inside the cold, mournful forest.
Tree limbs sag and drip overhead. An owl hoots from a nearby spruce. And Fin and I slog deeper into the mountains, his wolf tail slashing above him, nose to the air, tracking some unknown scent to the far side of the riverbank.
Two weeks have passed since the storm blew over Jackjaw Lake. Two weeks since the snow fell and blocked the only road out of the mountains. Two weeks since the electricity popped and died.
And two weeks since a boy from the camp across the lake went missing.
A boy whose name I don’t even know.
A boy who ran away or got lost or simply vanished like the low morning fog that rises up from the lake during autumn rainstorms. Who crept from his bunk inside one of the camp cabins and never returned. A victim of the winter cold. Of madness or desperation. Of these mountains that have a way of getting inside your head—playing tricks on those who dare to walk among the pines long after the sun has set.