WHEN FATHER FIRST INTRODUCED me to the Guardian over a decade ago, I’d howled at fungal threads biting down like piranha teeth. We’d been at the spot where the creek faded into the soil rather than in this Between place, so the pain had been less intense than now. Still, thirteen-year-old me had been surprised and unamused. I’d picked up my feet in a crazy sort of dance.
Rather than soothing me, Father had slapped me so hard I fell on my face on the rotting leaves. “Heir,” he growled. “You disappoint me.”
“I—” Before I could finish, something minty slithered into my open mouth and the pain eased so fast I might as well have been anesthetized. Then, as if the Guardian was unsure whether it wanted to be quite that kind, a millipede had crawled in after. I could still feel the red on my che
