Palo, Iowa was the last place you'd expect anything magical to happen. Small town didn't cut it. It was a gas station, a lake, and not much else. Not unless you were interested in soybean farms or pigs. The woods that surrounded the lake were lovely, though. Much nicer than the patch of trees they had the audacity to call a park in the nearby city where I and half a million other people lived.
Palo's camping grounds and nature trails were only a fifteen-minute drive from my apartment, which was a short ride on a Saturday. It'd been a warm summer morning, nice enough to brave the cow pastures and keep the window down. With no one else around but the occasional car or truck that passed me by on the opposite lane, I was free to belt out all the wrong words to the pop songs on my phone.
The road into the park itself had been washed out during the last flood. There wasn't even gravel, only a long dirt road that I wouldn't dream of going near after a rainstorm. The car and I bounced along for a few miles until we reached the paved road that rounded the northern half of the lake. I followed it to the third set of outdoor pavilions, across from which was a nature trail that took an hour to walk both ways.
Sliding my phone into my arm band, I put in my ear plugs and set off at an easy jog to warm up.
Surrounded by trees and a thick canopy, the trail was heavily shaded. My playlist continued uninterrupted in my ears. After five minutes, I sped up. Having taken the trail many times through the last few years, I knew how to pace myself.
For the first half hour, everything was good.
The problem came soon after. I noticed the humidity in the air pick up, first. Soon after, what had been a pleasant breeze began to grow stronger, enough to bend the topmost branches. It wasn't until I had a good break in the canopy overhead that I saw why. Dark clouds had rolled in overhead.
Pulling out my earplugs, I could hear the creaking of the branches and the whistling of leaves as the wind swept through the woods. The sunshine was all but gone, leaving the trail growing darker by the minute. And then came the rumble of distant thunder.
I turned around, hoping to reach my car before what looked like a summer storm opened up above me. At first, I wasn't too worried. But then the wind blasted through the trees, powerful enough to send fallen leaves and branches skittering across the trail. When it was just an occasional burst, I figured I still had time. That changed in a terrifyingly short five minutes, when the blasts didn't let up—and the trees began to bow. The first raindrops pattered against the dirt and splashed on my bare arms and face.
That's when I started to worry.
The sky was a sickly dark green in color, and the woods had dimmed. Once distant rumbles of thunder became great booming cracks. The rain came down faster, driven sideways by the wind.
I was still fifteen minutes from my car when the sirens sounded.
My heart, already pounding from the constant thunderstrikes, now went into overdrive. The wind pushed against me, and a part of me was terrified it might pick me up and send me flying. That's if the lightening didn't get me first.
I was soaking wet, rain coming down in sheets so thick I couldn't see more than a few feet in front of me. The trees were groaning, the branches bent near horizontal from the driving winds. Great limbs cracked and split apart from the tops of the trees. The sky was black.
I kept thinking it had to let up—but it didn't. It got worse. Half of a great oak tree split apart and tipped over a mere ten feet in front of me.
And then came the sound of a freight train that shook the very sky itself.
The trees to the west were coming out of the ground and falling eastward. The ground began to shudder. The wind was a constant, screaming roar, rushing so fast it was almost impossible to suck in a breath. It was a physical force, driving me off the trail and into the woods. The rain pelted into me like a thousand tiny pebbles. But the worst were the stray branches now flying through the air.
Finally, I ran into a massive tree with a trunk as wide as my car. I slipped around and crouched behind it, finding respite from the worst of the wind. But it still swirled around the base of the tree and tried to knock me down. I covered my head with my arms, trembling as I was buffeted by wind and rain. Wincing every time I was slapped by a stray leaf or whipped by a loose branch.
The roar of the train grew louder. Despite my cover, the wind was strong enough to knock me down. I laid flat against forest floor, curling my fingers into moss and mud, hearing the woods crashing down around me.
The tree that had sheltered me let out a groan loud enough to hear over the oncoming train. There was a great snap and creak above me and then—
Nothing.
My head was broken.
That was the only thing that could explain the shooting pain exploding from my skull. An agony so acute, bright lights burst behind my eyes. I tried to move, and then stopped when my stomach gave a violent heave. Opening my eyes a crack was like driving a screwdriver through my temple. I immediately gave up that idea and laid motionless as my brain throbbed.
A stream or river burbled nearby. The wind that had been so savage was now no more than a gentle breeze whispering through the grass and rustling leaves. A bird whistled, and a moment later was answered by a low trill. The smell of earth and grass was strong, and the air tasted clean.
Once I'd more or less grew used to the great bruise that had once been my head, I tried opening my eyes again. Enduring the sharp stab of pain, I saw it was once again bright out. Risking my stomach's ire, I used my arms to push myself up.
The nausea returned, and I gagged a bit, but eventually managed to sit on my knees. I had to pause long enough to breath and let the urge to vomit pass, until I was able to straighten up and take a good look around me.
Wild grass covered the ground around me, interspersed with tiny yellow and white flowers and patches of clover. A good distance to my right, I could make out a narrow brook cutting through the land, it's rushing waters glinting beneath a midday sun. To my left were a line of trees stretching out far as I could see. A similar wall of oak, heather, and firs stood a short way across water.
There were no signs of the trail.
I couldn't remember there ever being any kind of brook off the main lake, but then figured it must have rained so hard it had formed a temporary stream. It had certainly felt as if another lake was falling from the sky as I'd stood in the center of the maelstrom.
Tenderly, I reached up and pressed against the worst of the aches around my head. There were some sharp explosions of pain, but none of my bones shifted. Just a bad bump, then. With all the debris flying around, something must have whacked me upside the head and knocked me out.
I wasn't sure how I went from the woods right off the trail to a small grassy bank, but maybe I hadn't lost consciousness. Maybe I'd wandered and didn't remember. Not the most comforting thought.
Either way, I had to try and find the trail and get back to my car. If I still had a car. A tree could've fallen on it for all I knew.
With that happy thought in mind, I forced myself to my feet and, teeth grit against my pounding head and still woozy stomach, began a slow walk back towards the trees.
I stayed within sight of the brook as I walked along the edge of the woods, seeking something like a path. When I was walking for more than fifteen minutes, I pulled my phone free of my armband and, pleased to see it was still working, tried to access a map app. I couldn't be too far from the main camping grounds, after all. I'd already been on my way back when the storm hit.
A no signal message came up. I glanced at the bars and cursed when I saw they were empty. The storm must have knocked out the towers. Sighing, I pushed my phone back into my arm strap.
It was another twenty minutes before I found it. It wasn't a very well-tended trail—the grass was overgrown, and branches stuck right out into it—but it was definitely a path through the woods. I turned away from the stream and began my trek through the trees.
As I walked, I was somewhat surprised I didn't see more evidence of damage from the storm. The fallen limbs and logs I saw were already overgrown with moss, and there didn't seem to be any fresh wounds on the trees. Further in, birds sang to each other. I passed a great oak and saw a giant web spanning several branches. Branch cracked and bushes rustled in the distance. The woods seemed more alive than I remembered. Of course, I was usually listening to music as I jogged.
The woods grew denser, the trees packed so tightly together it was a wonder they'd managed to grow at all. The light grew dim, again, but this time from the thick canopy above. The forest glowed an ethereal green where sunlight filtered through the leaves.
I realized I was on a different trail when I'd walked over a half hour. By this time, my head was smarting and I my mouth and throat were parched. The temperature had kicked up a notch, too. My hair stuck to my forehead and the back of my neck as I perspired.
It was another fifteen minutes or so before I saw the first stirrings of civilization. If you could call it that.
I found the fence, first. Although, it was unlike any fence I'd ever seen. It was made from long, thick branches, but hadn't otherwise been cut or shaved. I stopped beside it, wondering why the park had built such an odd, primitive structure. But I was too thirsty to linger, so I went on.
Some of the forest had been culled, but whoever had done it left the stumps in the ground. The woods continued to thin out. Soon, I heard birds clucking. Another few minutes led me up a steep hill. It wasn't till I reached the top that I found the dwelling that belonged to the owner of the fence.
I stopped, dumbstruck. What stood before me was unlike anything I'd ever seen before. It had walls and a roof, so I supposed it must be a house. The walls were made of great planks of hand-hewn wood, the spaces between sealed with what had to be clay or mud. But it was the roof that made me boggle. It was thatched—grass was layered on top instead of shingles, and I could just make out the branches sticking over of the edge that must have formed the frame.
It was like something out of a medieval period film.
What the hell was it doing in the middle of the woods off Palo lake?
My brain reached for a rational explanation. Maybe some kind of movie was being made? Though I had no idea why they were shooting out here instead of Canada or California. I suppose it could have been built for some kind of live reenactment. But Iowa had never been home to medieval buildings like these—indigenous tribes had lived here until the area was colonized in the eighteen-hundreds.
I stared, unable to puzzle out the reason for its existence.
And then a door creaked opened—and things went from bizarre to impossible.
The man was as weird as the house. Like the house, his clothes were out of another time altogether. A brown woolen tunic that fell to the knees over loose linen trousers. Shoulder length blonde hair framed a face that I recognized almost immediately. But it couldn't be.
Except it was. Joseph Morgan, the actor who'd played the villainous Niklaus Mikaelson on the Vampire Diaries and the Originals, was walking around in period clothes having just emerged from a medieval hut.
My first guess was right, I must have stumbled onto a film set. I wondered where all the equipment and crew were. I hadn't seen anything around. Maybe it was further back in the trees? I tried peering into the forest but didn't see anything or anyone else.
Meanwhile, Joseph stopped just short of the door and was staring back at me, eyes wide and apparently as surprised.
The set must have been a secret. Probably to keep curious fans away. I offered a sheepish smile. "Uh, hi!" I glanced around again for any cameras or personal, but they were well hidden.
Joseph continued to stare, wide eyes roaming me up and down. He wasn't leering, exactly—instead he looked shocked. As if I had popped out of the woods stark naked.
I cleared my throat and, resisting the urge to tug self-consciously on my tank top, slunk closer to where he stood just outside the medieval hut. "I'm Ashley. Ashley Banning. I, uh, got caught in that storm that came through a little bit ago?" It occurred to me I had no idea how long I'd been out, but I'd been walking a while. I tried to ignore the way Joseph Morgan was staring at me like I was some alien creature and forged ahead with a smile. "I was wondering if you could point me in the direction of the lake? I'd like to find my car and get home."
His mouth closed as his eyes narrowed. After a moment, his lips parted and—well, he spoke. Unfortunately, it was no language I'd ever heard.
I stared in return. "Is this—some kind of method acting?"
He paused and then spoke again, but not in English.
"Yeah, okay," I muttered. My heart was pounding faster, and not from being star struck. I wiped my hands on my jogging shorts—Joseph Morgan glanced down at the movement and his eyes bulged again before his eyes snapped back to my face—and tried, "Can I get that in English, though?"
We entered an awkward staring contest at that point. Neither of us spoke as we stared at one another.
And then the door opened again, and another familiar figure walked out. Claire Holt, wearing a woolen dress that fit with the dark age décor. Her long blonde hair hung loose, except for where it was braided to either side of her face. She stopped and started just outside the door, looking between me and Joseph.
Okay. This must have been an Originals or Vampire Diaries reunion. I had no idea where the cameras were, or why Joseph was refusing to break character, but at least it explained the medieval hut and clothes. They must have been filming a scene before the Originals were vampires, back when they were Viking settlers in the 10th century.
I still had no idea why they were in Iowa, but whatever.
And then Claire spoke to Joseph in the same language—Norse, an increasingly frantic part of my brain numbly informed me—while she stared at me, eyes wide with alarm.
I had no idea what to say. I mean, they couldn't still be acting some kind of scene. I'd have ruined their shot. I twisted around, searching once more for any camera equipment. By the time I twisted back around, Claire had disappeared back into the house. I could hear her shouting.
Two more men came out of the house at that point. I wondered how they all fit inside what looked like a cramped space. I recognized both. There was Daniel Gillies in a blue tunic, his long brown hair tied back into a ponytail. Nathaniel Buzolic was just behind him, hair similarly long and dress similarly medieval.
They both gave me the same surprised once-over Joseph had done, and then Daniel was marching across the yard. When he reached Joseph, he drew up even and spoke. Not in English, though, because I'd apparently lost my mind.
When I didn't answer, Joseph turned his head and said something to Daniel. Hopefully he was telling him that I didn't speak Norse.
I was starting to feel a little lightheaded. "Would somebody tell me what's going on?" I pleaded.
Another look was exchanged between Joseph and Daniel. Daniel spoke again, but whatever he said was just as incomprehensible to me. Behind him, Nathaniel piped in, and whatever he said had Daniel throwing a sour look over his shoulder and a sharp word before turning back to me.
Why weren't they breaking character? It was ridiculous.
"Look. Can you tell me how to get back to the lake?" I tried, motioning in a big circle with my hands.
They watched me with brows drawn tight. Joseph leaned towards Daniel and muttered something. Daniel shook his head.
Daniel took several steps forward. He pointed to himself and said, quite clearly, "Elijah."
The edges of my vision were darkening. Squeezing my eyes shut, I swayed unsteadily in place and tried to concentrate on breathing. This was insane.
A hand on my shoulder had my eyes popping open. Daniel—not Elijah—was staring down at me, concern in the taut pull of his brows and small frown on his face. He spoke again, though it was pointless if they insisted on not using English.
"This isn't funny," I said, anger tightening my voice.
Daniel frowned. Twisting back towards the house, he called out the second word I recognized. Mother.
I was both surprised and yet not as the woman who'd played Esther walked out. I watched, bleakly, as she plucked up the skirt of her red woolen dress out of the dirt and mud and strode towards us. When she spoke, it wasn't English.
While the four of them conversed in old Norse, I realized I was dreaming. Why would a production of Vampire Diaries or the Originals or whatever be out in the middle of Iowa. And why would the whole cast stay in character if someone stumbled on their set. And how the hell would they all know old Norse?
I was still unconscious in the middle of the woods. Fantastic.
When Esther took my face in her hands and stared into my eyes, I tried to force myself awake. I'd always been able to before once I realized I was dreaming. Except this time, it wasn't working. Esther tilted my head this way and that before she prodded the back of my skull.
I yelped and jerked out of her hold, covering the bump with a hand.
She said something very dry, one brow arching.
I wondered at the fact I could feel pain in a dream and not wake up. Could that happen? It must, because the alternative was impossible.
Esther motioned with her hands and started back towards the hut. House. I stared after her, confused, before she twisted and motioned again.
Sighing, I trudged after.
I had to pass by…Elijah and…Ni-freaking-klaus. And then Kol. Each one staring at me as I walked by. My pulse was pounding—which was doing nothing good for my headache, and I was tingling all over. I rubbed my arms before Esther opened the door with another tortured creak. She ushered me inside.
The smell of wood and hay assaulted me, and my eyes struggled to adjust to the sudden darkness. There were no windows, or if there were they were closed. Instead, a hearth of mud and possibly clay had been fashioned in the form of a half-dome in the corner. A small fire lent what little illumination the single room had. A pile of firewood laid beside it. Standing next to that was Rebekah, eyes still wide as she met mine. Higher up was a loft, accessible by a log that had wedges for steps chopped out of it. A small head peaked over the side and wide brown eyes blinked down at me.
Esther guided me to a table made from two hewn planks of wood that had been set on a couple of stumps. A long bench made of similarly rough-cut wood sat beside it. Across the top were various wooden dishes filled with simple fair—bread, bowls of porridge, and baked fish. A longer chest that doubled as seating were lined along the wall on the other side of the table. Esther pushed me to the bench and pressed me down.
Once I was seated, she began pulling down herbs that were hanging from the loft's rafters. Esther spoke and Rebekah cautiously stepped around me to the chest pressed against the wall, lifting the top. She pulled a folded dress back out. She hesitated before laying it across a clear space on the table.
I stared at the undyed woolen dress and then looked back to Rebekah before pointing at it and then pointing at me.
Rebekah nodded.
Right. I was wearing running shorts and a tank top. Hardly appropriate medieval wear for a woman. No wonder everybody kept staring at me.
Standing up, I pulled my phone out of the armband and set it onto the table. I unfastened the armband next, to the familiar rip of the velcro. The sound had Esther and Rebekah both starting. I gave an awkward smile before dropping it onto the table and picking up the dress. Unfolding it, I slipped it on overhead. It was abrasive, and I already had the urge to itch. I summoned a smile anyway. "Thanks."
After a moment's hesitation, Rebekah returned my smile. She went back to the door and called outside. Soon after, the men trooped back in. Elijah and Niklaus took in my new dress with approval easing their features. Kol made another comment that, apart from a similarly annoyed look from Rebekah and Elijah, was otherwise ignored.
Esther had a mortar and pestle out and ground herbs together with quick, sure movements that spoke of long practice. And strength. As soon as she tapped the pestle against the side, she picked up a small clay pitcher and poured out a small stream of some thick liquid. Probably oil. She mixed it in with her fingers before returning to me.
Scooping up the mixture with her fingers, she placed the mortar down on the table and lifted my hair and rubbed the concoction onto my scalp. I hissed at the sting, but she grabbed my shoulder with an iron grip and held me still when I tried to move away. Her next words had a scolding ring to them.
A brief glance around me showed everyone watching me, Kol with a smirk.
Rebekah placed a wooden bowl filled with a few lumps of porridge and a slice of bread in front of me. She followed up with a carved spoon and cup. The latter of which was filled with water from a clay pitcher.
I picked up the cup and gulped down several mouthfuls, relaxing as at least one of my problems found relief. When I set it down, Rebekah immediately poured more into the cup. "Thanks."
She gave a one word answer I took to mean you're welcome.
My stomach was still tender, but not wanting to offend anyone, I picked apart a piece of bread and ate. It was staler than I was used to, definitely not processed food, but it tasted alright. Everyone was still watching me as I took an experimental nibble of a spoonful of porridge. It was bland, but I took several more bites before finishing off my bread and water.
Standing at the end of the table, Esther pointed to herself and said, "Esther." She pointed to each one of her sons and introduced them one by one—Elijah, Niklaus, and Kol. Then indicated Rebekah as the blonde stoked the fire. Rebekah glanced over her shoulder and offered a timid smile as she was introduced. Esther finished by looking above at the loft and saying, "Henrik," as the small head peaked over the edge again.
It was no mystery what they all waited expectantly for as they stared at me. "Ashley."
"Ashley," Esther repeated, brows pressed together in thought.
The room was hot and stuffy from the fire and an already warm afternoon. The thick woolen dress now draped around me didn't help matters. Apart from their hair sticking to their slickened skin, the others looked comfortable with the heat.
Gazing around the table, I wondered when I was going to wake up from this insane dream when the door opened once more. Squinting against the sunlight, my eyes adjusted in time to see the last two Original family members walk in.
Mikael paused inside the threshold, eyes narrowing as they settled on me. I barely noticed Finn following behind him.
Mikael looked to Esther. When he spoke, his voice was hard and demanding. Esther answered back, much calmer than I'd be if a man prone to violence turned those harsh eyes on me. Mikael stepped further into the hut as Esther continued talking. I heard my name come up as Esther motioned to me.
I fought the impulse to curl inward to make myself smaller as Mikael's cold stare settled back on me. His sights flickered back to Esther, speaking again.
Esther nodded and answered.
Mikael snorted before crossing towards the table, and sitting near the opposite end to me, nearest to the fire.
His gaze slid again to me as Rebekah hurried to set a plate and cup before him and Finn, who joined him.
Picking up a piece of bread, Mikael leaned forward. In a sleeveless tunic, his muscular arms looked both impressive and intimidating as he ripped the bread apart.
Then he spoke—to me. Whatever he said, it flowed differently from the words of the others. When he finished, I blinked. "Sorry. I don't understand."
Lips falling, his brows cinched together. He sopped some porridge onto his bread before turning to Esther and speaking in the same language the others used.
Elijah joined in. Mikael watched him until he was finished, and then replied. Whatever he said had Elijah and Finn nodding.
The conversation went on this way, and I was either ignored or watched by the others. I kept trying to will myself to wake up, but nothing happened. Instead, I sat in the heat and endured the steady throbbing of my head. My eyes would close here and there, and I'd have to work to open them back up.
Around the forth time I rested my eyes, I felt Esther's freakishly strong grip on my shoulder. Startling upright, I found the rest of the table was watching me again, causing my already tender stomach to tighten. I turned to Esther, and she motioned for me to follow.
I got up carefully from the bench, mindful of the skirts, and followed her a few feet until we reached the log that led up to the loft. I eyed it and the roughly hewn steps carved out of it before turning disbelieving eyes on Esther. Esther made a shooing motion with her hands and spoke words I couldn't understand.
She wanted me to climb up.
Wondering how much weirder the dream could get, I put one foot into a hewn wedge and leaned forward until I was grabbing onto the log. I then crawled my way awkwardly up, grasping onto the edge of the loft when I made it halfway. I used it to steady myself up the rest of the way.
I found a giant linen mattress stuffed with hay laying across the top—along with a little boy. He couldn't have been much older than eight or nine. As soon as I crawled over the mattress, Esther called him back down. He managed dropping from the log far easier than I had.
It was even hotter up here then it had been below, but I was so dizzy and tired from my climb I just laid down. The straw poked through the linen and the wool to prick at my skin. I closed my eyes and did my best to ignore it and the powerful smell of hay.
As I drifted, foreign words in deep but familiar voices volleyed back and forth beneath me. I wondered how my unconscious mind apparently knew so much old Norse.
And then I wondered nothing at all.