The storm hits us like a physical force the moment we step outside. Snow drives horizontally across the yard, and the wind is strong enough that I have to steady Laney when she stumbles. The thirty-yard walk to the barn feels like a mile.
Inside, the animals are restless and scared. Napoleon has his hens gathered close, Bonnie and Clyde are pressed together in their corner, and the boarded dogs curl into their bedded runs in the insulated kennel bay, noses tucked, blankets doubled against the draft.
“It’s getting cold in here,” I observe, watching the animals. “I’ve been in LA for most of my life, but if this mountain weather is anything like An’Wa, these animals are going to need extra protection.”
“More bedding,” Laney says, already moving toward the hay storage. “We need to add as much insulation as we can before it gets worse.”
We work quickly, spreading extra hay and blankets in all the animal areas. The additional bedding will help them retain bodyheat, and I can see some relief in Laney’s expression as we create warmer nests for everyone.
“They’ll huddle together naturally,” I say, watching Bonnie and Clyde press closer. “Body heat sharing.”
“Jasper’s terrarium is in the living room, but if we lose power, we’ll need to move him somewhere even warmer—maybe the bedroom where the insulation is better.” She pauses, looking around at the larger animals. “But Napoleon, the hens, and the goats should be fine here with all the extra bedding.”
The wind chooses that moment to hit the barn with enough force to make the whole structure groan, and several animals cry out in alarm. Dust sifts from the rafters in a thin veil, and a cold thread of snow snakes under the threshold like the storm is testing every seam.
“And we’ll have to check on them every few hours,” Laney adds. “Make sure everyone’s staying warm and no one’s in distress.”
This isn’t the manageable storm we prepared for. This is something bigger, meaner, and potentially dangerous for every living thing caught in its path.
Including us.
“We need to move fast,” I say. “Before this gets any worse.” Because the way the wind is building, the way the temperature is plummeting, I have a sinking feeling that ‘worse’ is exactly where we’re headed.
Back at the cabin, we hurry inside with our arms full of supplies. As we stamp snow off our boots and set everything down, the lights flicker again—longer this time, more ominous.
“We should set out the oil lamps,” I suggest, already moving toward where we’ve gathered them on the kitchen counter. “Just in case—”
As if summoned by my words, the power cuts out entirely, plunging us into the gray half-light of approaching dusk. The silence feels sudden and complete—no humming appliances, no background noise of modern life. Just wind and the soft sounds of animals settling in for what’s clearly going to be a very long night.
Chapter Seven
Laney
The power’s been out for two hours now, and the temperature’s already dropped inside the cabin despite the fire snapping and popping in the fireplace. Outside, the storm sounds like something alive and furious, rattling windows and driving snow horizontally against the glass.
“Generator’s working, but it’s only wired for essentials,” Ryder announces, coming back inside after checking the utility shed. His coat is covered in snow from the brief trip across the yard. “Water pump and a couple of outlets. Most of the house is still going to be cold.”
I light another oil lamp with practiced efficiency—growing up in this cabin taught me to be prepared for mountain weather.“We’ll have to make do with the fireplace and what battery power we have left.”
“What about Jasper?” Ryder asks, moving to check on the snake’s terrarium in the living room. “His heating system’s off.”
I watch him study the temperature gauge. There’s something different about his posture when he’s around Jasper—more careful, tense. “You were right to worry about him.”
I survey the cabin’s main room, noting how Hamlet has claimed the prime real estate near the fireplace, and Duchess is settled in her cozy corner setup.
“We’ll need to move him to the bedroom. It was a later addition and has great insulation. Plus, one of the working generator outlets is in there, so we can keep his heating system running. In addition, both Peanut and Duchess seem more agitated whenever Jasper’s around. The bedroom will be quieter for him and keep the other animals calmer.”
There’s a pause, and I realize what I’ve just suggested. If Jasper takes my bedroom, that leaves both of us sleeping out here. Together.
A pulse of awareness hits low and hard. It has nothing to do with the snake and everything to do with the orc.
For a second, I consider just sleeping in there anyway—I’ve handled Jasper plenty, so what’s one night sharing a room? But then I remember the musk. Snakes aren’t exactly fragrant roommates, especially in a small, enclosed space with the heaterrunning all night. I can handle touching him just fine, but sleeping with that smell? Hard pass.
“The living room it is,” I say with a determined nod.
“You sure about that?” Ryder asks. There’s something careful in his tone.
My breath catches, but I keep my voice steady. “Animals first. That’s what we agreed on.”
