Chapter 23 #2
The weak point isn’t hard to find—not exactly. I follow the echo of the disturbance, the place where the wards feel thin, strained, like a stretched membrane that’s been plucked too hard. It’s near the outer edge of the festival grounds, where the land dips and the trees grow closer together.
I move carefully, senses stretched wide, every instinct tuned for threat. The absence of a scent trail is maddening. No footprint. No lingering echo of presence.
Just… wrongness.
I crouch near a patch of disturbed undergrowth, leaves crushed, branches bent. It could be wildlife. It could be nothing.
It could be deliberate misdirection.
I circle the area, widening my search, letting time stretch. Ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty. Nothing. Frustration coils tight in my chest.
After forty-five minutes, I turn back.
The festival noise grows louder as I approach, relief beginning to edge in despite myself. The wards feel stable again. No new disturbances.
I reach the place where I left Elias, but he’s not there. Panic hits like a physical blow.
I’m across the space in seconds, scanning faces, searching for his scent, his presence. Bob, already back, is there, speaking animatedly with a cluster of cryptids. Christopher stands nearby, alert.
“Where is he?” I demand.
Bob looks up, startled. “He stepped away a minute ago. Got excited about seeing another human. He promised to stay inside.”
Every instinct snaps into place. “I’ll find him,” I say, already moving.
I follow the pull instinctively, the thread of Elias’s scent winding through the crowd, past stalls and lanterns and laughter. The farther I go, the quieter it gets. The music fades. The hum of conversation thins.
Then I hear his voice. It’s soft and careful. But it’s the tremble of fear that has my blood running cold. That and his “I—I don’t want any trouble.”
I break into a run until I finally see him.
He’s three feet away and still inside the wards. Standing face-to-face with a being that should not exist.
The Neuri Shade.
Time fractures.
My eyes lock onto Elias and then slide, horrified and disbelieving, to what stands in front of him.
The world narrows to three feet of charged air, to the way the wards hum wrong around that small, deadly space, to the cold certainty that a patient, ancient intelligence has finally found what it came for.
The Neuri Shade stands upright, limbs too long for its frame, joints bending with a fluidity that makes my skin crawl. Its skin—or what passes for it—is pale and matte, absorbing the lantern light instead of reflecting it. Its eyes are the worst part. They do not glow. They do not shine.
They drink the light in.
Elias stands frozen, shoulders tight, hands half raised in a posture that speaks of instinctive placation rather than panic. He’s pale, but he’s not running. He’s talking—quietly, carefully—his voice shaking just enough to betray the fear he’s trying to control.
“I don’t want any trouble,” he says again. “I’m not… I’m not alone.”
The Shade’s head tilts. It doesn’t look at me. That, more than anything else, tells me the truth. It knows I’m here but simply doesn’t care.
I force myself to slow, to breathe, to keep my steps measured as I close the distance.
The wards buzz against my skin, a warning and a promise all at once.
Whatever the Shade did to them, it didn’t break them completely.
It’s inside by invitation, loophole, or clever manipulation—but it’s constrained.
For now.
“Elias,” I say, keeping my voice steady despite the roar in my ears. “Don’t move.”
His head snaps toward me, relief flaring so bright it nearly drops me to my knees. “Boone.”
I’m there in two strides, placing myself between him and the Shade without breaking eye contact with either of them. My body reacts before my mind can catch up—stance widening, shoulders rolling back, every inch of me broadcasting ownership and threat.
Mine.
The Shade’s gaze finally shifts to me.
Up close, the wrongness is overwhelming. There’s no echo to it, no resonance with the land beneath its feet. It stands on Yellowstone’s sacred ground like an insult, like a scar that never healed properly.
“Guardian,” it says, voice soft and dry, as if unused. “You arrived sooner than expected.”
My teeth bare of their own accord. “Leave.”
It smiles. The expression doesn’t reach its eyes. “We are still speaking,” it replies. “That suggests negotiation.”
“There is nothing to negotiate,” I growl. “You’re not welcome here.”
The Shade’s head tilts again, studying me with unsettling focus. “You are bound,” it observes. “Distracted. Compromised.”
Elias inhales sharply behind me.
“You followed us,” I say. “You tested the wards. You waited.”
“Yes,” the Shade agrees calmly. “You are thorough. But you are… singular.”
“And you are trespassing,” I snap. “State your purpose.”
The Shade’s gaze slides past me—to Elias. “You carry a resonance,” it says to him, voice almost gentle. “You walk between thresholds without knowing their names. You called out to me.”
Elias blanches, quickly shaking his head. “Erm… no, I didn’t. That’s something I would have remembered doing.”
“No,” the Shade says softly. “Not aloud, but your presence attracts attention and speaks to me.” Its gaze shifts—slowly, deliberately—from Elias to me. For the first time, the weight of its attention settles fully on my presence, and its composure falters.
“You stand together,” it observes. There’s no anger or even accusation. “Bound.”
I step to the left anyway, obstructing its view of Elias, my body a line it will not cross. “You will address me.”
The Shade studies us both, and then its expression shifts.
The sharp edge of its attention dulls. Its posture slackens, like a creature that has reached the end of a long road and finally realized it’s not welcome at the destination.
“You have chosen,” it says quietly. “You are mates.”
The word lands like a stone dropped into still water.
“Yes,” I say without hesitation.
Elias stiffens behind me, breath hitching. Worry slithers through me until I don’t sense any fear radiating from him. I feel his hand curl tighter into the fur on my back, grounding himself in the truth of it.
The Shade’s eyes dim, almost hollowing. Sorrow bleeds through its presence, seeping into the air like cold mist.
“Then I am… late,” it murmurs.
I search for the threat I’d been bracing for and find only loss. A vast, aching absence where something vital should have been.
“You were not meant for me,” it says to Elias. “But you shine like those who were.”
Elias swallows and moves to my side, one hand still buried in my fur. “You’re not hunting,” he says carefully. “You’re looking, right?”
The Shade’s head tilts. “Yes.”
The admission is bare and completely unguarded.
“I seek ground,” it continues. “Not land. Belonging. I cannot root. I cannot echo. I walk, and the world does not remember me.”
Walkers without roots, the old texts had called its species.
Failed lines. Dangerous isolates.
“I have crossed oceans,” the Shade says. “Followed power. Followed convergence. This place sings with it—vast wilderness, unclaimed paths, ancient watchers. I thought… perhaps….” It trails off.
Elias tightens his hold on me. I can feel his heart pounding, empathy rolling off him. That, more than anything, makes my hackles rise.
“You can’t stay,” I say firmly.
The Shade looks at me again. This time, there’s no challenge in its gaze. In its place is resignation.
“I know,” it replies. “I am not welcome where bonds are strong.”
The wards surge in response—not violently, but insistently. A reminder of the boundary.
Bob’s presence crackles into being at the edge of the clearing, lightning dim but contained. He takes in the scene in a heartbeat—the standoff that is no longer a standoff, the sorrow standing where menace should be.
Bob steps closer, authority settling over him like a mantle. “You’ll leave the wards tonight. Fully. At dawn, after the festivities, we’ll talk. With witnesses and terms.”
The Shade considers him for a long moment. Then it nods.
“I have no name,” it says, almost apologetically. “But I will answer.” It turns its searching gaze once more to Elias.
“You are kind,” it tells him. “That is rare for a human.”
Elias opens his mouth, then closes it again, swallowing hard. I tighten my hold on him, a silent warning and a promise all at once.
The Shade steps backward, retreating toward the ward line. This time, it doesn’t test it. It simply withdraws, folding itself inward, presence thinning until it slips away like fog burned off by sun.
The wards hum as they reseal, whole and unbroken. Silence rushes in.
Elias sags against me. I catch him easily, hauling him against my chest, holding him so tight it borders on desperate.
“I stayed,” he whispers. “I didn’t leave.”
“I know,” I murmur into his hair. “I know.”
Christopher arrives, stepping next to Bob. The tension eases, but it’s not fully faded. Bob exhales slowly, eyes tracking the place where the Shade vanished.
“It wasn’t attacking,” Christopher says quietly.
“No,” I agree. The truth tastes strange in my mouth. “It was searching.”
Bob nods once. “And now it found what it can’t have.”
I look down at Elias—alive, fierce, compassionate enough to feel sorrow for a being that frightened him.
The Solstice drums like thunder in the distance, wild and unaware.
The Shade is out there, and I finally understand the truth I’d been refusing to face.
What I feel isn’t fear anymore. It’s pity. But until I know more—until I can be sure it won’t hurt Elias or anyone else under my protection—my duty is clear.
Whatever the Shade is searching for, it will not take Elias.
Not now.
Not ever.