Chapter Fourteen
The Retreat
Jameson Bishop
I stand alone with his body after notifying Rourke’s family, the echo of their grief still vibrating in my bones.
Delivering the news of death never gets easier. It’s my duty to carry out. But this one hits differently. Another memory rose behind my eyes like a ghost I can never outrun.
Genevieve. Gemma’s mother.
I inhale sharply, the cold mountain air burning my lungs. The leaves are changing color, and colder weather is starting to roll in.
I can still see her soft smile, and eyes that saw straight through me.
I loved her. God, I loved her more than I ever admitted, even to myself. But she was married. And she wouldn’t leave her husband.
I thought it was loyalty. I thought it was fear of scandal.
I didn’t know the truth.
She was terrified of him.
I didn’t know.
Not until she came to me shaking, bruised, whispering that she needed help. That she couldn’t stay. That she didn’t care about the consequences anymore. That she just wanted her…our daughter safe.
I had a plan. I was going to get her out. I was going to save her.
I failed.
I had already watched my own child grow up not knowing me. Not knowing the truth. Not knowing that I had loved her mother enough to burn for it. Not knowing that I’ve carried the guilt every single day since.
Now Rachel is in danger.
And I allowed it.
I close my eyes, press my palms against them to relieve the pressure.
I can’t lose her. Not again. Not another woman I care about. Not another life slipping through my fingers because I wasn’t fast enough, strong enough, or ruthless enough.
Footsteps crunch through the gravel.
Ranger Handlin.
“Bishop,” he calls, voice tight. “We’ve got a problem.”
I straighten, wiping the grief from my face. There will be a time and a place for that.
“What now?”
David looks pale. “The rangers… they’re leaving.”
“What do you mean leaving?”
“They’re done. They’re freaked out. They’re calling it a Dwayyo.”
I stare at him. “A what?”
“Appalachian legend,” David says, glancing over his shoulder like the trees might be listening. “Wolf-like. Upright. Massive. They think that’s what’s out here.”
I exhale slowly. “It’s not a legend.”
“No,” David agrees. “But they think it is. And they’re not staying another night.”
I look toward the dark tree line, the shadows shifting like something alive. I think of the paw print we cast…too large, too deep.
I think of Rourke’s shredded body, Rachel’s scream, the way she shook in my arms. I think of the claw embedded in the corpse, thick as a finger and curved like a scythe.
And something cold settles in my chest.
“Let them leave,” I say quietly. “We’re not dealing with folklore.”
David swallows. “Then what are we dealing with?”
I look back at the forest.
“Something that kills like an animal,” I say. “But thinks like a man.”
By the time I walk back toward the compound, the place looks like a damn evacuation zone. Trucks rumble. Gear slams into tailgates. Rangers move fast, heads down, eyes wide like prey animals that finally realized the woods aren’t theirs anymore.
They’re leaving. All of them.
I stop at the edge of the lot, watching them pack like the ground is on fire. Fear spreads faster than truth, faster than logic, or than anything I can offer them.
David jogs up beside me, breath visible in the cold air.
“What are they calling it again?” I ask.
He hesitates. “A Dwayyo.”
Before I can respond, I hear footsteps behind me; quick and purposeful.
Rachel and Beth.
Rachel’s face is tight, focused. She doesn’t look afraid of me or unsettled by seeing me after the way I treated her body.
Beth looks like she hasn’t blinked in ten minutes.
They stop in front of me, and Rachel doesn’t waste time.
“We got the results,” she says. “It’s not an animal.”
Beth lifts the evidence bag with the claw. “Polar bear DNA. From a bear that’s been dead for years.”
Rachel adds, “And the fibers on Rourke’s jacket? Three different wolf species. All from preserved pelts.”
Beth gestures to the cast in her hands. “The print structure is wrong. Irregular spacing, inconsistent weight distribution, claws that don’t align with natural bone.”
Rachel meets my eyes. “It’s a killer. Dressed up as a wolf creature.
I feel the cold settle deeper in my chest. Not surprise. It’s a confirmation. The thing in the woods isn’t a myth. It’s a man. A man wearing death like a costume.
“The coroners reports showed no evidence of the victims being eaten. No saliva present, and all of the wounds we post mortem. The cause of death was blunt force trauma.”
David clears his throat. “The Dwayyo legend… it’s old. People used to claim it was a shapeshifter. A hunter. Something that stalked the mountains.”
I look at him. “This isn’t a shapeshifter. The throat tearing, the evisceration was all done post mortem.”
“No,” he says. “But someone might be using the legend. Someone local. Someone who knows these woods.”
Rachel nods. “We need to talk to someone who lives up here. Someone who might know who’s behind this.”
David gestures toward the ridge. “There’s a guy. Lives off grid. Knows every inch of this mountain. If anyone’s heard something… it’s him.”
I’m about to agree when Shaw’s voice cuts through the air like a rusted blade.
“Or” he says loudly, “maybe Bishop’s just going a little senile..”
I turn slowly.
He’s leaning against a truck, arms crossed, smirk plastered across his face like he thinks it’s charming. Rachel stiffens beside me. Beth mutters something under her breath.
Shaw shrugs. “I mean, come on. A killer in a wolf suit? Sounds like Bishop’s slipping, Ive heard it happens with age.”
I step toward him. “Say that again.”
He smirks wider. “Just saying, maybe if you weren’t so busy with Rachel..”
I don’t let him finish.
I grab him by the front of his jacket and slam him back against the truck hard enough to rattle the frame. His eyes go wide, but he tries to mask it with bravado.
“Touchy,” he says, smirk still in place.
“You don’t get to talk about her,” I growl. “Remember, kneecaps are a privilege not a right.”
He shoves back, stupidly.
“Didn’t know I worked for you. That mean you’re gonna fuck me too?”
I throw a right hook and hit him square in the mouth.
Not hard enough to break anything. Just hard enough to shut him up.
He staggers; wipes blood from his lip and looks like he’s deciding whether to swing back.
He doesn’t. He’s smart enough for that, at least.
Rachel steps between us, her voice sharp. “Enough.”
I back off immediately, breathing heavily with the adrenaline of losing control. Shaw takes longer because he needs the extra second to pretend he’s not shaken.
Limp dick fuck. Jesus I spend too much talking to Murphy.
David sighs. “We don’t have time for this.”
He’s right.
I look at Rachel. She meets my gaze steadily, not an ounce of embarrassment or shame. I was worried about facing her this morning, after what I did last night. I didn’t want to see her and the realization on her face that I might not be what she had signed up for.
The thought of having her, the way she responded to me, the sex was amazing. If she decided she didn’t want me, I don’t know what I would do.
“We go talk to the local,” I say. “Now.”
Rachel nods. “Let’s go.”
Beth heads off to go grab her gear. David heads for the truck.
Shaw stays behind, nursing his pride.
And I follow Rachel toward the tree line; the weight of every failure I’ve ever carried pressing down on me. But with the determination to not repeat them pushing me forward.
The mountain road winds upward in tight, narrow switchbacks, the kind that punish hesitation and reward familiarity.
I keep one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, eyes scanning the tree line as the forest thickens around us.
The rangers’ trucks are long gone. Taillights have been swallowed by distance and fear.
Rachel sits in the passenger seat, steady as ever, but I can feel the tension radiating off her. Beth and David are in the back, quiet, each lost in their own thoughts.
We’re heading toward a man who lives off-grid, deep in the mountains. A local. Someone who might know who’s behind this killer.
Rachel breaks the silence first.
“You know,” she says, staring out the window, “the Dwayyo isn’t the only legend up here.”
David leans forward. “You grew up around here, right?”
She nods. “Yeah. My grandmother used to tell stories. Some were meant to scare kids into staying close to home. Some… weren’t.”
I glance at her. “What kind of stories.”
Never before has she ever mentioned her home, or family of any kind.
She exhales slowly. “About hunters who weren’t hunters. About men who wore skins to become something else. Not shapeshifters; just people who believed wearing the dead made them stronger. More feared.”
Beth shivers. “That’s… horrifying.”
Rachel nods. “There were stories about men who went too far. After a while, the skins wouldn’t come off, they became the animals they were pretending to be. The spirits were punishing them.”
I grip the wheel tighter. “And you think someone revived that.”
“I think someone believes in it,” she says. “Believes enough to try it on. Or is crazy enough. They are just stories passed down from cousin to cousin like marriages in remote areas here.”
I have no response to that. She isn’t proud of her home, as much as I can tell she loves these mountains. It makes me wonder why.
We drive another mile before the trees open into a clearing. A cabin sits at the center. Weathered wood, tin roof, smoke curling from the chimney. No electricity lines. No vehicles. Just the mountain swallowing everything around it.
I park, and we step out. The air is colder here, sharper.
A man emerges from the cabin before we reach the porch. Tall, wiry, beard like steel wool, eyes sharp enough to cut.
He looks at me first. Then Rachel. Then the rest of us.
“You’re not rangers,” he says.
“We are, they’re FBI.” David replies.
The man snorts. “Figures.”
I step forward. “We’re investigating a killing. Multiple killings.”
He studies me for a long moment. “And now you’re coming to ask me if I know about it.”
It’s not a question.
Rachel steps beside me. “We need information. About the Dwayyo. About anything people might be using to imitate it.”
The man’s gaze flicks to her. “You’re local.”
She nods. “Born and raised.”
He gestures for us to follow him inside.
The cabin smells like cedar and smoke. He sits, motions for us to do the same.
“You’re not dealing with a Dwayyo,” he says. “You’re dealing with a man who wants you to think you are.”
Beth leans forward. “We know. But why.”
“Fear,” the man says simply. “Fear keeps people away. Fear hides things.”
Rachel folds her arms. “What kind of man would do this.”
The local’s eyes darken. “Someone who knows the old ways. Someone who knows how to stitch pelts. How to preserve claws. How to move through the woods without leaving a real trail.”
David asks, “Do you know who.”
The man hesitates. “I have suspicions. But saying a name without proof gets people killed.”
I nod. “Then give us a direction.”
He looks at me. Really looks. “You’re already being hunted.”
Rachel stiffens beside me.
But Im not all that scared of a grown man with a furry fetish.
The man continues, “Whatever he built… whatever he’s wearing… it’s not just for show. It’s for killing. And he’s not done. Its mating season for the wolves. Let me ask you something. Have they found any of the females that went missing or only the men?”
Before I can respond, the cabin door slams open.
Shaw. Why in the fuck is he following us? He didn’t come to help.
He strides in like he owns the place, ignoring the local entirely. “You all done playing campfire stories?”
Rachel’s jaw tightens. David groans.
I stand slowly. “Shaw. Outside.”
He smirks. “Why? You gonna tell me another bedtime story about your monster?”
I step toward him. “Outside. Now.”
He laughs. “Or what? You’ll hit me again? Or you gonna give me a kiss?”
I don’t wait.
I grab him by the collar and shove him out the door, slamming him against the porch railing hard enough to rattle the boards.
He swings at me, sloppy, angry. I block it and pin him with my forearm.
“Whatever the fuck your problem is, it ends now.”
He spits blood. “You’re losing it.”
“No,” I say. “I’m done with you.”
He tries to shove me off. I don’t move.
Rachel steps out onto the porch. “Bishop.”
I release Shaw instantly. He stumbles, catches himself, glares at me with a mix of fury and humiliation.
Rachel’s voice is calm. Controlled. “We have bigger problems.”
She’s right.
“Bare your teeth at me again, and Ill pull them out one by one.” I warn him, turning back toward the cabin; he’s not worth my time.