Smoke Signal (Dragons of Wings End #2)

Chapter 1

Liz

The fire had burned down to a lazy orange glow, and I’d been telling myself for the last twenty minutes that I should put it out and crawl into my tent. My brain kept whispering that I should be asleep by now instead of staring at flames as if they held the answers to my entire messed-up life.

Two more days. That was the plan. Two more days out here, breathing pine-scented air and pretending that isolation was the same thing as self-care, and then I’d return to civilization.

Find a motel. Figure out what came next.

Maybe apply for jobs I was overqualified for or call my mother and admit that yes, the wedding was off, and no, I didn’t want to talk about it.

The crackling of the fire was the only sound for miles. That, and my own breathing, which had finally slowed to something resembling calm after five days of hypervigilance.

My first campsite had been a mistake. It was too close to the RV park. The first night, I’d heard voices, and I’d packed up so fast I wasn’t completely sure I hadn’t left trash behind.

Could it have been lovers out for a late-night stroll? Sure. But it was better to be safe than sorry.

This spot was better. An hour’s hike down a trail that barely deserved the name. It was secluded and a place where a woman could actually relax.

Well, maybe not any woman. I used to love camping and hiking, so it seemed like a good plan to do something I enjoyed.

My eyes were getting heavy. The heat from the fire was nice at first, but now my face felt flushed. Why was it that every warm, comfortable moment had the potential to turn into a hot flash? I fanned myself with my hand and tried to remember the last time I’d felt this tired.

Something snapped.

I went still. Every muscle in my body locked into place, my hand still half-raised in front of my face. The sound had come from behind me, where the trees grew thicker and the moonlight barely penetrated the canopy.

Probably a deer. Or a raccoon. Or any of the dozens of perfectly harmless creatures that lived in forests and made perfectly normal forest sounds.

Another snap. Closer this time.

A low voice, too far away to make out words but definitely a voice. Definitely human. Definitely male.

My body caught up with my brain’s alarm bells.

I turned and saw him.

Naked.

Completely, entirely naked.

My eyes went wide, and the scream that came out of me was not dignified. It was not a scream that suggested a forty-three-year-old woman who had once managed a construction company and calmly told her ex-fiancé that he could take his gambling problem and his empty promises and get out of her life.

It was high and shrill and entirely primal, the sound humans made when their lizard brains decided that the situation had gone beyond manageable and straight into existential threat.

I was on my feet before I’d consciously decided to move. I ran through scenarios in my head: he was some random hiker who’d gotten lost, a serial killer who’d picked my isolated fire as the perfect hunting ground, or a frat bro who’d gotten drunk and wandered away from his friends.

The man certainly wasn’t college-aged from what I could tell—which wasn’t much without my glasses. Beyond a certain distance, everything went soft, and right now, “tall, naked, and terrifying” was the best description I could manage.

He held up his hands, one fist clenched around something.

His wadded-up thong? A half-eaten psychedelic mushroom?

He took a step toward me.

I did not wait to see what he wanted or what he had in his hand.

I pulled my bear spray out of my pocket and fumbled with the safety. In all my years of camping and hiking, I’d never had to use it. There was a first time for everything.

I squeezed the trigger in his general direction, and while it wasn’t close enough to hit him directly, it was enough to create a cloud between us and buy myself a few precious seconds.

Then I ran.

Not toward the trail back to the RV park. I ran into the forest, into the darkness, into the trees, because my brain had apparently decided that the best survival strategy was to become utterly and completely lost in terrain I’d only explored during daylight.

Branches whipped at my face. My foot caught on a root, and I stumbled, caught myself, and kept moving. My lungs were burning, and my heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my teeth.

I couldn’t hear any footsteps behind me or a voice calling out. The only sounds were my own ragged breathing and the rustle of undergrowth as I crashed through it like a B-movie heroine making every wrong decision possible.

I didn’t know where I was going. I’d left all my stuff, including my cell phone and keys, behind. I was going to die out here because some guy had decided to go streaking.

I kept running until I couldn’t anymore, and my legs gave out. I collapsed against a tree, gasping for air, my hand still clutching the bear spray.

There was only silence, and me, crouched at the base of a pine tree, sweating through my shirt and trying to convince myself that I wasn’t about to die.

I waited.

And waited.

No footsteps. No voice. No rustling that suggested a man was tracking me through the trees like a rabid predator.

Maybe he’d gotten the hint. Maybe he’d decided that attacking a woman who was already deep in the forest, far from help, was too cliché. Maybe he’d been just as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

A naked man in the middle of the woods. At night. An hour’s hike from civilization.

What were the odds? What were the actual mathematical odds that I’d pick the one campsite in a forest where some random guy started a solo nudist colony?

This was fine. This was completely fine. I’d dealt with worse. I’d dealt with Scott. This was nothing compared to that.

Scott was a lying, gambling drain of a human being who had cost me everything I owned. Compared to that, a naked man in the woods was practically a minor inconvenience.

I stayed where I was for what felt like hours but was probably only twenty minutes. My heart rate finally normalized. The shaking stopped, replaced by the bone-deep exhaustion that came from running on five days of poor sleep and stress.

I’d go back to my campsite, put out the fire, and go to my car. I would leave the forest and never speak of this to anyone. I would add this entire experience to the growing list of things that were my fault because I didn’t think things through.

The walk back was slower than running away had been. I kept stopping, listening, and scanning the darkness for any sign of movement. But the forest remained empty, the only sounds my own footsteps and breathing.

When I saw my campsite again, the fire had burned down to embers, and there was no sign of any male genitalia. There was just my tent and the fading light of a fire that had seen me through a few nights of peace before the universe messed with me again.

Thankfully, my cellphone was right where I’d left it inside my tent, and I didn’t waste any time. I smothered out the rest of the fire and started shoving things into my pack with the frantic efficiency that came from a lot of pent-up rage.

How dare any man rob me of my peace.

I ripped my sleeping bag off the inflatable pad and fought with the small valve until it gave way with a satisfying hiss.

The air escaped in a rush, and the pad collapsed like the last shred of my patience.

Next was the inflatable pillow, which had served me well but would now be buried in the depths of my car along with the entire adventure bundle I’d bought.

My eyes stung from how much of a waste it had been. I hadn’t been thinking after having to sell my entire collection of special edition books. I’d taken some of the money and bought the backpack that literally fit everything inside.

After rolling everything together, I stood in that half-crouched way that was necessary in a tent, and my eyes caught the glint of something in the corner.

I grabbed my cell phone from where I’d set it to use as a light and pointed it at the object.

A knife. A very fancy gold Swiss Army knife that sparkled with what looked like diamonds.

My hand reached for it.

Don’t touch it.

The thought came instinctively, and I snatched my hand away. I’d seen the news stories. The ones about booby-trapped items left in places. Drugs that could knock you out, objects that could frame you, all kinds of modern terrors.

But it also didn’t look like a dollar-store special someone would use as bait. I could pawn it or try to sell it.

The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. The man had been in my tent. That was the only way a knife would have gotten inside because I certainly didn’t own one that cost over twenty bucks.

Nothing appeared to be missing, so what was his game? Had he dropped it? Why else would you leave someone a knife?

Unless it was a ploy of some kind.

I dug in my pack for an empty plastic baggie and used it to pick up the knife before shoving it into the outside pocket of my pack.

How had he even been carrying it? His hand? Tucked somewhere anatomically improbable?

Maybe he’d lost it when he’d... whatever he’d been doing in my tent. Was he running from something? Running toward something? Being chased by his own bad decisions, like me?

I quickly tore down my tent and started the walk to my car. Behind me, the campsite faded into darkness, and I didn’t look back.

I’d wanted a few more days of decompression before I put on my big girl panties and dealt with my life.

I needed to revise that timeline.