Marianna Baer - Wolfwood

PUBLISHERS NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.

ISBN 9781419733710

eISBN 978-1-68335-488-8

Text 2023 Marianna Baer

Book design by Chelsea Hunter

Published in 2023 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS.

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.

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In memory of my mother

There arent any wolves in Wolfwood, but there are monsters. Im six years old when they find me.

Night after night, they trap me in the Wolfwood jungle. Roots like giants fingers grab my ankles. Grotesque flowers knock me down with fleshy pink petals, slice open my gut with machete-sized thorns. Python-thick acid-green vines wind around my neck, squeezing tight, tight, tight... And always, just as Im about to die, the Wolfwood girls circle around, their own bloody wounds bandaged with fabric torn from their brightly colored dresses. I never understand why they wont help, why theyre so angry with me. The rage in their eyes is enough to wake me up screaming.

Dont be scared, Indigo , my mother says, as I crumple my sweaty, shaky body onto her lap. She hugs me close, whispering me back to sleep. I made it all up. What isnt real cant hurt you.

Her guilt is as heavy around me as her warm arms. She didnt mean for me to see her Wolfwood paintings, those torn-up girls, guts decorating the jungle like scarlet streamers. But the exhibition catalogue looked like a kids book. Id spotted its colorful spine on a high shelf, climbed on the couch to reach it.

Dont be scared, Indigo. What isnt real cant hurt you.

She says it with such conviction, over and over. For years. And at some point, when Im too big for her lap, I finally believe her. I know enough of what is real that nightmares dont seem so scary.

I let down my guard. I believe her.

There arent any wolves in Wolfwood, but there are monsters. Im seventeen years old when I find them.

Chapter One

The Nordhaus Gallery in Manhattan is as far from the bloody chaos of Wolfwood as you can get. A cavernous space with an all-glass front and that echoey emptiness only fancy places can afford. Pristine white walls. Polished concrete floor. Staff always dressed in the almost-black to very-black spectrum. Andtoday, at leastlarge black-and-white photographs hanging. No color in sight.

Well, not for the moment.

I sweep open the door and breeze inside.

Red silk dress, wide yellow belt, turquoise heels. The only black: my long, wavy hair and the artists portfolio Im carrying. At six-foot-three in the four-inch pumps, with what my friend Grace calls my diva strut, I know how I look: confident, fierce, unflappable. The girl whos got everything, except reasons to worry.

Ha.

Good morning, I say to the assistant at the reception desk. Im here to see Annika Nordhaus. My voice is steady, no sign I ran the last three blocks to get here on time.

She glances up from her laptop with a polite smile that stiffens when she spots the portfolio. So sorry, she says, clearly not sorry about whatevers coming next. The gallery isnt looking for new artists. Her eyes are back on her screen before shes finished the sentence.

I straighten up even taller. A bead of sweat slips down my spine. I have an appointment. Im Zoe Serras

Oh! she interrupts, attention on me again. Ms. Serra, apologies. And before I can correct her, she picks up the desk phone and tells someone that Zoe Serra is here. Seriously? She must be an intern or new to the galleryanyone who works here for real would know Im about thirty years too young to be my mother. Her first gallery show was before I was even born.

Ms. Nordhaus will be right out, the girl says.

Thanks. No reason to correct the misunderstanding now. Annika will see its me soon enough.

I stand still instead of wandering the exhibition because of a killer blister I got walking here from the East Village in these heels, which I found last week abandoned in front of a church on Elizabeth Streeteither a gift from God or an offering to her, I guess. When I chose them this morning I was in a hurry, thinking that if I was going to wear my one good dress and snub the art gallery black, I wanted to go extra: head-to-toe, in-your-face color. Didnt think about how long the walk was, or the fact Id never worn them before. Rookie mistake.

A minute later, Annika emerges from the doorway that leads to the office and storage areas. Even from across the sprawling room, I can tell that everything about her is as precise and perfect as the gallery. Slim-fitting dress folded around her like origami. Pearls melting into the white skin of her collarbone. Signature ash-brown bob all sharp and shiny. Im glad I fixed my lipstick as I waited to cross Tenth Ave. Perfection is fleeting with this cheap stuff.

Indigo? she calls, the clack-clack of her steps punctuating the air. Wheres your mother? She turns to the girl at the desk. You said Zoe Serra was here. Does this look like Zoe Serra?

The girls mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

Zoe has a migraine, I explain. I brought her drawings. Am I too late?

No, no, Annika says. The collectors arent even here yet.

At least running was worth it.

She gives my forearm a brief squeeze. Sorry about Zoe, but lovely to see you, darling. You look gorgeous. Her grayish-blue eyes are filled with genuine warmth. One thing about Annika: She doesnt say what she doesnt mean.

Thanks. You, too.

Come on back. She starts toward the offices. Please tell me you took a car here, lugging that big portfolio.

Its a nice day, I answer vaguely.

I follow her through the gallery into a hallway and then through an office with white desktops built in along the length of the walls. I force myself not to limp as we pass by two men and a woman working at oversized monitors. There isnt a speck of dust in the air or smudge of dirt on any of the surfaces. Sterile as an operating room. One of the men makes eye contact with me. For a second I worry he can sense the dankness of our basement apartment clinging to my skin and dress, like Im contaminating the room with my presence. A walking smudge.

I throw him a blas smile: Im all that, who are you?

Annikas spacious office is at the very back of the building. A glass wall looks out on a courtyard where geometric sculptures sit on a carpet of white rocks. A skylight shows the June blue above. Its so bright in here I almost need my sunglasses.

We can lay out Zoes sketches on the flat files, Annika says, seemingly referring to two low metal cabinets with shallow drawers that are covered with framed drawings of what look like spaceships. She holds down a button on her intercom, says, I need help in the office. Then says to me, Someone will clear them for us.