Chapter 11 #2
The trail begins just past where the spring curves away from the main road, a narrow path that slips between two tall maples like it has been quietly waiting for us all morning.
A small wooden sign, weathered by years of Massachusetts weather, marks the entrance: “Thorne Trail - 2.5 miles to overlook.”
The moment we step beneath the canopy, the air changes.
The sounds of town fade until they are little more than distant echoes, a dog barking somewhere, the faint hum of traffic on the main road. The forest wraps around us, soft and watchful, the kind of quiet only the woods seem to have.
Leaves crunch under my boots with every step, a satisfying sound that makes me feel like a character in a fall-themed commercial.
The ground is thick with them, gold, rust, deep orange, and the occasional stubborn green leaf that clearly refuses to accept the season has changed.
Fall in Massachusetts is not subtle. It announces itself in blazing color and crisp air that smells like woodsmoke and dying leaves and something indefinably wild.
I adjust the folded blanket over my arm and follow Maceo up the trail as it begins a slow incline through stands of oak and maple. Sunlight filters down through the canopy in shifting patterns, warming my face when I pass through the bright patches.
“This was a mistake,” I announce after we’ve been walking for all of three minutes.
Maceo glances back over his shoulder, and I take a moment to admire his neatly braided cornrows. “You have barely started walking.”
“I have already reached my daily quota for physical activity.”
“You have walked for three minutes.” He rolls his eyes as he checks his watch.
“That is plenty for someone whose idea of exercise is walking to the mailbox.”
He chuckles and keeps moving, his pace easy and unhurried despite the way his long legs eat up the trail.
The path winds deeper into the woods, climbing steadily but not steeply enough to leave me gasping for air. Tall trees stretch upward in dark columns of bark, oak, maple, the occasional white birch. Everything smells green and earthy and alive, even with winter approaching.
Something rustles in the leaves beside the path, a quick scurrying sound that makes my heart jump.
I jump too, the blanket slipping form my arm and nearly taking me out with it.
A squirrel darts across the trail like it has somewhere extremely important to be, its tail a gray blur as it disappears up the trunk of a massive oak.
Maceo laughs quietly, the sound warm and rich in the forest quiet.
“You good?”
I straighten my posture immediately, trying to reclaim my poise.
“I am excellent.”
“Uh-huh.” The doubt in his voice is unmistakable.
We continue walking, the path crunching softly under our boots. My breathing evens out into something resembling normal, though I keep my eyes peeled for any other wildlife that might decide to make surprise appearances.
I try very hard to breathe like a person who is not currently questioning every decision that led to this moment, agreeing to the picnic, trusting a man who transforms into a Wolf, leaving my perfectly comfortable house for the great outdoors.
“You know I can hear that, right?” Maceo says casually.
I glance at him, noting the way he moves through the forest like he belongs here, like the trees recognize him as one of their own. “Hear what?”
“You trying not to breathe like you are dying.”
“Excuse the hell out of you, I am not dying.” I protest with a huff.
“You sound like you are negotiating with your lungs.”
I roll my eyes and keep walking, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other and trying not to think about how much farther we have to go.
After a few minutes, curiosity wins over my determination to maintain my silence.
“So,” I say, shifting the blanket to my other hand, “your pack.”
Maceo slows his pace slightly so we fall into step beside each other, the trail wide enough here to walk side by side between the trees.
“What about them?”
“You mentioned them before. Are they all here in town?” I try to picture Ruby Springs populated with a hidden network of shapeshifters, all of them watching and protecting and keeping secrets.
“Most of them,” he says. “Some live farther out in the woods, closer to the pack lands. We own about a thousand acres on the north side of town.”
“And you are what exactly?” I ask, dodging a low-hanging branch. “The Wolf equivalent of middle management?”
He laughs, the sound echoing slightly off the trees.
“I am the Alpha.”
My foot catches on a root and I stumble, the blanket slipping free.
Maceo reaches out without thinking, catching it and me in the same motion, his hand firm and warm on my arm as he steadies me.
“Careful,” he says.
“Of course you are,” I mutter, warmth creeping up my neck.
Of course, one of the first men to show genuine interest in me in years would turn out to be the leader of a pack of supernatural predators.
The trail curves around a cluster of ancient oaks, their dark bark almost black against the blaze of orange and gold leaves above us. Somewhere overhead a bird calls, a sharp cry that echoes through the branches.
“So, the Johnson Pack answers to you.” It’s not a question.
“That is correct.”
“Johnson Pack,” I repeat, testing the words.
“My family’s name,” he explains, stepping over a fallen branch and waiting for me to do the same. “He was alpha before me.”
“And before him?”
“My grandfather. The Alpha status has been in my family for four generations.”
“So, this is a family business. That and Full Moon Auto.”
“Something like that.” His voice carries a note of pride, the kind that comes from carrying on something important.
We walk a little farther, the forest growing quieter around us as we move deeper into the woods. The trees are taller here, older, their trunks thick enough that it would take three people holding hands to wrap around them.
“My brother lives on the other side of town,” Maceo says, breaking the comfortable silence. “My sisters too. The rest of the pack spreads out through the area, some in town, some on pack lands, a few in the neighboring counties.”
“They have all seen me, haven’t they?” I ask, suddenly aware that I’ve probably been the subject of pack discussions, analyzed and evaluated by supernatural creatures with enhanced senses.
Maceo grins, unrepentant.
“You are still the most interesting topic of conversation in Ruby Springs.”
I sigh heavily.
“I love that for me,” I deadpan, tired of being the name on everyone’s lips. “Nothing quite like being the local curiosity.”
A breeze stirs the branches overhead, sending a slow cascade of leaves drifting through the air like nature’s confetti.
They land on the path, on my shoulders, in my hair.
I brush one away from my face and try not to think about how many creatures might be watching us right now from the safety of the forest.
The trail widens ahead, the trees spacing out as we approach what looks like a clearing.
The trees thin until suddenly the forest opens into a broad meadow washed in warm afternoon sunlight.
Grass grows here between patches of fallen leaves, and wildflowers still bloom despite the season, purple asters and golden goldenrod nodding in the breeze.
The air feels warmer without the heavy canopy overhead, and the view stretches out toward distant hills painted in autumn colors.
Maceo stops walking, and I set the blanket down on a relatively flat patch of grass.
Then I look at him, curiosity finally getting the better of me.
“You said your Wolf is black.”
“It is.”
“I have not seen it.”
He raises one eyebrow, studying my face like he’s trying to gauge my reaction.
“You want to?”
“Obviously.” I shrug.
“You might be scared.”
I snort, thinking of everything I’ve already faced since arriving in Ruby Springs, magical houses, talking cats, mysterious bloodlines, and the revelation that I’m apparently the key to holding this entire supernatural town together.
“Show me the big scary Wolf, Wolfie.”
Maceo laughs and holds out the picnic basket.
“Hold this.”
I take it, immediately regretting the decision as it weighs my arm down.
Then he shrugs out of his flannel shirt.
My brain pauses, completely forgetting how to form coherent thoughts.
“Maceo.”
He pulls off his undershirt, revealing the full expanse of his chest, the tribal tattoos that wind across his shoulders and down his arms.
“Maceo.”
He kicks off his boots, then reaches for his belt buckle.
“Maceo.”
He glances at me calmly, as if stripping naked in a forest clearing is the most natural thing in the world.
“What?”
“You are taking your clothes off.”
“I am about to shift into my Wolf.”
“I assumed the clothes came with you.” My voice comes out higher than intended.
“Unfortunately, they do not.”
He reaches for the button on his jeans.
I spin around and cover my eyes, heat flooding my face.
“Good lord.”
“If I shred my clothes every time I shift I will go bankrupt,” he says, and I can hear the amusement in his voice.
“You could have warned me.”
“I did warn you.”
“You absolutely did not warn me about the naked part.”
A moment later there is a low rustling sound behind me, like wind through leaves but different, deeper, more intentional.
I turn around and stumble back a step.
A massive black Wolf stands where Maceo had been.
He is enormous. His shoulders nearly reach my chest, and his frame is powerful in a way that makes something primitive in my brain sit up and take notice.
His coat gleams like polished obsidian in the sunlight, so dark it seems to absorb light rather than reflect it.
His eyes are the same green as Maceo’s, intelligent and warm and entirely too familiar.
For a moment I simply stare.
“Oh my god.”
The Wolf bounds forward happily, his tail wagging like an overgrown puppy.