Behind them, the suits didn't follow. The serpent woman smiled.
She pointed down the mountain, toward the distant lights of the sleeping town. “Home. But we take the long way.”
The mountain groaned.
His silver eyes held hers. “You’re my sister. You found me in the woods when I had no name. I would follow you anywhere.”
“No,” Tessa said. “We run to Witch Mountain. Not away.” run to witch mountain
Now, as they scrambled up a granite slope slick with moss, Tessa understood. The suits weren't government. They weren't police. They were collectors. And the key wasn't for a lock—it was for the mountain itself.
The mountain loomed ahead—a jagged tooth against a bruise-purple sky. Witch Mountain. Locals told stories about the old observatory at the summit: the weird lights, the frequencies that made your fillings ache, the hikers who wandered back with no memory of three days. Tessa had never believed in witches. Behind them, the suits didn't follow
Tessa looked back up the stairs. The vans were gone. But the woman with the serpent tattoo was standing at the top, arms crossed, patient as a spider.