Bootylicious (Legends #4)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

BOONE

The forest smells different today—wet moss, thawing earth, cedar warmed just enough by sunlight to let out its sweetness. And beneath all that: a familiar, distant tang of human trails getting cleared for spring.

The park rangers are returning, which means he might be returning too.

Elias Hart. Human researcher, chronic notetaker, biologist with the shoulders of a lumberjack and the situational awareness of a distracted kitten.

He’s spent the last two summers with his little field station set up a mile and a half from my territory.

Close enough that sometimes I catch his scent on the wind.

Close enough that sometimes he somehow manages to walk directly past me without noticing the eight-foot-tall cryptid standing behind a tree.

And yes, fine, sometimes I watch him.

From a responsible, safe, healthy distance, of course.

I am not a stalker. I’m a conservationist. I’m making sure he doesn’t fall into ravines, get lost, or start poking around places that would complicate my entire existence.

That’s my official line, anyway.

The truth is… winter has been long. Too long. And quiet. Too quiet. And I’ve spent an unreasonable amount of time pretending I’m not listening for human footsteps that never came.

I tell myself it’s because humans bring danger. Because I need to monitor the activity. Because I am the US Network Admin, and vigilance is my job.

But none of that explains why my heartbeat does a stupid little hitch every time I think about him stumbling around in the brush and cursing cheerfully at his malfunctioning GPS.

I shake myself out of it and head toward the small clearing beside my cave. It’s barely the size of a human backyard, but it’s mine—stubbornly carved out between two old-growth cedars and a moss-covered boulder the size of a truck.

My garden.

The soil is still cold but thawing enough that bulbs are starting to nose their way up—tiny shoots of green fighting through last season’s leaf litter.

Along the far edge, my garlic patch has survived winter like the hardy little warriors they are.

A row of early onions is sprouting too, pale and determined.

The root vegetables—carrots, golden beets, and those purple potatoes I traded with a selkie last year—won’t be ready to plant for a week or two, but I like checking the beds.

Making sure the soil hasn’t been disturbed by animals or—last year—Elias tripping and apologizing out loud to the dirt.

He thought it was a deer trail. It wasn’t.

I crouch—carefully, because my knees could flatten a whole section of bulbs if I’m not paying attention—and start working. I rake aside winter debris with my hands, turning the soil, loosening clumps. Birds chatter overhead, delighted to finally have sunlight again.

The rhythm settles me and grounds me. It always has.

Unfortunately, I’m not alone.

There’s a rustle to my left—too deliberate for wind, too smug for leaf fall.

I don’t look up. I don’t need to. I can feel him.

Perched on the low cedar limb like he owns the place.

The squirrel has returned. Again. He chitters softly, the sound attention-seeking and expectant, tail flicking in a way that suggests he believes we’re acquaintances. Or worse. Friends.

“No,” I tell him without lifting my head. “Absolutely not.”

He chitters louder.

I glance up just in time to see him inch closer along the branch, tiny paws gripping the bark, eyes bright and unrepentant.

Last fall, I shared exactly one hazelnut with him during a lean week.

One. This was, apparently, a binding contract.

Since then, he’s taken to following me through the clearing, stealing loose bulbs, and once—once—attempting to climb my leg while I was on a Network call.

I flick a clod of dirt in his direction. It lands nowhere near him. He does not retreat. He only sits back on his haunches and stares at me with the confidence of a creature who has never known consequences.

I bare my teeth at him. He chitters back.

Ignoring him, I reach for my makeshift gardening apron—an old canvas tarp tied around my waist—just as my phone buzzes in the pocket, nearly making me drop it.

A message from the Monster Network. I just hope this time it’s not about the mysterious claw markings popping up around the country.

MothAkai: ADMIN, wake up!

MothAkai: I need to finalize some fun bash details so need the attendee list.

MothAkai: Also, please approve budget for inflatable geyser man.

I groan loudly, but at least the sound is enough to get the pesky squirrel running.

The inflatable geyser man again. Oh, moss and mud, give me strength. I type back with one giant thumb.

BigFootBoone [admin]: No. You don’t have access.

BigFootBoone [admin]: No matter how many times you ask.

BigFootBoone [admin]: Also it’s 7am your time.

BigFootBoone [admin]: Go back to sleep.

Another buzz immediately sounds.

MothAkai: I can’t sleep.

MothAkai: SPRING IS HERE, BABY!

MothAkai: Monsters are THIRSTY!

MothAkai: Are you feeling it too, big guy?

I freeze, scowling at the screen.

Absolutely not. It’s a ridiculous question. I’m not answering that.

BigFootBoone [admin]: I’m blocking you for the next hour.

I shove the phone away before he can reply, but pause when I receive a private message.

Reluctantly, I look at it, only to release a sigh of relief when I see Dan’s name.

I’ll always give the Dover Demon my time.

Not only because he’s a good kid who is completely out of his depth, but I also promised his grandfather Steve, the former Dover Demon before he passed, I’d look out for him.

Dan: Are you available for a quick call?

Surprise flickers through me. We’ve only talked once before, but clearly he needs my support. I tell my device to call Dan Dover, which is much easier than using my larger fingers to find his number.

He picks up immediately. “Hey, thanks for calling.”

“Of course. Is everything okay?” I ask.

“Yeah. Yes… I think so. I was just, I don’t know, thinking.”

I wait patiently for more, but when he stays quiet, I gently prod, “And what are you thinking, Dan? I can simply listen if that’s what you need.

” Regardless of what some cryptids say about me, I can simply do that rather than cracking the whip and issuing orders.

In all honesty, when I do, it’s usually because of general misbehavior from creatures who should know better.

Dan lets out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, well. Maybe I need someone to tell me what to do.”

“I suspect you would not have called me if that were true.”

The silence that follows is thoughtful rather than uncomfortable.

Finally, Dan sighs. “It’s Dover.”

I settle more comfortably against the log behind me. “What about Dover?”

“I don’t know if I should stay.”

The words come out quickly, as though he’s been holding them back for weeks.

“People know about cryptids now. Things are changing. There are so many hunters and discussions on podcasts… it’s making me really nervous.” He hesitates. “And part of me keeps wondering if I should leave. See more of the world. Find a place where I can be me. Maybe without having to hide away.”

“That seems reasonable.” While that kind of life is not for me, there are several communities around the world that are safe, open spaces for not only cryptids, but a multitude of other beings in this world.

“Does it?”

“Yes.”

A pause follows, and I hear Dan’s hard swallow before he says, “My grandad never left.”

There it is. The real concern.

“He spent his whole life protecting Dover,” Dan continues quietly. “This place mattered to him. Sometimes I think if I leave, even for a while, I’m letting him down.”

I close my eyes briefly.

Poor kid.

“Dan.”

“Yeah?”

“Your grandfather loved Dover.”

“Exactly.”

“No,” I say gently. “He loved you.”

The line goes quiet.

I continue before he can argue. “Steve cared about the town because it was his home. He cared about protecting people because that was who he was. But if you think for one moment he valued a place more than his grandson, then you did not know the same Steve I did.”

A shaky breath comes through the speaker. “I just keep hearing what he would say.”

“Are you hearing Steve,” I ask, “or are you hearing your fear of disappointing him?”

The silence answers for him.

“When I spoke with your grandfather during his final years, do you know what he worried about most?”

“No.”

“You.”

Dan laughs softly. “That sounds about right.”

“He worried whether you were happy. Whether you had support. Whether you were carrying too much responsibility.” I smile at the memory. “He was very proud of you, by the way.”

Another quiet laugh. “He never actually said that.”

“Steve was from a generation that preferred showing things rather than saying them.”

“That is painfully accurate.”

I chuckle. “Dan, listen to your heart. Listen to your Daemon. They exist for a reason.”

“My Daemon says we should be safe.”

“Then perhaps moving away will provide you with that.”

“And if it turns out that’s a mistake?”

“Then you come home.”

The answer is so simple that neither of us speaks for several seconds.

“You really think he’d be okay with that?”

I glance toward the darkening forest beyond the cave entrance. In my mind, I can still picture Steve exactly as he was. Stubborn. Protective. Fiercely devoted to the people he loved.

“Dan,” I say quietly, “I think if Steve were here right now, he’d tell you to stop worrying about what he would think and start figuring out what you want.”

A choked laugh escapes him. “Yeah. He probably would.”

“He would want you safe. He would want you happy. The rest is just details.”

The tension in his voice eases. “Thanks, Boone.”

“Anytime.”

“I should let you get back to whatever you were doing.”

“Probably wise.”

“Were you gardening again?”

“Goodbye, Dan.”

His laughter follows me all the way to the end of the call.

When the line disconnects, I stare at the screen for a moment before setting the phone aside. Steve would have been proud of him.

Then again, Steve always was.