Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BOONE
Giles, the Wendigo, is in a mood.
TWGiles: Humans backfilled an entire wetland for “better parking flow.”
TWGiles: Do you know what that does to amphibian populations?
TWGiles: Rhetorical question. You know THEY don’t.
I sit cross-legged at my cave desk, one hand cupped around a mug of pine-needle tea, the other tapping slowly on the keyboard. The morning is cool and misty; light slides in through the cave cracks in thin, soft beams. The server fans hum like distant bees behind me.
BrayWatch: Someone in town has been leaving raw meat in the woods because they want to see a monster.
BrayWatch: The bears are welcome to the meat.
BrayWatch: The humans appeared disappointed when bears keep arriving instead. If I wanted humans to find me, they would have done so long ago.
I snort. Calder rarely tries to be funny. He just says exactly what he thinks, and somehow it ends up sounding amusing anyway.
BigFootBoone [admin]: Humans have no sense of carrying capacity OR self-preservation.
BigFootBoone [admin]: Who leaves raw meat and metal jaws in the same place and calls it a plan?
Before Giles can answer, another username flashes into the chat.
MothAkai has joined #us-cryptid-ops.
MothAkai: Wow… look at this little support group.
MothAkai: Are we having FEELINGS before 9am?
MothAkai: Is this allowed????
TWGiles: Go away.
BrayWatch: Mod powers abused.
BigFootBoone [admin]: You’re the one who made this channel for venting.
MothAkai: Yeah, well, I didn’t think you’d all use it like a book club.
MothAkai: What’s up?
MothAkai: Who are we mad at today?
TWGiles: Humans.
BrayWatch: Subcategory: idiots.
MothAkai: Wow, so specific
There’s a burst of overlapping complaints—wetlands, bear traps, trail cameras, a viral TikTok of a guy “hunting wendigos” with a foam sword. The usual.
Then Calder, the Beast of Bray Road, drops a line that lands badly.
BrayWatch: Maybe we should let them see one of us up close.
BrayWatch: Perhaps seeing one of us would discourage them from returning.
Make that two lines.
TWGiles: Yes, because that has historically gone very well for us.
MothAkai: Yeah, we all saw what happened with the Jersey Devil PR stunt.
I’m ready to add my own eye roll.
Instead, I type:
BigFootBoone [admin]: Not all humans.
And instantly want to punch myself in the face.
The channel goes silent for two full seconds. Which, in Monster Network time, is approximately an hour and a half.
MothAkai: Oh?
MothAkai: EXCUSE ME?
MothAkai: “Not all humans” did you just HUMAN-DEFEND in MY house??
TWGiles: Whoa!
BrayWatch: ADMIN is compromised.
I feel myself blushing all the way to my ears.
BigFootBoone [admin]: I said what I said.
MothAkai: Okay… SASSY
My eye twitches.
BigFootBoone [admin]: Don’t.
MothAkai: Short for SASQWATCH as we’re watching a sasquatch losing his mind over a human.
MothAkai: You’re welcome.
BigFootBoone [admin]: That isn’t even how acronyms work.
MothAkai: Opinion rejected, Sassy.
MothAkai removed by admin.
BrayWatch: This has taken an unexpected turn.
TWGiles: Taking screenshots.
I bare my teeth at the monitor.
BigFootBoone [admin]: Log off or I’m throttling your bandwidth for a week.
MothAkai rejoined.
MothAkai: Wow, touchy.
MothAkai: Is this about the researcher?
MothAkai: Does he know you log into the forums and defend “not all humans” now?
BigFootBoone [admin]: I hate you.
MothAkai: Love you too, big guy. Got to go.
MothAkai has left #us-cryptid-ops.
“You’re all banned,” I mutter at the screen.
A soft crunch of footsteps outside the cave makes my Nature Sense ping an instant before the actual scent reaches me.
Elias.
The defensive tension in my shoulders drops away so fast I almost get whiplash.
I close the laptop, stand, and stretch, rolling my shoulders back. By the time I step into the early light at the cave mouth, he’s just coming up the path.
He’s in his usual field clothes—worn hiking pants, sturdy boots, a layered shirt and fleece, a jacket tied around his waist. His curls are doing that rebellious, out-of-control thing that makes my fingers itch to touch them.
His backpack straps bite into his shoulders, pulling his shirt tight enough over his chest that I have to deliberately look away.
“Morning,” he calls, smile bright enough to rival the sun. “Did I interrupt world domination planning?”
“Worse,” I say. “Mothman.”
He makes a sympathetic face. “Yikes. Do I need to offer condolences?”
“You need to offer earplugs,” I grumble.
He huffs a laugh and hikes the pack higher. “Ready?”
“For what?” I ask, though I already know.
His eyes light up with that particular research-goblin gleam that I’ve come to recognize.
“Transect day,” he says. “The north ridgeline. I want to check the camera traps and do some sample plots for ground cover. You said you’d show me that old game trail that bypasses the worst of the mud.”
Right. I did say that.
“Fine,” I say. “But if you fall in anything, I’m leaving you there as enrichment for the local foxes.”
“You always say that,” he replies breezily, falling into step beside me as I turn toward the forest. “And then you save me.”
“I save the foxes from indigestion,” I correct.
He nudges me gently with his elbow, like he knows I’m lying and is calling me on it without using words.
We head into the trees.
The morning is beautiful and utterly wasted on my ability to appreciate it.
Sunlight filters through new leaves, painting the trail in coins of gold.
Birds chatter in the canopy. The air smells like damp earth and thawing roots and the no-longer-shy flowers of spring.
Elias talks as we walk, about his camera placement, about comparative plant growth, about a bizarre raccoon print he found yesterday that looked for all the world like a tiny hand flipping him off.
I hear him. I answer. I point out hazards and reroute us around a fallen tree.
I’m also somewhere else entirely.
Because the clock in the back of my mind—the one that tracks seasonal shifts and migration patterns and the logistics of running a national monster network without cell towers—has been ticking louder every day.
Soon, I have to leave.
Usually, I make the journey to Yellowstone for the Solstice Bash over the course of several weeks, taking my time. I visit old relay stones, check fiber runs where they cross ley lines, adjust wards around a few of the more temperamental gathering spots. I let myself wander. I breathe.
This year, the thought of walking away from this forest while Elias is still in it makes my throat tight.
“Okay,” Elias says cheerfully, breaking into my spiral. “You’re quiet. And for once it’s not ‘I’m thinking about server infrastructure’ quiet. It’s ‘I’m brooding like a gothic novel hero’ quiet. What’s up?”
I snort. “Gothic novel hero?”
“You have the hair for it.”
I reach up to shove said hair back, only to remember that’s exactly the kind of thing a gothic novel hero would do, and scowl in spite of myself.
We pick our way around a muddy stretch. He uses a stick to test the depth before stepping, tongue between his teeth in concentration. I watch until I’m sure his footing holds, then follow.
“I have to leave soon,” I say.
His foot slips. He catches himself, then turns to look at me fully. “Leave?” he repeats. “Like… for supplies? For a few days?”
“For the Solstice,” I say. “I usually start the trek in early May.”
“Oh,” he says.
The brightness in his expression dims for a heartbeat. He steps out of the mud and onto firmer ground, then stands there, chewing the inside of his cheek.
I hate that I put that look on his face.
“I go early,” I add quickly, as if that helps. “I have to check on the Network along the way. Make sure the regional hubs are stable. There are a few places that only I know how to fix when they decide to throw tantrums.”
He nods slowly. “Right. Of course. That makes sense. You are… kind of the backbone of the whole thing.”
“Try telling that to Akai,” I mutter.
His mouth twitches.
He’s quiet for a few steps, then says, very softly, “I’ll miss you.”
Warmth blooms beneath my ribs.
It’s not dramatic or violent. Instead, it’s a slow, spreading warmth. It reaches my heart. My lungs. The places I hadn’t realized had gone cold over the centuries.
“You’ll… miss me,” I repeat, because apparently my brain has fallen into a ravine.
He laughs, embarrassed but not backing down. “Yeah,” he says. “You kind of… grew on me. Like lichen. Or moss. Or some other dignity-destroying analogy.”
“Lichen,” I repeat. “Really?”
“You’re stubborn and cling in hostile environments. Seems accurate.”
I should argue. Instead, I hear myself say, “Come with me.”
The words are out before I can drag them back.
He stops dead.
I keep walking for two more steps before I turn, suddenly nauseous.
He’s staring at me, eyes wide, mouth parted. “Come… with you?” he echoes faintly.
I want to claw the air back between us and stuff the sentence into my chest where it can’t hurt either of us.
“It was a stupid idea,” I say quickly. “Forget it.”
“No,” he says. “No, absolutely not. Don’t you dare take that back.” He strides up to me, almost tripping over a root in his urgency. “You want me to go to Yellowstone,” he says, breathless. “To the Solstice. With you.”
“Logistically, it’s not that simple,” I start.
“I don’t care.”
There’s that light again, bright and eager, burning behind his eyes. It’s directed at me. It’s almost painful to look at.
“You have research,” I protest weakly. “Plots. Transects. You can’t just abandon an entire season of data collection because some cryptid invited you to a monster festival.”
“You underestimate how hard I’d throw my career out a window for the chance to see another park like this,” he says. “With you. And… see the Solstice.”
He hesitates on that last word, like he knows how big it is.
“Elias—”
“I’m serious,” he says. “If you told me right now that in exchange for going with you I had to sell a kidney, I’d ask which one causes less trouble.”
I choke on a laugh. “That’s not—that is not how that works.”