Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
BOONE
It’s astonishing how much trouble one human can introduce into a perfectly organized life.
For the past few days, I’ve been pretending everything is normal. That I’m not thinking about Elias every third breath. That I’m not listening for him even in my sleep. That my body doesn’t react to his scent with a fierce, infuriating tenderness.
I should be focusing on the looming responsibility of the Solstice, the Network diagnostics overdue in three states, and the fact that my departure is now only a week away.
Instead? I’m sitting on a boulder outside my cave, staring at a map like it personally insulted me.
The journey from Olympic National Park to Yellowstone is not impossible.
For a sasquatch, it’s practically scenic.
I’ve done it every year for the last century, taking different routes depending on storms, terrain shifts, and whether or not Calder has decided solitude is preferable to company and needs reminding that the Solstice is worth attending.
But this year? This year I’m bringing a human.
A human who thinks the distance between Washington and Wyoming is “a really cool walk.”
A human who hasn’t considered that walking 874 miles would take him six weeks.
A human who seems blissfully unaware that the world between here and Yellowstone is filled with cryptids who do not have my… restraint.
And a human who, for reasons I can’t fathom, wants to be next to me through all of it.
I drag my hand down my face. “Of all the humans,” I mutter, “it had to be the enthusiastic one.”
Not that I dislike enthusiasm. I just dislike how much I like his.
I pull the map closer, tracing the general corridor we’ll need to cross.
If Elias were alone—a prospect that already makes my hair stand on end—he’d need to walk twenty miles a day if he’s pushing himself over a minimum of six weeks.
That would include multiple campsite stops, food caches, water sources, and absolutely zero major injuries.
Humans are marvelously inefficient.
Me? If I travel at full sasquatch pace—long strides, spent half in the blur—I can do the journey in twelve days if I take detours. I can do it in ten if I ignore common sense, and if I want to limp into Yellowstone and get scolded by Bob, I could push for eight days.
We have four weeks in total, which has to allow for checks and no doubt me spending time fixing elements of the Network that have been misbehaving.
I sigh.
Of course he hasn’t thought about logistics. He’s too excited. Delightfully, luminously excited in a way that makes my chest ache in places I didn’t know still felt things.
He wants the journey. Wants the adventure. Wants to see my world. Wants… me.
I rub my sternum because apparently my heart has decided it wants to embarrass me today.
“All right,” I grumble. “Let’s be practical.”
I start marking major cryptid territories on the map. It’s not mandatory to check every node on the way to the Solstice, but it is wise. Some have been glitching lately, and I can’t ignore them—not when the entire US Network depends on a stable grid.
Between Washington and Wyoming, the most relevant contacts are the Wenatchee Forest Giants. They’re ancient, territorial, and suspicious of technology. Every time their node goes offline, they blame the wires for “being rude.”
There are also the Yakima Gorge Watchers. While they’re not dangerous, they are anxious. They sense disturbances across mountain ranges and panic accordingly.
The Shunka Warak’in Pack in the Idaho Panhandle are wolflike cryptids with sharp senses and zero patience. If they smell “stranger human” on me without warning, they’ll track and interrogate us. Honestly, I don’t have time for pissing contests.
Of course there’s Calder, the Beast of Bray Road in Wisconsin.
Most cryptids know to give him space. He’s quiet, guarded, and has little interest in anyone beyond the handful of people he considers his responsibility.
Convincing him to check the Network is usually harder than convincing a gargoyle to update its passwords.
Then there’s Bob’s storm perimeter in the Wyoming borderlands. Thunderbirds always know what passes through their skies. He, specifically, likes to welcome me with dramatic weather. But at least he has his own human mate who can rationalize with him.
Not that Elias is mine. But I digress.
This year, I’ll need to notify each of them that I’m traveling with a human.
I can already hear Calder’s response: “Humans bring trouble. You know this.”
I huff a laugh despite myself before the humor fades.
Because it hits me—hard—that I’m bringing Elias directly into the heart of our world. Into a gathering of legends, some friendly, some volatile.
I trust Elias. I trust him more than I should after such a short time. But trust doesn’t negate risk.
And my reputation isn’t exactly… human-loving.
I’m not prejudiced.
I’m not.
I just prefer humans in small doses at safe observational distances. Through binoculars. Or ideally at least a mile away.
Except… him.
I look at the map again, but instead of terrain markers, I see a pair of warm brown eyes, a crooked smile, curls that never behave, and a body that fit against mine far too perfectly for my peace of mind.
I groan. “This is a problem.”
A very soft, very human problem with an addictive laugh and a way of looking at me that makes my knees—my actual ancient, well-weathered knees—go weak.
I flip the map over and tap the coordinates.
If we drive, the route gets easier. We could make it in two days with stops. That leaves time for detours to check nodes. Time to see people I’ve been promising to visit. Time for… us.
But driving means shifting. And shifting means clothes.
And clothes mean human Boone, who is awkward, overly tall and hairy in a way humans take a second glance at, and expected to understand things like “pants” and “seat belts.”
I groan again.
I’m not opposed to shifting. I did it when I saved him. But shifting on purpose? Being in public, and for long stretches? It’s honestly a little humiliating.
Still, for him, I’d do it.
That realization lands in my chest like a stone. I’d do anything for him.
I stare at the map for a long moment, then finally admit the truth. “Yes,” I mutter. “I am in trouble.”
A new vibration shakes the back of the cave.
My console is blinking. The Network wants attention.
Good. Better to rip this bandage off now.
I shuffle to the server station, crack my knuckles, and open the admin chat. Time to tell the world’s crankiest cryptids that Boone of the Olympic Range is bringing a human to the Solstice.
The chaos will be biblical.
Right on cue, I hear soft footsteps running toward the cave entrance.
Elias is on his way. His scent hits me first—cedar smoke, river stone, and whatever warmth happens in my chest when he smiles.
I straighten instinctively. My heart gives an undignified lurch, and I turn toward the entrance. Because whether I’m ready or not, it’s time to plan this journey with him. I need to finish up this exchange so I can focus on him.
Before I can concentrate on the console, though, a familiar rustle pulls my attention toward the cave mouth. The squirrel sits just outside, perched on a root like he’s waiting to be addressed. He watches me with that same unblinking intensity, tail curled neatly around his feet.
A second later, he lets himself inside, pausing a couple of feet away once he’s scrambled onto a log I use as a stool.
I hesitate, irritation warring with something dangerously close to concern.
“I’ll be gone a while,” I mutter. “You stay out of trouble.”
He chitters softly, head tilting, and for no good reason at all, my chest tightens. He’s survived winters, floods, predators, and my terrible temper just fine—but the thought of leaving him unsettles me more than it should.
“Gremlin,” I add, quieter, like the name slipped out on its own.
Elias makes a small sound, appearing at the cave mouth. I turn just in time to see him grinning, clearly having caught that.
“Did you just give the squirrel a name?” he asks, delighted.
“No,” I say immediately.
“You absolutely did.”
“It’s not a name,” I argue. “It’s a description.”
Elias laughs, warm and fond, the sound hitting me right behind the ribs. “Uh-huh. Sure. You tell Gremlin I’ll organize the rangers to keep an eye on him while we’re gone.”
The squirrel chitters again, smug as hell, and I scowl at both of them. I grumble, “He doesn’t need babysitting.”
Elias’s smile softens. “You’re really bad at pretending you don’t care, you know that?”
A message alert saves me from responding.
“Oh, I’ll head back outside and give you some privacy while you do your work. I’ll see if Gremlin wants to join me.”
I nod, grateful that he’s stepping away. I don’t really want to talk about him in the group while he’s a couple of feet away.
As soon as he’s gone—Gremlin immediately following—I sigh and stare at my console.
BigFootBoone [admin]: I will be bringing a human companion to the Solstice this year.
I hold my breath. Maybe the Network will behave with restraint.
They do not.
The console immediately erupts with pings, vibrating across my makeshift desk like an angry metal cricket.
Howl4U [admin]: A HUMAN? Explain immediately.
BrayWatch: Why?
Howl4U [admin]: Is this a joke? Please confirm.
BrayWatch: Do you trust him?
Calder skipped right past the surprise and went straight to the practical concerns. I should have expected that.
Then, as expected:
MothAkai: OMG OMG OMG! BOOOOONE HAS A FRIEEEEEND!
MothAkai removed by admin.
MothAkai rejoined.
MothAkai: Is he cute? It is a male human, right? TELL ME EVERYTHING! Is this a date?
I pinch the bridge of my nose and begin typing:
BigFootBoone [admin]: He’s a scientist and has been helpful. He also understands discretion. He won’t compromise our safety or secrecy.
Before I can continue, Ozark replies:
Howl4U [admin]: Your history with humans is… complicated. Are you certain this will not impact Solstice operations?
Tch.