Chapter 8 - Dylan
The Logger's Rest smells like every dive bar I've ever been in—stale beer, ancient grease, decades of spilled whiskey soaked into the floorboards. Country music drones from an ancient jukebox in the corner, competing with the clack of pool balls and rattle of gruff male laughter.
I nurse my second beer slowly, careful to maintain the pleasant air of a guy unwinding after work without approaching actual intoxication. When hunting predators, it pays to keep your wits intact.
Sera's expression when I told her my plan earlier this evening flashes through my mind—a mixture of disbelief, anger, and something that looked almost like fear.
"It's too risky," she had insisted, blocking the door as if her smaller frame could physically stop me. "We need to gather more information first—we don’t know how widespread they are—"
"Which is exactly why we need to know what they're planning." I grabbed my jacket, checking for the burner phone concealed in the pocket. "Bartenders hear everything. The Logger's Rest is their central gathering point."
"And if they recognize you? If they sense something off?" Her eyes held an intensity that almost made me reconsider. Almost.
"They'll see what I want them to see—a newcomer interested in local hunting.”
"There are other ways to gather intelligence," she argued. "Less dangerous ways."
I ignored her. Now, a part of me twinges with guilt at the thought. She doesn’t mean to be naive, doesn’t mean to be so affected by a life not spent reckoning with the violence and danger of humans. It’s not her fault she doesn’t know any better.
But it’s too late to feel bad about my attitude now. I'm committed to this approach. Dylan Winters, a sturdy, intelligent human with concerns for his family and a well-paying job, doesn’t fight with his wife—Dylan Winters has no guilt, no shame, no demons. He’s who I have to be right now.
Four men at the bar have Guardian pins visible. Two more, at a corner table, wear the black shield emblem on their caps or jackets. I've been careful to express just enough interest to seem genuine without appearing suspicious.
"So you never hunted before moving here?" asks Mike, a heavyset man in his fifties who introduced himself an hour ago and hasn't stopped talking since. "City boy through and through?"
I give an embarrassed shrug, playing my role. "Never had the opportunity. Always seemed like a useful skill though."
"Damn straight it is." Mike signals the bartender for another round. "Especially these days, with the woods getting dangerous."
"Dangerous?" I prompt, though I already know where this is going.
This is it. What I’ve been waiting for.
Mike leans closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. "Strange things happening in these mountains. Animals acting unnatural. Predators getting bold."
"What kind of predators?" I ask, careful to maintain casual curiosity. “Like, bears?”
"Wolves, officially." He emphasizes the word in a way that suggests he means something else entirely. "But between us, some of these attacks don't match normal wolf behavior.”
Another man joins our conversation—younger, with a military-style haircut and cold eyes. The Guardian pin on his jacket gleams under the bar lights. "You interested in joining the protection efforts? We're always looking for new blood."
"Maybe," I say, noncommittal but interested. "What exactly does that involve?"
"Patrols. Tracking unusual activity. Watching out for… strange people passing through town. Keeping the community safe." His assessment of me is careful, evaluating. "We're having a special meeting tomorrow night. Planning session for our next major operation. You should come."
"I'd like that," I respond, letting a hint of eagerness show through. "Where and when?"
As he gives me details, another hunter at the bar launches into a story about a recent "wolf" they tracked through Miller's Creek. My enhanced hearing catches every gruesome detail—the pursuit, the silver-loaded weapons, the creature's desperate attempt to escape.
"—ran like nothing I've ever seen. Too smart for a normal wolf. But the silver slowed it down. Got a piece of its shoulder before it disappeared into the ravine."
Silver. Shoulder wound. The timing matches the attack on the passing shifter that triggered our mission.
These aren't just paranoid humans; they're experienced killers who know exactly what they're hunting.
"—blood trail for nearly a mile before losing it," the hunter continues proudly. "Dave thinks it might have survived, but with that much silver in its system? Doubt it made it far."
The casual cruelty hits me like a physical blow, triggering memories I've spent years trying to suppress.
Blood on snow. My mother's scream. My father pushing eighteen-year-old me behind him as humans with rifles emerge from the trees surrounding our remote cabin.
"Take your brother and run," he ordered, eyes already shifting to wolf gold. "Don't look back."
I obeyed, grabbing Ethan and fleeing into the forest. The gunshots followed seconds later. Two quick reports, then silence. Hours later, Alpha Blackwood—Nic’s father—found us and brought us back to Silvercreek. But it was too late for our parents.
"You okay, man?" Mike's voice pulls me back to the present. "Looked like you went somewhere else for a minute."
I force a smile, gripping my beer bottle to hide the slight tremor in my hand. "Just tired. Long day."
The conversation shifts to the upcoming hunting season, but I'm only half-listening now, cataloguing faces, names, details for my report. When I finally leave two hours later, I have confirmation of their next meeting location and a clearer picture of the threat we're facing.
The cottage is dark except for a single lamp in the living room when I return. I expected Sera to be asleep, but instead find her curled in the armchair, a book open but unread in her lap. She looks up when I enter, something odd flashing across her features before being carefully masked.
"You're back." Her tone is neutral, giving nothing away.
"Mission accomplished." I shrug off my jacket, wincing slightly as the movement aggravates raw knuckles—a souvenir from "accidentally" scraping my hand on rough concrete to sell my harmless image after noticing too-intent scrutiny from one of the Guardians.
Her eyes narrow, immediately spotting the injury. "What happened?"
"Nothing. Minor scrape." I move toward my room, not in the mood for another argument about necessary risks.
"Let me see." She's already standing, healer's instincts overriding personal feelings.
"It's fine, Sera."
"Silver?" The question comes sharp with genuine concern.
"No. Just concrete." I relent, extending my hand more to ease her worry than from any need for treatment. "Completely ordinary injury."
She examines it critically, professional detachment at odds with the lingering tension between us. "Kitchen. Better light."
I follow without argument, too tired to resist. At the sink, she cleans the wound with clinical efficiency, fingers cool against my skin.
"Didn't punch someone, did you?" she asks, not looking up.
"Tempting, but no. Had to look harmless after drawing too much attention. Clumsy tech guy who scraped his hand up is less threatening than someone who knows how to throw a punch."
A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "Makes sense.”
"Don't sound so surprised."
Our eyes meet briefly before she returns her attention to my hand.
The kitchen feels suddenly smaller, the space between us charged with something I refuse to name.
She's close enough that I can detect the subtle changes in her scent—the honeysuckle stronger when she's focused, the antiseptic undertone from her day at the clinic.
"They're planning something tomorrow night," I say, breaking the silence. "A special meeting. Planning session for some sort of major operation."
Her fingers pause momentarily. "Did you get details?"
"Location. Time." I watch her apply antibiotic ointment with precise movements. "They’re definitely out for Shifters specifically. Which they know is illegal, judging by how secretive they’re being, but none of them seem to care. I think one or two are even cops.”
She nods, unsurprised. "The clinic conversations confirm it. No one says the word outright, but the subtext is clear."
"These aren't ignorant humans being manipulated," I continue, needing her to understand. "The ones in charge know exactly what they're hunting. And they're proud of it."
Her eyes lift to mine, searching. Whatever she sees there makes her expression soften slightly.
"We'll report to Nic in the morning," she says, securing a light bandage around my knuckles. "Figure out next steps together."
Her emphasis on together isn't lost on me. Her fingers linger a moment longer than necessary on my wrist, her pulse visible at her throat. The proximity is suddenly too much—too intimate, too confusing.
"Thanks," I say, withdrawing my hand and the moment with it. "You should get some sleep."
She steps back, the professional mask sliding back into place. "So should you. Especially if we're infiltrating a Guardian meeting tomorrow."
"We?" I raise an eyebrow.
"You're not going alone." Her tone leaves no room for argument.
Before I can respond, she turns away, rinsing her hands at the sink. The line of her shoulders suggests she expects a fight, but I find myself reluctantly agreeing.
"Fine. Together." The word sits strange on my tongue, unfamiliar after months of solitary grief. "Get some rest. Tomorrow will be complicated."
She nods without turning, and I retreat to my room, the sensation of her gentle touches lingering on my skin long after the door closes between us.