The Hunting Moon (The Luminaries, #2)

by Susan Dennard

a statue no one can see for a man no one will ever speak to again.

That’s why we’re called the Luminaries, Winnie: we are lanterns the forest can never snuff out.

That’s why we’re called the Luminaries, Winnie: we are lanterns the forest can never snuff out. Are they really lanterns though, Grandpa Frank? Or is this just denial? Just numbing and pretending and wearing virtues like shields against nightmares that definitely do not care?

As far as Winnie can tell, it’s just more people for the Whisperer to kill … or the werewolf. Or hell, maybe even a Diana. Pick your nightmare! Spin the wheel! Get ripped apart as a forest meal!

But correlation does not prove causation and all that.