Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ELIAS
Something is off with Boone.
I know it the way you know when the weather is about to turn—not because of anything obvious, but because the air carries a tension I can’t quite explain, because the birds don’t land where you expect them to, because the quiet hum under everything shifts pitch.
The thing is, Yellowstone during the lead-up to the Solstice is the worst possible place to fixate on that feeling.
It’s impossible to stay focused on one worry when the world keeps throwing miracles at your face.
I had expected… I don’t know. Fewer people, maybe. Fewer humans, definitely. But as Boone promised, this place is not just monsters hiding in the woods. It’s a community. A convergence. A meeting point where myth and reality don’t bother pretending they’re separate things.
And there are more humans here than I ever imagined.
Some of them are clearly long-term—comfortable, confident, moving through the space like they belong. Others, like me, still have that slightly stunned look, like they’re waiting for someone to tap them on the shoulder and say just kidding, you don’t actually get to see this.
It’s the fifth day since we crossed the wards. Five days of color and sound and magic layered so thick it makes my head spin in the best possible way.
Boone has left me alone for exactly one hour.
He promised. Swore, actually, with that low seriousness he uses when he’s trying very hard not to hover. And I believe him. Mostly.
Still, when he’d kissed me this morning—slow, deep, lingering—I’d known it was a distraction tactic.
A very effective one.
The festival grounds stretch farther than I’d realized when we first arrived, winding between trees and geysers and natural clearings that feel deliberately chosen. Stalls cluster in loose rings, each one distinct, radiating its own energy.
I drift toward the first cluster like a moth.
There’s food everywhere.
Creature-safe foods are clearly marked with symbols I’m beginning to recognize—warnings about toxins, metals, enzymatic incompatibilities. Human-safe foods are marked even more boldly, complete with enthusiastic signage like YES, YOU CAN EAT THIS and BOB INSISTED.
I buy a warm, spiced pastry from a vendor who looks like a cross between a salamander and a moss-covered boulder. It tastes like honey and smoke and a spice I can’t quite identify. I eat it slowly, savoring the flavors.
Nearby, performances erupt and fade like weather.
A drum circle pulses in one clearing, the rhythm so deep I feel it in my ribs.
In another, a group of vocalists produce harmonics that make the treetops tremble, leaves shivering like they’re caught in a held breath.
There’s laughter, applause, the crackle of magic moving through the air like static before a storm.
Winged cryptids take to the sky periodically, swooping in controlled arcs for aerial displays that make my neck ache from staring upward. One routine times itself perfectly with a geyser eruption, percussion syncing with the roar of steam in a way that makes the crowd cheer.
I’m grinning so hard my face hurts.
This is… a lot. Overwhelming, yes, but not in the way I’d feared. No one looks at me like I don’t belong. No one treats me like I’m fragile or out of place. If anything, I get a lot of curious glances, friendly nods, and the occasional “First Solstice?” from passing strangers.
At one stall, I linger over enchanted crafts—talismans that hum faintly under my fingers, runes etched into bone and stone and metal, potions sealed in glass that refracts light in strange ways. I don’t buy anything yet. I want Boone with me when I do.
I’m laughing at a particularly snarky sign—NO, IT WILL NOT MAKE YOU INVISIBLE, STOP ASKING—when I bump into someone.
“Sorry—” I start, then stop.
He’s human, mid-twenties, maybe, with sun-warmed skin and a crooked smile that looks like it comes easily. He’s holding a cup of liquid that smells vaguely metallic and sweet, and he looks just as startled as I feel.
“Wow,” he says. “Okay, that’s a relief.”
I stare. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. No offense to the, uh… everything—” He gestures vaguely at the surrounding cryptids. “—but it’s nice to run into someone who blinks at the same rate.”
I laugh, tension I hadn’t realized I was carrying easing out of my shoulders. “Agreed. I’m Elias.”
“Cole,” he says, offering his hand. “Cole Denny.”
We shake, the contact grounding in a way that surprises me.
We talk easily—about nothing and everything.
He tells me he works in his father’s construction business, that his life took a sharp turn after a car accident when he was eighteen, that he hadn’t planned on ending up here but doesn’t regret it.
There’s a steadiness to him, a quiet resilience that I recognize.
“And you?” he asks. “You seem… enthusiastic.”
“Biologist,” I say, grinning. “This is basically my brain on fire.”
He snorts. “That tracks.”
I hesitate, then ask, “You’re here with…?”
“Akai,” he says without hesitation.
I choke a little on my drink. “The Mothman?”
His smile softens. “Yeah, well one of. He’s got a stall—sells some of the stuff he scavenges and makes. He has some great jewelry. I told him I wouldn’t be long.”
“I’ve heard so much about him,” I say, genuinely delighted. Boone has told me so many stories about Akai, who is apparently one of several Mothman—Mothmen?—though it took some time for him to finally share his real name with me.
“Mostly good, I hope.”
“Mostly chaotic,” I admit.
Cole laughs. “That’s fair.”
We part with an easy promise to talk again later, and I watch him weave back into the crowd, feeling lighter for the encounter.
Unity, I think. That’s the word.
Like meeting like. Relief and respect and recognition all wrapped together.
I drift on, alone again, and that’s when I feel it. Not danger. Not fear.
Attention.
I turn—and nearly freeze.
The Wendigo is tall and gaunt, all long lines and pale, frostbitten skin stretched over a frame that looks perpetually starved. His eyes glow faintly—not with threat, but with an intensity that still makes my skin prickle. He locks onto me, posture sharpening as recognition settles in.
Giles. I know his name because Boone murmured it when we arrived and already made it clear he’s not a danger—just dramatic, like most of his kind. Giles moves straight toward me with purpose, swift and direct, the kind of presence that would be terrifying if I didn’t already know better.
“Human,” he says, voice sharp and clipped. “You belong to Boone.”
I open my mouth, then close it. “I… yes?”
“Where is he?” he demands. “He should be here.”
“He stepped away,” I say carefully. “Is something wrong?”
The creature studies me, head tilting, gaze assessing in a way that reminds me—uncomfortably—of Boone when he’s in full Network-admin mode.
“You smell right,” he says finally. “Annoying. But right.”
I consider his words. “Thanks?”
He grunts. “I will see you again.”
And then he turns and stalks off, already focused on his next distraction, like he’s late for an appointment.
I stand there for a moment, heart pounding, then exhale slowly.
Okay. Sure. That happened.
I spot Boone in the distance not long after, deep in conversation, posture alert, attention divided. I stop without meaning to, just watching him.
He’s beautiful.
Not just physically—though yes, that too—but in the way he holds space, the way others defer to him without question. The way his presence anchors the area around him.
I don’t know how I got so lucky. How I stumbled into this world of legends and somehow found a place in it.
I spot a stall of flowers nearby—huge, vibrant blooms with thick stems and broad leaves. The vendor is a friendly cryptid with bark-like skin and eyes like polished amber, who explains the plant’s adaptive resilience with pride.
I buy one. It’s overly large with orange petals and a yellow center. Structurally, it’s fascinating—perfect, in fact. My fingers itch to take a photograph, as I haven’t quite seen anything like it before.
As I head toward Boone, he looks up—easily a hundred yards away—and locks eyes with me instantly. My pulse stumbles as he takes me in, his expression softening in a way that makes my chest ache. When I reach him, I rise onto my toes, gently urging him to lower himself.
I tuck the flower behind his ear.
He doesn’t blush—at least, not visibly—but the embarrassment is there, sweet and unmistakable. I smile, murmuring reassurance, and finally, finally, he relaxes.
He kisses me softly. We ignore the cheers.
And together, we head toward food, the festival opening up around us like a promise.
I can see it in the way his shoulders finally ease as we move together through the festival grounds, in the way he lets me pull him toward stalls instead of steering me away from them.
He even laughs—actually laughs—when a group of small, foxlike cryptids challenge him to a game of skill that involves weighted rings and an alarming amount of heckling.
I win a carved wooden token from one of the games. Boone pretends not to notice when I slip it into his bag like a trophy.
For a while, the wrongness fades into the background.
We eat—too much, probably. Creature-safe breads that taste like rosemary and smoke. Human-safe stews thick with vegetables I don’t recognize but immediately want to catalog. Boone samples a fermented drink and grimaces so hard I nearly choke laughing.
“Never again,” he declares solemnly.
“You say that now,” I tease. “But next year—”
He pauses, and I’m pretty sure he’s holding his breath. It’s subtle, just a second too long, but I feel it. The weight of time presses in, uninvited.
“Next year,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “I like the sound of that.”
Music drifts across the grounds in layered waves.
A group of stringed instruments I can’t identify produce a sound that vibrates somewhere between melancholy and joy.
Nearby, a cluster of drummers have synced themselves to a geyser’s cycle, the rhythm building until steam erupts and the crowd cheers.