Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
BOONE
I haven’t been this frustrated in decades.
Which is saying something, considering I run the US Monster Network and deal with the daily emotional hurricanes of creatures who are literally made of chaos. And still—still—nothing grinds my patience down to splinters like watching one human nearly get himself killed three different ways.
He’s alive.
Barely.
Thanks to me.
Which I absolutely did not have to do.
It’s been fifty-four years since I last shifted into human form.
Fifty-four.
And that time was not my fault.
The Yeti had invited me to a “cultural exchange summit” in the Himalayas.
I thought we were going to discuss migration patterns, ward networks, maybe have tea.
Instead, he signed me up—without consent—for a meditation retreat run by three extremely enthusiastic monks who insisted I couldn’t attend as “a furry distraction.”
They gave me a robe. A robe that barely covered anything.
If you’ve never seen a six-foot-five sasquatch in human form forced to sit cross-legged in cotton that doesn’t stretch, consider yourself fortunate.
I lasted six hours before abandoning my dignity behind a snowdrift.
I swore I’d never do it again—shift, I mean. Or meditate.
But last night?
Last night, a very concussed, very fragile human toppled like a dying sapling in the middle of bear country. I didn’t think. My body moved, shifting mid-stride, fur retracting, bones twisting, limbs compressing into a form I haven’t worn in half a century.
The ground was unforgiving—stone hidden under soft moss. I couldn’t have left him there, unconscious and unable to protect himself.
I suppress a shiver.
And carrying him in my cryptid form? Absolutely not. It would have killed him. My stride is too long, my grip too strong, especially when in a panic. Humans and sasquatch do not mix well when one is unconscious.
So yes. I shifted.
I carried him to camp, tucked him in, and sat outside like some kind of oversized forest guardian who didn’t know how to walk away from a problem that isn’t his.
And now?
Now I’m sitting in a cedar tree twenty feet behind his tent, watching the sky lighten from gray to pale gold while Elias moans softly in his sleep—each sound like a brand to the center of my chest.
He hurts.
He’s fragile.
And I hate everything about it.
Dawn leaks over the ridgeline, and inside the tent I hear stirring—fabric shifting, a groan, the thump of a hand hitting the ground cloth.
Then a zipper rasp.
“I swear,” I mutter under my breath, “if you try to walk—”
Elias emerges like a newborn deer made of stubbornness and regret.
He tries to stand upright. Fails. Braces on the tent pole. Fails again. His hair is a disaster. His eyes are half lidded, unfocused. He staggers three steps into the clearing, sways, bends—
And vomits.
My whole body lurches forward on instinct.
Concussion. Definitely a concussion.
Thank the ancient forests he contacted the rangers last night. If he hadn’t—
He retches again, gripping his knees, trembling with the effort.
I clench my jaw so hard a branch beneath me cracks.
“I told you to call for help,” I whisper, even though he can’t hear me. “You better not be dumb enough to downplay this.”
He coughs weakly, spits, wipes his mouth on his sleeve like a man whose pride died sometime around impact with a rock.
Then he mutters, “Ugh… too warm…”
Warm? Out here?
Idiot.
He stumbles toward the stream, dragging his feet, weaving like a drunk elk.
“No, no, no—don’t go near the water,” I hiss, dropping silently from the tree to trail him. “Why would you—Elias. Elias.”
He can’t hear me, but that doesn’t stop me from using his name like a curse.
The stream is swollen from snowmelt, running higher and faster than usual. Not dangerous for someone fully alert, but absolutely a problem for someone who can barely stand upright.
He kneels at the bank, bracing against a rock.
His hands shake. His breath hitches. He splashes cold water over his face, gasping.
For ten agonizing seconds, I picture him falling forward, headfirst, face down, letting the current carry him like a dropped twig.
But he doesn’t. He stays upright.
Barely.
He wipes his face, grimaces, and staggers back toward camp.
I let out a slow, shaky breath I hope no one ever learns about.
Back at the tent, he collapses onto his sleeping bag. He lies there for a moment, panting.
The sat phone rings.
He fumbles for it. Presses it to his ear.
“Yeah—hi—Elias Hart. I’m… yeah. I’m okay. I can handle it.”
I nearly bite through my tongue.
You can handle it? You vomited. You can’t walk straight. Your pupils are different sizes from here.
Handle it, my massive, furry—
“I don’t need extraction,” he adds while I silently combust behind a tree. “No, really. It’s… not that bad.”
My growl builds from the soles of my feet.
Don’t you dare.
Don’t you dare.
“I’ll head out tomorrow morning. I’m good. I’ve got enough supplies.”
I growl louder—too loud. The sound vibrates through the trees, resonant and low, the kind that makes prey animals freeze and turn their heads.
Elias freezes. His voice goes tight. “Gladys? Uh—hold on—”
I slap a hand over my mouth.
Shit.
Well. It’s too late to pretend that didn’t happen. And honestly? Maybe scaring him is the best thing I can do. If he thinks he’s in danger, maybe he’ll stop being stubborn and admit the truth.
Decision made.
I drop to all fours and start crashing through the brush like the world’s angriest bear.
Branches snap. Leaves explode upward. Birds take flight in a chaotic burst.
I’ve been a sasquatch for nearly five centuries. I can walk silently enough to slip past a wolfpack without one ear twitching.
Right now?
I make as much noise as a marching band falling down a mountainside.
Elias’s panicked voice rises, trembling and high. “Gladys? GLADYS? I—I need assistance. Something’s out here.”
There it is. The sweet, sweet sound of a human choosing self-preservation.
I shake a fallen log for extra dramatic effect. It cracks satisfyingly, echoing off the valley.
“GLADYS?” he yelps. “It’s close—it’s close!”
His heart thunders from twenty meters away. Fast. Erratic. Terrified.
I wince.
Guilt gnaws at me, but guilt doesn’t get him rescued. Guilt doesn’t keep him alive with a concussion in bear country. Guilt doesn’t stop him from hiking tomorrow morning when he absolutely should not be hiking.
Fear does.
So I let my growl roll out from deep in my chest, low and aggressive, the kind that turns marrow to ice.
Elias makes a small, broken noise.
Then, finally, his voice steadies. “Gladys, I need evac. As soon as possible.”
Good.
Good boy.
I take a step back, letting the sound of my retreat crunch deliberately—still heavy, but fading. Enough to be believable.
Elias is panting so hard I can hear each inhale. His sweat carries the sharp tang of adrenaline, the metallic edge of fear. I hate it. But I’d hate losing him more.
When I’m far enough away, I climb the nearest cedar with practiced ease, settling onto a broad branch where I can still see his tent through the needles. He’s crouched inside, shaking, gripping the sat phone like a lifeline.
I should feel ashamed. I should feel conflicted. I should feel… something.
Instead, I feel relief.
Relief that he’ll survive today. Relief that he won’t try to hike while dizzy and half blind. Relief that I can stop hovering like some lovesick forest cryptid for at least a few hours.
And yes—annoyance that his first instinct was not to ask for help.
He groans softly, lies back down, arm thrown over his eyes. His breathing slows. Calms. Stabilizes.
Good. Maybe he’ll sleep.
I lean back, arms folded, tailbone pressed against rough bark. “You’ll thank me later,” I mutter.
A raven lands on a nearby branch, tilting its head at me like it knows exactly what I’ve done.
I glare at it. “What? It worked.”
The raven gives a judgmental croak.
“Oh, shut up.”
An hour passes. Elias sleeps while I sit and listen.
It’s easier now that I’m not actively trying to prevent his death. The forest sounds normal again—wind sweeping through branches, water chuckling over stone, distant woodpeckers arguing with cedar trunks.
He stirs occasionally, murmuring in his sleep.
At one point, he whispers, “Don’t… fall…”
And my chest contracts painfully.
“I won’t,” I whisper back.
I can’t help it.
Eventually, the tiny hum of static and a distant helicopter rotor reaches my ears long before Elias hears anything.
Good. Ranger extraction incoming.
I stay in the tree until the rescue team is close enough that I can see their bright jackets between the trunks. Two humans, moving with steady purpose. One of them—tall, confident gait—is Gladys.
Of course she came herself.
I retreat deeper into the forest, keeping downwind. I watch from a safe distance as they find Elias—groggy but alive—and help him sit up. He gestures vaguely toward the woods, explaining something. Gladys’s face hardens.
She scans the woods with sharp eyes. She pauses and looks directly toward where I was an hour ago.
I go still. Did she—
No. No. Humans can’t see through shade that well.
She turns back to Elias, muttering something that makes him laugh weakly.
My chest loosens again.
They help him to his feet. He stumbles; Gladys grabs his elbow. He tries to joke; she swats him verbally back into line. They start the slow trek toward extraction.
I follow at a safe distance, unable to stay away. Once he’s on the helicopter, he’ll be safe, and I’ll be able to take a breath and continue about my day.
When the forest finally swallows the sound of voices and human footsteps, I stop, lean against a towering cedar, and let myself breathe.
He’ll be fine. He’s safe and out of danger.
I breathe again, properly this time.
And then I say it.
Out loud.
To the empty air.
“You’re going to be the death of me, Elias Hart.”
A sharp chitter answers from somewhere above my head—far too immediate, far too smug. I don’t even look up at first. I already know who it is. Of course he followed me. Of course he did.
The squirrel drops onto the trunk a few feet away, clinging upside down like some kind of woodland gargoyle, tail flicking like a metronome.
He stares at me with bright, unblinking intensity, then pats the bark twice with one paw—tap tap—like he’s summoning me for a meeting I didn’t agree to attend.
“No,” I say flatly.
He chitters again, louder, and—because the universe enjoys humiliating me—scampers down and tries to climb my leg and explore my fur, nosing around like he’s looking for a tribute.
I step back, scowling. “You are not getting a reward for emotional support. I did not appoint you to this role.”
The squirrel pauses, looks up at me like I’m the unreasonable one, and then darts to my other leg with the persistence of a creature who has never once been told no by anything bigger than he is.
I grind my teeth. “Unbelievable,” I mutter, and start walking before he can decide to climb me again. Behind me, he chitters in triumphant little bursts—absolutely convinced I’m leaving because I’m intimidated by his authority.
I huff a laugh and start the long walk back to my own territory.
Behind me, the forest whispers. Ahead of me, trouble waits. And somewhere between those two truths, a human biologist has taken up residence in my ribs where he absolutely does not belong.