Chapter 1
ELI
The ley line hums beneath my feet, a steady pulse that most humans would never notice.
I've spent enough years tending bar at the Bear Claw Tavern to know its rhythms like my own heartbeat—the way it ebbs and flows with the seasons, how it responds to the full moon, the subtle shifts when storms roll in off the Pacific.
Lately, though, it's been stronger. Not dangerously so—but it has been dangerous before or at least felt that way—and the bear inside me pays attention.
I pull another pint of the pale ale we've had on tap since my grandfather ran this place, sliding it across the bar to old Mr. Johnson, who's been occupying the same corner stool every Thursday for longer than I've been alive.
The dinner rush is in full swing—tourists mixing with locals, the smell of burgers and cedar smoke from the kitchen filling the air, conversations layering over each other in a comfortable din.
"Thanks, Eli." Henderson takes a long drink and sighs contentedly. "Your daddy would be proud of how you've kept this place running."
I nod, the familiar ache of loss settling in my chest. Twelve years since the accident that took both my parents and left me with the tavern, three younger brothers, a grumpy older brother, although Calder seems happier since he took Cilla to mate, and responsibilities that sometimes feel heavier than the redwoods outside.
The door swings open, and I don't need to look up to recognize Calder.
My older brother moves through the crowd with the easy confidence of someone who knows he belongs, sawdust still clinging to his work boots from whatever project he's been building.
He slides onto a stool at the bar, and I'm already pouring him a water before he asks.
"Long day?" I ask.
"Mrs. Patterson had me rebuild her entire front porch." Calder runs a hand through his dark hair. "Three times. Kept changing her mind about whether she wanted composite or cedar."
I snort. "Which did she finally pick?"
"Composite. After I'd already cut all the cedar." He takes a long drink. "Where are the others?"
"Beau's in the back pretending to check inventory. Sawyer texted that he's running late—something about a sea lion with an attitude." I don't mention Jonah. None of us do anymore, not during these check-ins. The empty space where our youngest brother should be sits heavy between us.
The ley line pulses beneath us, a little stronger than usual, and Calder's eyes flick to mine. He felt it too.
"Still at it," he says quietly, more statement than question.
"Yeah." I keep my voice low, casual, as I wipe down the bar. No need to alarm the human customers. "Hasn't gotten worse, at least."
Beau emerges from the back room, wiping grease from his hands with a shop rag. He's twenty-eight—only two years younger—but sometimes I still see the kid who used to follow me into the woods, convinced he could shift into his bear form through sheer willpower at age seven.
"Inventory's good," he says, settling onto the stool next to Calder. "Though we're low on the IPA. You brewing more this week?"
"Already started a batch." I pull two glasses and start pouring our house stout—the weekly check-in is about to begin, and we all know it.
"So," Beau says, accepting his stout with a nod of thanks. "We all felt that, right?"
"The ley line," Calder confirms. "It's been more active."
"Any other disturbances?" I ask, falling into the familiar pattern of our weekly meetings. Calder inherited Dad's position as the primary ley line guardian, but he trusts me to help keep track of these things.
"Nothing major," Beau reports. "Had a couple of calls about weird lights in the forest last week, but that turned out to be Gary Northwood's nephew trying to shoot a horror movie for his YouTube channel."
"Mrs. Wilkie reported that her garden gnomes keep moving," Calder adds. "But that's been happening for years, and we all know she's just forgetting where she puts them."
"Anything else?" I ask.
The silence that follows is heavy. We all know what—who—I'm really asking about. We've had variations of this conversation every week for the past six months, ever since Jonah disappeared.
"Nothing new," Beau says finally, his voice careful. "I checked with the Coast Guard again yesterday. Still nothing."
Six months. One hundred and eighty-two days, if I'm counting.
Which I am, even though I tell myself not to.
Jonah went out on one of his research trips—something about tracking orca migration patterns—and never came back.
His boat was found three weeks later, empty, drifting twenty miles offshore.
No blood. No signs of struggle. No body.
Just gone.
The official story is that he fell overboard. Accident. Case closed.
But we're not entirely human, and we know better than to trust the official story.
"Calder's been checking the ley lines," Sawyer had told me last month, his voice rough with something between hope and despair. "Says there's a disruption pattern that doesn't make sense. Like something's blocking the natural flow."
I'd wanted to ask what that meant, if it meant Jonah might still be alive somewhere, if the ley lines could lead us to him. But Calder had just shaken his head, his expression grim, and I'd swallowed the questions.
Now I look at my oldest brother, the one who inherited the responsibility of guardian, the one who carries the weight of protecting this town and everyone in it. He meets my eyes, and I see the same exhaustion I feel.
"The pattern's still there," Calder says quietly. "Whatever's causing the disruption, it hasn't changed. Hasn't gotten worse, but it hasn't gotten better either."
"So he could still be...” Beau starts, then stops.
Alive. The word none of us can quite say out loud, because saying it means admitting we still hope, and hope is dangerous when you're counting days instead of weeks.
"I don't know," Calder admits, and the weight of those three words settles over all of us.
I pour another round, even though none of us are drinking much.
It's something to do with our hands, something to focus on besides the empty space where our youngest brother should be sitting, probably rambling about marine biology and showing us videos of whatever sea creature caught his attention that week.
Dad used to say being second-oldest was the hardest position—all the weight, none of the authority.
I'd thought he was full of shit at the time.
Now, standing here with a bar full of people who don't know that magic is real and monsters exist, watching Calder carry the burden of Jonah's disappearance on top of everything else and Sawyer’s quiet grief at the loss of Tanner’s mother, I understand.
I can't fix this. Can't bring Jonah back or lift the weight from Calder's shoulders or ease the pain in my younger brothers' eyes.
But I can pour another round. Keep this place running. Make sure that when—if—Jonah comes home, there's still a home to come back to.
The door opens, and Cilla walks in carrying a large basket covered with a checkered cloth. She weaves through the tables with the ease of someone who's been coming here for years, but it has barely been a year, smiling and waving at familiar faces.
"Special delivery," she announces, making her way to the bar. "Fresh potato rolls for tomorrow's burger special. I tried a new recipe with rosemary and sea salt."
"I could kiss you," I tell her, taking the basket. The smell alone is enough to make my mouth water. "What do I owe you?"
"Nothing. Consider it payment for that wonderful mushroom risotto recipe you gave me." She leans against the bar, her hair tied back with a flour-dusted bandana, more smudges of flour dusting her forearms. "Besides, I might need a favor."
"Name it."
"I have a friend coming to visit—well, acquaintance really. Food writer. We met at a festival a couple years back." She shifts the basket. "She's going through something rough. Called me from the road tonight—said she was heading up this way and wanted to know if I was still here."
Something in my chest tightens, and the bear inside me stirs with sudden interest. I ignore both reactions, focusing on Cilla's words instead.
"When's she arriving?"
"Tomorrow morning, actually. She told me she needed to pull over and rest somewhere, so she's planning to get here around nine or so." Cilla glances at her watch. I was hoping maybe you could make her feel welcome? You know, in that gruff but secretly kind way you have."
Beau snorts into his beer. "Gruff but secretly kind. That's putting it nicely."
I flip him off, which only makes him grin wider.
"What's her name?" Calder asks.
"Quinn Samuelson. She's really talented. Writes about food and restaurants and all that. I thought maybe if she likes it here, she might write something about Redwood Rise. Could be good for tourism."
The ley line pulses again, stronger this time, and something primal in me practically lunges forward. I grip the edge of the bar, forcing myself to stay calm, to breathe through the unexpected surge of instinct.
What the hell?
"You okay?" Cilla's looking at me with concern, and I realize I've been standing frozen for several seconds.
"Fine," I manage. "Just—yeah, I'll make sure she feels welcome."
Cilla studies me for another moment, then seems to accept my answer. "Great. Thanks, Eli. I should get back—I've got three dozen cupcakes that need frosting before tomorrow." She waves to my brothers. "See you guys at the bonfire this weekend?"
Beau waits until the door closes behind her, then leans forward, his eyes sharp. "What was that about?"
"Nothing."
"That wasn't nothing. Your bear practically jumped over the bar."
I shake my head, not having an explanation that makes sense even to myself. "I don't know. Just a weird feeling."
"About the food writer?" Calder asks, his tone more cautious than curious.
"Drop it," I say, more sharply than intended. "It's nothing."
But it doesn't feel like nothing. It feels like standing at the edge of a cliff, unsure if there's water below or rocks.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of poured drinks and cleared plates.
My brothers eventually drift off—Beau home to Anabeth, Calder to a late dinner with Cilla, Sawyer probably still wrestling with that sea lion.
The crowd thins as the night wears on, and by eleven, I'm wiping down tables and stacking chairs.
Henderson is the last to leave, shuffling out with a wave and a promise to return next week. I lock the door behind him and stand in the empty tavern, listening to the building settle, to the ley line humming beneath my feet.
The pull toward the cellar is irresistible.
I unlock the heavy wooden door behind the bar and descend the stone steps, each one worn smooth by generations of Hayes family members. The temperature drops as I go deeper, and the hum of the ley line grows louder, more insistent. By the time I reach the bottom, it's practically singing.
The cellar is where I keep my brewing equipment, the oak barrels of aging beer, the carefully controlled environment that turns grain and hops and yeast into something worth drinking.
But it's also directly over one of the strongest ley nodes in Redwood Rise, a convergence point where three separate lines meet and intertwine.
I can see it if I let my vision sharpen—golden threads of energy pulsing through the earth, weaving together in complex patterns that have existed longer than human memory. They're brighter than usual tonight, almost agitated.
The animal inside me paces restlessly, agitated in a way I haven't felt since I can't remember when. Not during the wildfires two years ago, not during the earthquake last spring, not even during the winter storm that nearly took out the power for the whole town.
This feels different. Personal.
I place my palm against the cold stone floor, feeling the energy flow through me.
As a Hayes, I'm connected to these lines in a way that goes beyond blood or duty.
Calder's the primary guardian, but we all feel them—when they're troubled, when something's disrupting the natural balance, when danger is approaching.
But this isn't danger. It's anticipation. Like the ley lines are waiting for something, preparing for something.
Someone.
I stay there for a long time, crouched in my own cellar, trying to understand what the earth is trying to tell me.
The honey-lavender ale I've been working on for weeks is in the barrel to my left, still not quite right, still missing something I can't identify.
I should be focusing on that, on perfecting the recipe, on the normal problems that have normal solutions.
Instead, I'm thinking about a food writer I've never met, about the way my instinct responded to just the mention of her name, about the uncomfortable feeling that my carefully controlled life is about to get significantly more complicated.
The ley line hums beneath me, patient and eternal and utterly indifferent to my concerns.
I finally stand, my knees protesting after too long in one position. I climb the stairs, lock the cellar door, and head out to my truck. The drive to the family compound takes fifteen minutes through winding forest roads, the headlights cutting through the darkness between towering redwoods.
My A-frame sits at the edge of the clearing, its huge windows dark.
I built those windows myself three years ago, wanting to see the forest from every angle, wanting the kitchen to feel like it was part of the woods.
Inside, the massive kitchen takes up most of the main floor—restaurant-grade appliances, a prep island I can walk circles around, enough counter space to host Thanksgiving for half the town.
It's too much space for one person. Always has been.
Through the windows, I can see the other homes scattered across the compound—Calder's stone cottage where a light still burns, Beau's converted railway car dark and silent, Sawyer's barn with the soft glow of a nightlight in his son's room.
Jonah's log cabin sits empty, windows dark, waiting for a brother who might never come home.
I stand in my kitchen, not bothering to turn on the lights. The digital clock on the stove reads 1:03 AM.
There's a food writer coming to town who doesn't know what she's walking into. Or maybe she does, and she came anyway.
The ley lines hum beneath the compound, restless and insistent. My bear paces in response, refusing to settle.
Tomorrow, I'll meet the woman who made my animal react to just her name. The woman who made the ley lines sing.
I should probably be worried about that. Instead, I'm looking forward to it.