Chapter 2: The Maple Seed’s Bitter Secret

I’m a fox spirit, a thousand years old.

I’ve seen more American centuries than most folks can count. Word has it that Silver Hollow Church is home to a thousand-year-old maple tree, which drops a single, magical seed every hundred years. Eating it can boost a spirit’s power by leaps and bounds.

Honestly, it wasn’t the power I was after. I was just curious what a seed a hundred years in the making could taste like, to make so many spirits drool over it day and night.

And what kind of place is Silver Hollow Church, anyway, that spirits are so terrified they won’t even go near it?

"Ancestor, you can’t go! That’s Pastor Caleb’s turf. He’s got a relic—deadly to spirits like us. Go there and you’re walking right into a trap!"

I brushed off the old willow spirit blocking my way. "I’m a thousand-year-old fox—would I be scared of some Bible-thumper? Just wait for my good news."

The willow shook his branches at me, looking a little like a wiry old man arguing on a porch swing, but I just winked and kept moving. My sneakers squeaked on the dewy grass as I made my way through the graveyard, slipping between mossy tombstones.

On a dark, windy night, I slipped into Silver Hollow Church.

That maple seed was truly something special. Us foxes have sharp noses—I could smell its sweetness from blocks away.

The air was thick with the hush of after-hours—dust motes caught in moonlight, the faintest hint of lavender from the cleaning lady’s last sweep. Following the scent, I found a neat, spotless little room.

On the twin bed sat a meditating pastor, deep in concentration.

His posture was so rigid I almost expected a ruler in his hand. I glanced around and sneered. Even a shabby room like this is spotless—this uptight pastor’s a real neat freak.

There were books stacked in careful piles, a cross above the bed, and a little bottle of hand sanitizer on the dresser—classic. I bent down for a closer look. His brows and eyes looked chiseled, skin pale, lips thin—not bad looking. But his brows were furrowed tight, and his breathing was rapid. Was he fighting some inner demon?

Forget it. Not my business. I’m just here to steal a seed.

The maple seed was easy to spot, sitting in a box on the nightstand like it was nothing special.

Did I... get the right one?

I picked up the walnut-sized, blood-red seed, hesitated, then tossed it into my mouth and crunched down.

The taste hit like a moldy pecan, way past its prime. A moment later, I spat out the pulp, grabbed the water bottle on the table, gulped down some water, and tossed it aside.

What the hell kind of seed is this? Worse than old willow’s leaves! Ugh!

The bitterness stuck to my tongue. Disgusted, I turned around—only to meet a pair of deep, black eyes.

—That water bottle I just threw had landed squarely on the pastor, waking him up.

But this guy was odd. His eyes were scarily dark, his skin so pale it was ghostly, veins bulging, jaw clenched tight, and on the side of his neck...

There it was: the mark of a butterfly.

Shit, butterfly venom.

Butterfly venom is nasty, overpowering stuff. When it flares up, if no one helps within two hours, you bleed out from everywhere and die a horrible death.

So he’d been meditating to suppress it.

I raised an eyebrow. This pastor probably won’t make it through the night. Too bad—he’s easy on the eyes.