24. Wren
WREN
ENTER THE DOCUMENTARY CREW, STAGE LEFT
The silver SUV pulling into the gravel lot is a sleek, matte-finished beast with tinted windows and a roof rack loaded with hard-shell equipment cases.
Two more follow in a coordinated line, kicking up a plume of gray dust that settles over the rotting lodge sign like a funeral shroud.
The silence of the Cascades doesn’t stand a chance.
It’s punctured by the rhythmic thud of heavy doors and the professional, clipped tones of people who are paid to find things that don’t want to be found.
I stand on the porch, my hands shoved deep into the pockets of my cardigan to hide the way my fingers were twitching.
I’ve known they were coming for three days.
I spent those seventy-two hours in a fever of clinical redirection, moving trail cameras to the most boring stretches of cedar-thicket and drafting a ‘Safety Protocol’ map that conveniently labeled Rowan’s entire territory as an active rockslide zone.
I’m a Cassidy. I’m supposed to be the gatekeeper.
But looking at the sheer volume of black Pelican cases being unloaded, I feel less like a guardian and more like a woman who was trying tried to hold back a mudslide with a decorative garden fence.
Sarah Vance steps out of the lead vehicle.
She doesn’t look like a predator. She looks like a woman who uses her Peloton every morning without fail and only drinks coffee with oat milk.
The crisp linen shirt, practical boots, and headset resting around her neck make her look like she just stepped out of a studio in LA.
When she sees me, she smiles, a professional, disarming expression that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Those eyes are already scanning the tree line, measuring the light, assessing the perimeter.
She’s here for the development option, not the hospitality.
“Wren Cassidy,” she says, her voice carrying across the lot. “The lodge looks even better in person. More... authentic.”
“Authentic is one word for it,” I say, descending the steps to meet her. “We usually go with ‘historic’ or ‘in desperate need of a new roof.’ Welcome to Cassidy Lodge, Sarah.”
She gestures to the crew, who are already deploying a drone from the tailgate of the second SUV.
The whine of the rotors is a high, irritating insect sound that makes the back of my neck itch.
“We’re eager to get started. The B-roll of the ridge is priority one while the light is still hitting the peaks.
My lead cameraman, Jax, is already itching to get the thermal units calibrated. ”
“Actually, about the ridge,” I say, stepping into her line of sight.
“We’ve had some geological instability on the north face after the last storm.
I’ve had to cordon off the upper trails for guest safety.
I’ve prepared a list of alternative locations on the South Ridge that offer much better vantage points for the valley. ”
Sarah tilts her head, her smile fixed on her face. “The South Ridge? That’s nearly four miles from where the rescue happened, isn’t it? Our audience is going to want to see the specific terrain where the ‘Mystery Man’ operates. The proximity is the sell, Wren. You know that.”
“I know that dead hikers are bad for business,” I say, keeping my voice flat. “The South Ridge has the same old-growth aesthetic without the risk of a granite shelf pancaking your production assistants. Trust me, the moss looks the same on camera.”
She doesn’t argue. She just looks at Jax, who is studying a monitor. “Moss is fine for texture, Wren. But we’re here for Subject Prime. We’ll start with the lodge interiors and the grounds tonight, but tomorrow, we’re going where the heat is. Literally. Those thermal units don’t lie.”
They swarm the lobby, their boots loud on the hardwood floors Marge spent all morning polishing.
They’re an invasive species, mapping the electrical outlets and setting up a temporary production hub in the corner of the common room.
Every thud of a tripod leg hitting the floor feels like a needle under my skin.
I sold them the rights to be here, and now I’m watching them take those rights and turn them into a siege.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, hoping for a distraction, only to see a pulsing purple icon in the weather app.
A severe cold front is moving in from the coast, a high-pressure system meeting a cold wall of mountain air.
The forecast promises a total atmospheric collapse within the next twenty-four hours.
A ticking clock. I have a film crew in my lobby, a storm on the horizon, and a man in the woods who has no idea I’ve invited a team of professional hunters to his front door.
I don’t wait for Sarah to finish her equipment briefing.
I slip inside and go to the kitchen. I want to scream, and screaming isn’t part of the marketing plan.
Marge is at the prep station, chopping carrots with aggressive precision.
She doesn’t look up when I enter, but the set of her shoulders tells me everything I need to know about her opinion on the new guests.
“They’re asking for gluten-free muffins and a dedicated charging station for something called a ‘gimbal,’” Marge says, her voice dry as tinder. “Walt’s out back trying to figure out why they need to park a satellite dish next to the woodshed.”
“They’re professionals, Marge,” I say, though the words feel like ash. “It’s part of the deal. It keeps the lights on.”
Marge stops chopping. She looks at me, her eyes narrow and knowing. “There’s more than one kind of light, Wren. Some of them are meant to be turned off. You haven’t told him yet, have you?”
I don’t answer. The guilt is a cold stone in the center of my chest, and I’m struggling to breathe around it.
I have spent three days convincing myself that if I could just redirect the crew, if I could just manage the chaos, I won’t have to break the fragile, impossible thing that has grown between Rowan and me.
But the silver SUVs are in my driveway, and the lie was out of room to grow.
“I’m going to find him,” I say.
“You should have gone three days ago,” Marge mutters. “Mountains don’t like secrets, and neither does that man.”
Sighing, I leave out the side door and head into the trees, my father’s boots heavy on the damp earth.
The air is changing. The humidity is rising, a thick, wet pressure that makes my shirt stick to my back before I even hit the first switchback.
The forest feels expectant, the usual chatter of birds replaced by a heavy, waiting silence.
Even the squirrels seem to have retreated into the hollows of the cedars, sensing the coming shift.
I find him by the beehives. At first, I don’t see him, because he’s not in his human form.
His bark-patterned skin merges so perfectly with the surrounding timber that I don’t see him until he moves.
He’s nearly nine feet of ancient, silent authority, his hands—broad as shovel blades—moving with incredible tenderness as he checks the wax seals.
He looks like he belongs to the earth, and I’m the woman who brought the noise of the world with her.
He doesn’t turn, but his low, resonant voice vibrates through the air. “The mountain is breathing differently today, Wren. A storm is coming. A hard one.”
“I know,” I say, my voice sounding thin and brittle in the vastness of the clearing. “Rowan, we need to talk.”
He turns then, his golden-amber eyes locking onto mine.
He shifts, the bark-like texture of his skin smoothing and receding, his height shrinking until he stands before me in the form I have come to know too well.
He’s still massive, still seven feet of rugged, silent power, but the human vulnerability in his face is what makes my heart stutter.
He looks at me with a trust I haven’t earned.
“You’ve been gone for days,” he says. It’s not an accusation. It’s a statement of fact, delivered with the patience of a man who measured time in seasons, not hours. “I thought perhaps the rescue had... exhausted you.”
“It didn’t. I mean, it did, but that’s not why I’ve been making excuses.” I step closer, the smell of him—pine needle and cold rain and something fundamentally wild—hitting me like a physical blow.
“I made a deal with Aethelgard Media,” I begin, the words tumbling out in a rush. “They saw the viral video from the rescue and wanted to do a documentary. Fifty thousand dollars just to film the lodge and the search. And a half-million dollars if they find proof of a ‘non-human entity.’”
Rowan stays very still. The only sign that he heard me is the slight tightening of his jaw. “Proof.”
“I thought I could manage it,” I say, my hands twisting in the fabric of my cardigan.
“I thought I could take the initial money, save the lodge, then lead them on a wild goose chase. I’ve spent the last three days moving cameras and faking sightings on the South Ridge, trying to build a cage around them so they couldn’t get near you.
I thought I could fix it before I had to tell you. ”
“Three days.” The words are spoken softly, but they carry more weight than a shout. “You have known for three days that people were coming here to hunt me, and you chose to manage the forest instead of speaking to the Guardian.”
“I was trying to protect you!” I snap, the frustration of my failed containment bubbling over. “I was trying to keep the lodge from being foreclosed and keep you from being turned into a three-part Netflix special. I thought I could handle it alone.”
“You’re a human,” Rowan says, his voice dropping an octave. “You process the world through numbers and contracts. You think that because you signed a paper, you have authority over the mountain. You don’t. They’re here now, aren’t they?”