2. Liam
Liam
The first thing I did every morning was count.
The number of steps from the maintenance shed to the outdoor spa. The cedar-siding panels to my left. The tiles along the pool edge. The stacks of oak and pine by the lounge, split to size and lined up under the overhang, where they stayed dry even when the fog rolled in off the lake.
I did it without thinking. When the numbers lined up, my shoulders eased. When they didn’t, I fixed them. I never saw much point in interrogating the relief once it arrived. Useful was useful.
Today they lined up. That put me in a good mood. I didn’t announce it or anything, but I noticed.
The lake sat fifty yards beyond the tree line, quiet and black at this hour.
Southern Adirondack mornings came in layers.
First the mist, then light pushing through pine and birch, then the sound of loons somewhere out past the dock, offended at something no one else could see.
Pine Hollow marketed itself as peaceful, which was accurate—most of the time.
It was also watchful. The forest here paid attention.
Fog rolled in most mornings from the southern edge of the water and crept across the grounds.
It swallowed the dock first, then the lawn chairs, then the lower cabins.
Guests loved it. They called it atmospheric.
They took photos and captioned them with words like magic.
They didn’t think about how quickly visibility dropped out here once the sun set or how narrow the two-lane road became when deer decided to cross without warning.
The mountains gave you beauty, but they also demanded awareness.
By the time the light moved through the trees and across the property, Pine Hollow felt awake.
The pool cover lay over the water, smooth and sealed.
I ran my hand along the edge anyway, checking for gaps.
None. The hot tub read at the right temperature.
I nudged it down a degree because guests liked it a little too hot, and people made bad choices when they got too warm.
The spa had seen more confessions than the front desk.
The firewood shed was next. It sat just off the path, tucked between the main lodge and the trees. I restacked half the pile so it was even.
The smell of freshly split wood stuck to my hands, but I relished the familiar scent. The owners called this much attention to detail overkill. I called it not having visitors tripping in the dark. I had a strong preference for bones staying inside bodies.
“Morning, Liam,” Nora said from the front desk when I carried the first armload inside. She owned the place with her wife and had the calm of someone who had survived a decade of guests who thought towels were optional. Survival changes a person.
The main lodge had been standing since the fifties. Cedar beams. Stone fireplace built from rocks that had been pulled out of the lakebed during construction. Every year, the freeze and thaw tested the foundation. Every spring, someone found a new crack in something that I helped repair.
Nora ran the desk like a ship’s bridge, handling everything before it became a problem. I admired that.
“Morning,” I said. “Anything heavy need lifting?”
She smiled. “You already know.”
I hauled two kegs down to the tavern for Pete, who ran the bar and pretended he hated being helped even when the alternative was obvious pain.
“You trying to make me feel useless again?” he asked when I set them down.
“I’m trying to stop you from hurting your back,” I said.
He grunted. “Same thing.”
As I got back to the front desk, the doors swung open, and Mr. Harlan came stomping in like he owned the place. His face held a permanent scowl.
“Noise last night,” he announced. “People laughing. After ten.”
Nora nodded serenely. “We’ll look into it.”
“I don’t think you understand,” he said. “This used to be a quiet area.”
“We appreciate your feedback, Mr. Harlan,” she said.
He muttered something about standards and stomped back out.
I watched the door until it shut, then I got back to work.
The day passed in the ordinary way I liked best. No drama, nothing broken.
Just a steady rhythm you could settle into without bracing for interruption.
Guests checked in. I showed a couple to their room and carried their bags without being asked.
Someone thanked me twice, which always made me feel good.
I trimmed hedges, swept the porch, fixed a loose board on the dock, and watched the lake stretch out toward the tree line, glassy and still in the afternoon light.
I loved it here.
Hours later, the property settled for the night. Lights went dark one by one. The last door closed and stayed closed. Even the insects seemed to agree it was time to stop.
I’d done a sweep at midnight, and everything had been fine then. Still, I was awake. The quiet sat wrong around me.
I told myself I would walk the perimeter once more. There was no reason to lie in bed counting the minutes when I could be moving instead, and I didn’t mind the extra lap. The night was cool and clear, the kind of Adirondack night I didn’t mind settling in to.
Pool: Cover secure. I pressed it down anyway.
Spa: Temperature steady.
Firewood stacked, clean and dry. Doors locked. Windows latched.
Everything in its place.
I was about to head back to my room when the sound reached me. Laughter, loud and uncontained. It was carrying up from the lake like a cacophony of trouble.
I stopped walking and checked my watch. Two a.m.
The laughter came again, clearer this time. Too many people. Someone singing, badly and without fear of consequences. It sounded happy. It also sounded… drunk.
My jaw clenched.
I stood still and listened, telling myself it was probably fine. People came here to let loose. Still, my chest tightened. Water. Alcohol. Darkness. That was not a favorable equation.
I took the path down toward the lake, counting my steps without meaning to. Forty to the bend. Thirty to the clearing.
The voices got louder. Less cheerful.
I moved faster, reaching the lake while the shouting was still enthusiastic.
The neighbor, Mr. Harlan, was mid-lecture, flashlight wagging like punctuation. Exclamation points, mostly. He had settled into his favorite theme. People had no shame anymore. Standards were gone. This used to be a quiet place. Etcetera.
“Evening, Mr. Harlan,” I said. “They’re leaving. No need to keep this going.”
He spun on me, ready to escalate, then took me in. Height like mine does a lot of work before you had to say anything else. He muttered, backed up, and kept backing up.
He grumbled under his breath as he walked away, sweeping the beam toward the trees like he was documenting evidence. The light bobbed away with him, his commentary trailing off until the forest swallowed it.
I stayed put until he was gone, then I turned toward the group of women.
I didn’t look at them, instead fixing my attention to the sky. “You ladies aren’t in trouble or anything, but you probably should head back to your rooms. I’m not trying to ruin your evening, just offering my input as someone with a clear head. I can walk you back if you need.”
There was a beat of silence, then a chorus of agreement that sounded relieved and loud all at once. The mood loosened as they climbed out and wrapped themselves in towels and clothes retrieved from a heap. Morning would not be kind to them.
“Let me know when you’re decent,” I said, still studying the stars.
When they told me it was clear, I turned, keeping my eyes level with shoulders and trees and anything that was not their bodies. I held out a small stack of cards that I fished from my pocket.
“Liam,” I said. “I’m the resident grounds worker here at Pine Hollow Retreat. For transparency’s sake, I’m also a shifter. If there’s an emergency, use the number. I can get to you quickly.”
One of them smiled wide. “Does this count as you giving us your number?”
“For emergencies only,” I said, keeping my voice friendly and firm. “Broken bones. Lost people. Fires. Not karaoke requests.”
They laughed, and one of them snapped a sloppy salute. Another one attempted a curtsy and nearly took herself out doing it.
“Very professional,” one of them said.
“I felt respected,” another replied.
We turned back up the trail together, their voices tangling with each other. The tension bled off fast, replaced by the kind of fearless chatter that only showed up when people thought the danger had passed.
Someone tripped and laughed like it was on purpose.
“Do the deer here judge people?” a voice asked from behind me.
“Yes,” I said.
“Makes sense.”
Most of them kept talking. Two didn’t.
One was tall and striking, walking half a step behind the rest. Her blue hair was not subtle.
The color caught every bit of light along the trail, making it impossible to miss and harder to ignore than it should have been.
The other woman kept pace beside her, steady and watchful.
The taller one kept glancing back, then forward again, like she was counting heads without meaning to. I could relate to that.
I could tell her foot was about to give out a split second before it did.
She let out a sharp, startled yelp, then pitched sideways.
I was there before the sound finished. The ground had given way under her foot, and I spotted the gopher hole. I had been trying to keep an eye out for them for exactly this reason, but I had missed one in the dark.
I took her by the elbow and helped her up.
“I’m fine,” she said immediately.
She was not fine. She tried to step, but she hadn’t regained her balance yet and pitched forward again.
Catching her, I picked her up without thinking. A streak of blue swung across my arm as her hair slipped forward. She was strong and solid but still felt small in my arms.
“I’ve got you,” I said. “We’re going to the nursing station.”
“I do not need to be carried,” she said.
“You do,” I said. “At least until you stop lying about being fine.”
She huffed. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“You’re slippery,” I said, adjusting my grip. I was, unhelpfully, a little too pleased that she was in my arms.
“Is that a comment on my weight,” she asked, “or your lack of experience with wet women?”
A laugh broke out behind us.
“Strictly a traction issue,” I said. “I’ll survive.”
She shifted, testing. “I’m heavy.”
“You are not heavy,” I said. “But please stop wiggling.”
“I do not wiggle.”
“You just did.”
She paused, let out a small huff, then settled.
Carrying her was different from everything else I’d handled tonight. The property, the guests, the routines... all of that usually settled the pull to watch and guard and stay alert. It gave that part of me somewhere to live.
This pulled it forward instead. Sharpened it in a way I wasn’t used to.
She shifted in my arms again, and my focus locked down hard, not on the path or the lights or the night, but on getting her somewhere solid and safe and still.
I adjusted my grip and kept moving, aware that something had just changed—and I didn’t dislike it.
When we reached the main building, most of the group peeled off toward the stairs with loud assurances that everything was fine. One woman hesitated.
One woman hesitated. “I’ll come with you.”
The woman in my arms shook her head. “Go. I’ll be fine.”
She said it confidently, like she expected the other woman to obey—which she did.
I steered us toward the golf cart. The night was quieter now, as if the property had finally exhaled.
I gently set her on the seat and handed her a towel. “Nursing station’s a short ride. We’ll take a look and decide next steps from there.”
She glanced at the card still tucked between her fingers, then lifted her gaze to mine, chin set despite the towel and the injury and the fact that I was literally loading her into a golf cart like an injured heiress in a very specific kind of period drama.
“For emergencies only,” she said.
I smiled. “You’re learning.”
I turned the key and eased the cart forward, the path lighting up ahead of us.