3. Chapter 3 #2
Freda followed us. “Bennion will stay outside and secure the perimeter.”
“No.” Zaria didn’t turn around. "Only the girl and the troll.”
Freda bristled. “I know who your great-great-babushka was, and I respect her line. But the Alpha Mate doesn’t go anywhere without me.”
Zaria paused at the porch steps, her snowy hair catching the morning light. “You know the Slovic word for witch. I am impressed, protector of Riley. I understand and respect your position. But the house may attack if a wolf shifter enters, which would put her in more danger.”
Bennion rolled his eyes. “You believe her?”
Freda stared at Zaria. “I do.”
The witch stared back. “I suspect your Alpha Mate can defend herself.”
Gunnar nodded at me. “I’ll watch her.”
Freda reluctantly stepped back. “I’ll be right outside the door. Shout if you need me.”
As we approached the porch, Gunnar’s gaze dropped to the cat, who eyed us with unsettling focus. “Is that a bobcat? Pretty sure those aren’t legal as pets.”
Zaria fitted the key into the elaborate lock. “Edwina is a Pixie-bob. She goes by Ed.”
“I’ve never seen a cat like this.” I knelt down and held out my hand. Ed sniffed me and let out a rude sneeze. “She probably smells the hellhounds on me.” It was a good thing we’d left them back at the bungalow.
“The breed resembles a bobcat but is domesticated and perfectly legal.” Zaria reached down and stroked the cat’s spotted fur and short, fluffy ears. “She is good at sensing intent.”
Ed made a strange chirping sound, and Zaria grinned at Gunnar. “She can smell your cats on you. She approves.”
Gunnar’s lumpy ears turned red as I looked at him. “What? Cats make good company for trolls. They’re grumpier than we are.”
I held up my hands. “I’m not judging.”
The lock clicked, and Zaria pushed the heavy wooden door open. A rush of cold air swirled around us as we stepped inside. Sunlight filtered through symbol-etched windows.
Zaria smirked. “That is a very strange American saying. If someone tells you they are not judging, they are obviously judging.”
The interior was not what I expected. There were so many books.
Hundreds, maybe thousands. Bookshelves lined the entire far wall of the main room, rising two stories to the ceiling.
Each shelf was meticulously organized, with handwritten labels marking sections.
Some volumes looked ancient, their leather spines cracked and faded.
Others were newer, containing technical manuals and field guides alongside texts whose spines bore symbols rather than titles.
Then there was the tree growing through the center of the cabin, its thick trunk rising from the floor and extending through an opening in the ceiling to the second level. The black bark was gnarled, with shallow grooves etched into patterns that resembled the symbols on the windows.
The tree canopy stood above the roof, but some of its branches veined across the ceiling, while others disappeared into the walls. It looked as if the house had grown from the tree rather than been built around it.
Zaria followed my gaze. “It is magnificent, no?”
I moved closer, drawn by the energy pulsing from the base of the trunk. It felt alive beyond just a tree, conscious and watchful. My fingers tingled with the urge to touch it.
“Where does it draw its power?” Gunnar asked, keeping his distance.
“The tree and its ancestors stand at the center of old territories. Viggo believes it is a boundary marker.” Zaria watched me as I approached the tree. “Some trees remember what humans have long forgotten.”
I reached out, my fingers hovering inches from the bark. The coldness inside me stirred, as if wanting to analyze whatever power resided inside the tree. When my skin made contact, a jolt shot up my arm. I jerked my hand and stepped back.
“It recognizes you. Or rather, what’s in you.”
I fisted my hand. “The frost?”
“No. I think it is your heart, which is trying to battle the frost.” She moved toward the small kitchen area. “I’ll make tea while you search.”
Gunnar studied me. “What the hell was that, Blackthorne? Are you alright?”
“I’m not sure, but I’m fine. It just surprised me.” I flexed my fingers.
His bushy eyebrows rose, but he let it go. “I’ll take the bedroom and bathroom, and you start here. We’ll have to come back to search the bookshelves. The man loved to read.”
Two worn leather armchairs sat by the stone fireplace.
The only other furniture consisted of a small desk and a dining table.
I didn’t see a television or a computer as I searched the built-in cabinets beside the fireplace, then rifled through Viggo’s desk, feeling vaguely guilty.
There were pens, stamps, and the typical desk detritus.
Next, I checked the small table between the armchairs stacked with books. Unlike the meticulously organized shelves, these volumes were clearly in active use. Bookmarks protruded, and handwritten notes had been tucked between covers.
I carefully examined the stack. Most were about ecology and folklore, but one slim, handwritten journal caught my eye. The inside title read Analysis of NW States Facility Sites, but there was no signature.
Something niggled at my brain. When I opened the first page, I took in the writing, but didn’t process the words.
I hadn’t seen that cramped handwriting in years. Not since the last birthday card I received from my father. My vision blurred, then settled on the yellowed, aged note tucked into the pages. I pulled it out and saw the handwriting was the same.
RMNP site going active. Yours might be next. Including my journal for reference. Be well. E.B.
The journal trembled in my shaking hands before the implant pulsed to life, regulating my pounding heart. Gunnar appeared in the bedroom doorway.
“Nothing in there except clothes and some fishing gear. Who keeps fishing gear in their bedroom?”
I slid the journal into my coat pocket and gathered the entire stack of books from the end table, cradling them in my arms. “I’m taking these.
There might be more notes and clues. We’ll have to come back and search the shelves.
” I eyed the two-story library that would’ve made Belle from Beauty and the Beast ecstatic.
We went through the kitchen last. His garbage can was empty, but his pantry held a decent supply of dry staples. Zaria cleared out his fridge, then stood and pointed to the stack of books I planned to take with me.
“Those are private journals and research.”
“They could also be evidence in a missing persons case,” I countered.
“Take them, then, but be careful. Knowledge can have jagged teeth.”
Zaria went around, pulling the window shades closed as I stared at the tree growing through the cabin's center.
In the shifting light, the grooves in its bark seemed to rearrange, forming patterns that hovered at the edge of comprehension.
The coldness inside me responded, reaching out like frost tendrils toward the ancient wood.
“I’m starving. Let’s find lunch,” Gunnar grumbled, startling me out of my stupor.
Freda and Bennion turned when we walked out of Viggo’s cabin a few minutes later. Freda unclenched her fists when she saw me.
As we drove back to the bungalow, I patted my father’s journal in my pocket, reassuring myself it was still there. Something in those pages might shed light on both Dad’s and Viggo’s disappearances, even though they occurred years apart.
Zaria’s warnings played in my head, but for the first time, I had something concrete to follow. The coldness inside me seemed to recede slightly, making room for something I hadn’t felt in years.
Cautious hope.