Travis Walder jolted awake at the sound of three hard raps on the school bus's metal siding. He pushed himself upright in his seat. Framed in the window was the wrinkled, sour face of a nun—Sister Prune.
"Travis Yossi Walder, you are the only one missing!" she declared in her thick, imperious voice.
He'd nodded off. Outside, his classmates were already scattered across the lawn in full clamor before the Griffith Observatory. Travis stood and made his way down the aisle, stepping off the bus under the nun's severe stare.
"You are always the last for everything," she scolded.
He let the remark pass and headed for the group. He scanned for his friends and spotted them a little way off: a tall, lean African American boy and a Latina girl with her hair yanked into a tight ponytail. He quickened his pace, but they were already moving toward the terraces. Travis hurried after them.
"Brendan… Gaby—wait up!"
They ignored him and went down the steps to the terrace that looked out over the city, giving a spectacular view of Los Angeles. Travis followed, but instead of a corridor jammed with students, he found a path slipping off the hill. He took it. At the end there was no street—only a silent forest. He walked among the trees, hearing the crackle of leaves underfoot. He didn't know where he was or where he was going; he simply kept on.
Howls and footfalls rose behind him. Travis broke into a faster walk, pushing deeper through the growth until he stumbled into a clearing. Before him stood a monolith. Bewildered, he approached. Strange symbols crawled across its face. He reached out, tracing them with his fingertips—when a voice called his name.
He turned. A figure stood there: a specter in a long black robe, its wide sleeves hanging motionless at its sides. The hood obscured the face; Death itself, save that it gripped a sword with its point resting on the ground.
"The storm is coming," it said, in a cavernous voice.
Travis stared. A sudden wind lifted the black folds, and on the thing's chest a badge flashed in the moonlight. Travis frowned at it—and, by reflex, touched his own chest, feeling a medal that hung against his skin.
"Who are you?" he asked. "Death?"
The specter only raised one hand and pointed at the night sky. "Midgard," it said.
Travis looked up. One star burned brighter than the rest, which were only pale pinpricks. When he lowered his gaze, the specter was gone. In its place stood his grandfather, very much alive, eyes wide, looking at him.
"Grandpa," Travis breathed, taking a step. "Grandpa… you're back at last—I was worried."
His grandfather shook his head, then doubled over with a cry of agony and crashed to the ground. Travis started toward him, but the old man shouted:
"Don't come closer!"
Then the convulsions began. The limbs lengthened, the spine arched and broadened, the hands swelled, claws unfurling from the fingers. He rolled to all fours; bone cracked; fur rose; when he reared up, a werewolf bared its teeth at Travis, snarling.
Travis woke with a violent start—gasping, heart hammering so hard he could feel the beats thud in his ears. He drew a long breath, let it out, and tried to steady himself. He stared up at the ceiling, where models from Star Wars hung: the Millennium Falcon, an Imperial TIE fighter, and a Rebel X-wing, all frozen in flight above him. The faint nocturnal glow from his computer monitor spilled across the room, lighting posters for the new Star Wars film, The Force Awakens. A shelf displayed a neat line of action figures.
Now and then lightning flared, bleaching the room white; thunder rolled after. Rain rattled on the wooden roof, hardening by the minute. He was in his room, at home, in Los Angeles. Just another of his recurring nightmares.
He was beginning to calm when a shout made him jump.
"Travis!"
His grandmother's voice.
He jerked upright. He still had on his school uniform. Not the first time he'd fallen asleep in it.
"Travis!" came her voice again, outside the door.
He swung his legs to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing both eyes.
Knuckles tapped twice on the door.
"Travis, are you all right?"
"I'm here, Grandma," he said, shaking off the fog.
"I'm leaving for the airport. Make sure you take out the trash," came Edna's imperious call.
Travis blinked around the room, disoriented.
"Are you listening, Travis?" asked Edna Walder.
"Yes, Grandma… I'll do it," he answered, still groggy.
"Good. Zita's coming for the cans this weekend—make sure she only takes those. Are you listening?"
"Loud and clear."
"Good—and stop falling asleep in your uniform! One of these days you'll end up like Robin Williams, strangled by your tie! And don't forget your medication."
Her heels clicked away down the hall toward the stairs.