Chapter 6 - Dylan
The cottage floor plan is burned into my memory before sunrise.
Two bedrooms, one bathroom, four exterior windows, two doors—front and back.
Limited sightlines from the kitchen. Vulnerable points at the rear window and side door.
Defense positions: living room corner for maximum visibility, bathroom for emergency shelter, master bedroom closet for weapons cache.
I've been up since four, establishing protocols without disturbing Sera. Old habits. In Cheslem, I imagine, early risers weren't checking security perimeters.
I'm installing a secondary lock on the back door when I hear her bedroom door open. The soft pad of bare feet on hardwood. A quiet yawn.
"What are you doing?" Her voice is still rough with sleep, an intimate sound that catches me off guard.
I finish tightening the last screw before turning. "Security upgrade."
Sera stands in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over a faded t-shirt that hangs loose on her frame. Her hair is mussed from sleep, cascading over one shoulder in honey-blonde waves. Without makeup, her face looks younger, more vulnerable. The sight makes something twist uncomfortably in my gut.
"At six in the morning?" She moves to the coffee maker, pointedly ignoring my tool kit spread across the floor.
"Best time to assess entry points. When it's quiet."
Sera makes a noncommittal sound, measuring coffee grounds with careful precision. "Any other house rules I should know about, or are you saving those for breakfast?"
The sarcasm isn't lost on me. "Actually, yes." I put down the screwdriver, watching her shoulders tense. "Check in if you're going to be late. No bringing strangers back here. Keep curtains closed after dark. Always lock up, even if you're just stepping outside briefly."
"Anything else?" Her tone is carefully neutral as she presses the brew button. "No talking to strangers? No accepting candy from men in vans?"
"This isn't a joke." I move to the kitchen, maintaining enough distance to avoid crowding her. "These people shot a shifter with silver bullets three days ago. This isn't a vacation."
She turns, coffee forgotten, eyes suddenly sharp. "You think I don't know that? You think I don't understand danger?"
"I think you underestimate humans."
"And I think you overestimate your control over this situation." She gestures at the tools scattered around the cottage. "These locks won't save us if our cover is blown. Blending in will."
I clench my jaw, hating that she has a point. "Fine. What's your brilliant strategy for day one?"
"Reconnaissance. But subtle." Sera pours coffee into two mugs without asking if I want one. "New couple explores town, meets neighbors, establishes presence. We observe without looking like we're observing."
I accept the coffee she extends, surprised by the gesture. "Agreed. But we establish boundaries first."
"Such as?"
"Personal space. Living arrangements. Cover maintenance." I take a sip, finding the coffee stronger than expected. Not unpleasant. "We're supposed to be newly married. That means some... physical contact in public. For appearances."
A flush creeps up her neck, and she looks away. "Nothing excessive."
"I know." It comes out stiffer than intended. "While we're here, the bathroom schedule—"
"I need fifteen minutes in the morning. That's it."
"Same. Kitchen cleanup—"
"Whoever cooks doesn't clean. Fair?"
I nod, surprised by her efficiency. "Security checks are my responsibility. Morning and night."
"Fine. But no excessive weaponry lying around. If hunters visit unexpectedly, we can't have silver bullets on the coffee table."
The image is absurd enough to almost make me smile. Almost. "Weapons stay concealed but accessible."
She hesitates, then extends her hand. "Deal. But I’m not using them."
I stare at it momentarily before taking it. Her fingers are warm from the coffee mug, smaller than mine but surprisingly strong. The contact lasts exactly two seconds before we both pull away, the agreement sealed.
"I'll get dressed," she says, retreating toward her room. "Be ready in twenty."
Exactly nineteen minutes later, we leave the cottage, emerging into spring sunshine that belies the tension humming between us. The neighborhood is quiet, just a few humans visible—an elderly man gardening, a woman walking a small dog, a child riding a bicycle in lazy circles.
Sera slips her hand into mine as we reach the sidewalk; the gesture is so natural that it takes me a moment to register it as a performance. Her fingers lace with mine, warm and unexpectedly right.
"Smile," she murmurs. "You look like you're marching to an execution."
I force my features into something less severe, conscious of the neighbors watching with casual interest. Sera's answering smile is brilliant, transformative. If I didn't know better, I'd believe she was actually happy to be holding my hand.
"That's better," she says, her voice carrying just enough for potential eavesdroppers. "Should we check out Main Street first, babe?"
The endearment slides off her tongue with practiced ease. Two can play this game.
"Whatever you want, sweetheart." I adjust my grip on her hand, thumb brushing her knuckles in a gesture that makes her eyes widen slightly. "Lead the way."
Pinecrest reveals itself slowly as we walk.
A typical mountain town with a main street of small businesses, a diner, a community center, and plenty of outdoor equipment shops.
Tourists come for hiking in summer, skiing in winter.
Locals survive on their dollars year-round.
Nothing immediately suspicious. It remarkably resembles Silvercreek in some ways. In others, it’s unrecognizable to me.
Soon, we reach Blackridge Outfitters. I couldn’t miss it if I tried.
The store sits at the far end of Main Street, larger than the other businesses, with a prominent display of hunting equipment in the window. What catches my attention isn't the expected rifles or camping gear, but the small section devoted to "Predator Control”.
Silver-tipped ammunition. Specialized traps. Something labeled "Predator Deterrent Spray" sets off alarm bells in my head.
"Let's check it out," I murmur against Sera's ear, using the intimacy as cover for reconnaissance.
She nods, leaning into me with practiced ease. To anyone watching, we're just an affectionate couple window shopping. Not two wolves investigating potential threats to our kind.
Inside, the store smells of gun oil, leather, and human sweat.
A bell jingles as we enter, drawing the attention of a bearded man behind the counter.
His eyes narrow slightly as he takes us in—strangers, city clothes, holding hands.
The suspicion is subtle but unmistakable.
There’s a sharp silver streak in his hair.
"Morning," he offers gruffly. "Help you find something?"
Sera steps forward with a smile that transforms her entire demeanor. Suddenly, she's bubbly, slightly nervous, completely human. The performance is flawless.
"We just moved in! Down on Pine Ridge Circle?" Her voice rises at the end, a questioning lilt that invites conversation. "My husband's always wanted to try hunting, so we thought we'd look around."
The word 'husband' jolts through me, foreign and intimate, despite its role in our cover. I manage what I hope is an enthusiastic nod, playing the city boy eager to embrace rural hobbies.
"Never too late to learn," the man says, his posture relaxing slightly. "Rick Dawson. Own this place going on thirty years."
"Dylan Winters," I offer, using our cover name. "This is my wife, Sera."
"Newlyweds?" Rick asks, glancing at Sera's hand where a simple band gleams. Another prop from Silvercreek's thorough preparation.
Sera blushes convincingly. "Three weeks. Still getting used to saying 'husband'."
Rick's face softens marginally. "Well, welcome to Pinecrest. What brings you folks here? Not many young couples settling down these days."
"Work," I answer smoothly. "Remote tech job. Wanted somewhere quiet after city life—somewhere calm and safe to start a family."
"Can't blame you for wanting to get away." Rick gestures around his shop. "Feel free to look around. Hunting season's coming up. Good time to learn."
I nod gratefully, guiding Sera toward the displays while maintaining casual conversation. "Any recommendations for beginners?"
Rick launches into detailed advice about rifles and gear, providing perfect cover as I catalogue every item in the store.
Most are standard hunting equipment, but the "predator control" section contains items specifically designed for wolves.
Silver-infused products. Specialized traps.
A manual titled "Wilderness Safety: Protecting Your Community from Predators".
I pick it up casually, flipping through pages that make my blood run cold. While it never explicitly mentions shifters, the subtext is clear in phrases like "abnormal predator behavior" and "unnatural intelligence." Careful language to avoid sounding unhinged while spreading anti-shifter sentiment.
"That's popular lately," Rick comments, watching me examine the book. "Local wildlife's been acting strange. Folks getting nervous."
"Strange how?" Sera asks, the perfect picture of a concerned newcomer.
Rick's expression darkens. "Attacks. Sightings close to town. Animals that don't act right—too bold, too smart. Something ain't natural about it."
I feel Sera's fingers tighten on my arm, a warning pressure. My wolf bristles at the implied threat, but I keep my expression neutral, interested but not too interested.
"Sounds scary," I comment. "Is it safe to hike around here?"
"Stick to marked trails. Travel in groups." Rick lowers his voice slightly. "And between us, might want to pick up something more substantial than bear spray. Silver works best."
The casual recommendation of silver—a poison specific to werewolves—confirms my suspicions.
This isn't random paranoia. These humans know what they're hunting.