Chapter 6
A Rumbling in the Mountain
June
The morning is gray and sulky, the kind of overcast drizzle that makes the entire mountain smell of damp pine and wet earth. It’s my favorite kind of weather for driving. No sun glare. Just the quiet thrum of the engine and the rhythmic swipe of the wipers.
Riven’s package sits on my passenger seat like a silent, judgmental passenger. It’s a plain brown Shop&Ship box, but I know better.
Inside could be anything from a high-end Japanese whetstone to a bulk order of googly eyes. After the fuzzy slipper incident, I’ve learned not to underestimate his capacity for bizarre online purchases.
The thought of him, all twelve feet of glinting black armored skin and mandibles, shuffling around his mansion of a cabin in pastel pink slippers is enough to make me snort-laugh.
My life has gotten very, very weird.
I shake my head, forcing my focus back to the route. First, some supplies for a few of our homesteader regulars. Then, a case of specialty motor oil for Jake’s garage. After that, Gus’s books delivery. How he reads so much every day, I’ll never know.
I’m out of my truck and approaching the tree nook when I see it: A flicker of movement at the edge of the dense pine forest.
It can’t be a deer. Not even a bear. It’s too large, too deliberate, like it wanted me to see it. I stop and wait, holding my breath as I clutch the books close to my chest.
Slowly, like a force of nature deciding to take a stroll, a figure emerges from between two old firs.
Holy. Shit. It’s him.
Gus Thornfield, in the fur. The local legend. The OG cryptid. He’s nine feet of solid, hairy myth, with deep-set, intelligent eyes that seem to hold the wisdom of the forest itself.
His hands, loosely clasped in front of him, are big enough to palm a pumpkin. He moves with a silent, rolling grace that is utterly at odds with his bulk, carrying himself not like a wild beast, but like the reclusive landlord of this entire mountain.
In the six months of leaving him packages of high-brow literature, scandalous romances, and scientific journals, this is the first time I’ve actually laid eyes on him.
A part of my brain is professionally thrilled to finally put a face to the account. The rest of my brain is just going, That’s Bigfoot. I’m delivering a package to freaking Bigfoot.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I wave with my free hand and try to play it cool. “Good morning, Gus.”
His voice is a rumble that vibrates in my sternum. “Morning.”
He’s watching me with the same open curiosity I’m giving him. This is a first for both of us. For months, it’s been a silent exchange of goods and currency, a relationship built on trust and the little carved figurines he leaves as tips.
“I have to tell you,” I say, walking toward him, “your woodwork is amazing. Those little animals you carve? Seriously, they’re works of art.”
A subtle shift happens in his massive, furry face. Surprise. Maybe even a hint of a blush under all that hair. “You like them?”
“I love them. I have a whole shelf dedicated to my collection.” I hand him his bundle of books, and he takes them with a gentleness that seems impossible for his massive fingers. “How did you learn to carve like that?”
“Long winters. Lots of practice.” He carefully sorts through his usual eclectic mix of books: a few weighty geology textbooks and, nestled right beside them, a paperback with a shirtless, winged gargoyle clutching a swooning librarian on the cover.
I try my best not to smirk. “Been at it for… decades.”
“Decades?” I lean against the fender of my truck, thoroughly intrigued. “How long have you lived up here?”
His dark eyes flick to me with shrewd assessment. “Longer than most.” He pauses, before adding, “You’re not afraid.”
“Should I be?”
That earns me something that might be the Bigfoot equivalent of a smile. It’s a slight softening around his eyes, a twitch of his broad mouth. “Most people run. Even after the Unveiling. They see the fur, the size, and they don’t stick around for conversation.”
“Well, you’ve never given me a reason to be scared.” I gesture with my chin toward the books in his hands. “Besides, any guy who reads both quantum physics and paranormal romance is clearly a man of hidden depths.”
A low chuckle escapes him, the sound of a happy bear. “You’d be surprised how similar they are. Both are about improbable forces pulling things together against all logic.”
That’s so unexpectedly profound I actually laugh out loud. “Wow. Never thought of it that way.”
We stand in a comfortable silence for a moment, the only sounds the dripping trees and the rustle of Gus’s fur in the slight breeze. It feels oddly normal. Just two professionals, a delivery driver and a reclusive cryptid, shooting the breeze in the Montana wilderness.
“Weather’s going to turn,” Gus says finally, lifting his nose to sniff the air. “Can feel it in the ground vibrations. You should try to get your route finished sooner rather than later.”
I hadn’t been concerned before, but I trust a creature who literally lives and breathes this mountain far more than the Pine Ridge radio forecast. “Anything I should worry about?”
“Mountain’s been restless,” he says, tapping one massive, leathery foot against the earth. The ground gives a slight thud. “Small tremors. Unusual settling. Nothing immediately dangerous, but… the high roads can get unpredictable. Be cautious.”
“Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll keep an eye out.” I hesitate, then decide to just go for it. “Hey, so, are you friends with anyone else on this mountain? Like, say… someone with a surplus of legs?”
He gives a slow, deliberate shrug. “A surplus of legs is subjective. To a snake, even one pair of legs is too many.”
He’s playing coy. I can tell. “Okay, fair point. Let me be more specific… Do you know the Vyder who lives up on Ridgeline?”
Gus’s entire posture changes. The casual, friendly demeanor vanishes, replaced by a deep, primal stillness. He’s instantly on high alert. “You know of the Vyder?”
“Yes. He’s a new client.” I suddenly worry if I revealed too much. “I don’t know much about his kind, though. The encyclopedia entries are… sparse.”
“They are sparse because most thought them extinct.” He’s silent for a moment, his gaze boring into me with startling intensity. “The stories about them are old. Very old. Vyders do not live near settlements. They are solitary. Territorial.”
The quiet awe and underlying menace in his voice make me lean forward. “What do the stories say about them, Gus?”
He considers the gravity of his words. “That they bond for life,” he says finally, the words a rough exhale. “One mate, forever. When they choose, they choose completely.”
My pulse gives a traitorous little kick. “Completely?”
“It is not a casual thing for them,” he says. “The old tales say losing a mate can shatter their minds. It’s why they are so careful. So deliberate. Why they court for so long, to be certain.”
Courting. The word echoes in my head, the same one Riven used.
The reality-TV-watching, pink-slipper-wearing, socially stunted spider man is engaging in a sacred, life-or-death mating ritual. And I’m… his test subject? His intended?
“I should… I should probably get going,” I say, my voice a little breathless. My logistical brain is yelling at me to ask more questions, but my gut is telling me to just drive. “Thank you, Gus.”
Gus gives a slow, solemn nod, clutching his books. “Be careful on the mountain today.”
And with that, the nine-foot-tall legend melts back into the forest, leaving me standing by my truck with a racing heart and a terrifyingly clearer picture of the beautiful, complicated web I’ve wandered into.
I take Gus’s warning as gospel. The rest of my morning route is a masterclass in efficiency, a blur of familiar dirt roads and quick drop-offs. The drizzle remains steady, but the air feels heavier now, charged with a pressure that makes my ears pop.
I’m about two-thirds of the way to Riven’s place, navigating a series of winding switchbacks carved into the mountainside, when the heavens open up.
The steady drizzle becomes a downpour, and then a deluge. Within minutes, my windshield wipers are losing the battle, frantically smearing sheets of water back and forth. The road turns into a shallow stream of mud and gravel as I push forward.
Then comes the hail. It starts small, like pebbles thrown against the glass.
Then it escalates. Marble-sized chunks of ice begin to hammer against the truck, a percussive assault that makes me flinch with every impact.
It sounds like a heavenly machine gun is trying to turn my delivery truck into Swiss cheese.
Gripping the wheel until my knuckles turn white, I slow to a crawl. “Okay, easy does it,” I mutter to myself, my own voice a shaky counterpoint to the storm’s fury.
This is bad. This is escalating way faster than any forecast predicted.
A low, grinding rumble reaches me, a sound that somehow cuts through the roar of the rain and hail. My first thought is thunder, but that’s not it. Thunder rolls and echoes. This sound grinds. It’s constant, directional, and it’s coming from somewhere up the mountain, behind me.
My eyes fly to the side mirror, and my stomach plummets into my boots.
The mirror reflects a disaster movie.
The mountainside I just passed, the steep slope of rock and timber above the road, is moving. Not just a few rocks, but a whole section of it. A river of earth and stone and splintered trees is flowing downhill, gaining speed, devouring everything in its path.
It’s a mudslide behind me, and it’s heading directly for the only road back to town.
My foot slams on the accelerator, a primal instinct for survival overriding my driver’s caution.
The truck’s tires spin for a terrifying second on the slick road before catching, lurching me forward.
I wrestle with the wheel, navigating the next hairpin turn as fast as I dare, trying to get to higher, more stable ground.
I risk another glance in the mirror. The slide has reached the road. I watch in horror as the pavement, the solid, dependable blacktop I’ve driven a thousand times, is simply… erased. Swallowed by a churning, grinding mass of mud and boulders and uprooted pines.
The route home is gone. Annihilated.
Finally, I reach a small pullout on a relatively flat crest and skid to a halt. I cut the engine, the sudden silence inside the cab amplifying the roar of the storm outside. Shaking, I unbuckle and stumble out of the truck, the icy rain soaking me in seconds.
I walk to the edge of the road and look back.
It’s worse than I imagined. A solid wall of debris, at least thirty feet high and a hundred yards wide, has completely smothered the road. Clearing this will take a fleet of heavy machinery working non-stop for days.
I’m trapped.
I stand there for a long minute, rain plastering my hair to my face, my mind running a thousand frantic calculations and coming up with the same answer every time: no viable solution.
Then I remember. There is one way forward. One route still open.
Up.
Further up the mountain. To a state-of-the-art cabin built into a cliff. To a twelve-foot-tall arachnid predator with terrible social skills, a thing for fuzzy slippers, and a package waiting for delivery.