CHAPTER ONE
BOONE
The forest smells different today—wetmoss, thawing earth, cedar warmed just enough by sunlight to let out its sweetness. And beneath all that: a familiar, distant tang of human trails getting cleared for spring.
The park rangers are returning, which meanshemight be returning too.
Elias Hart. Human researcher, chronic notetaker, biologist with the shoulders of a lumberjack and the situational awareness of a distracted kitten.
He’s spent the last two summers with his little field station set up a mile and a half from my territory. Close enough that sometimes I catch his scent on the wind. Close enough that sometimes he somehow manages to walk directly past me without noticing the eight-foot-tall cryptid standing behind a tree.
And yes, fine, sometimes I watch him.
From a responsible, safe, healthy distance, of course.
I amnota stalker. I’m a conservationist. I’m making sure he doesn’t fall into ravines, get lost, or start poking around places that would complicate my entire existence.
That’s my official line, anyway.
The truth is… winter has been long.Toolong. And quiet.Tooquiet. And I’ve spent an unreasonable amount of time pretending I’m not listening for human footsteps that never came.
I tell myself it’s because humans bring danger. Because I need to monitor the activity. Because I am the US Network Admin, and vigilance is my job.
But none of that explains why my heartbeat does a stupid little hitch every time I think about him stumbling around in the brush and cursing cheerfully at his malfunctioning GPS.
I shake myself out of it and head toward the small clearing beside my cave. It’s barely the size of a human backyard, but it’s mine—stubbornly carved out between two old-growth cedars and a moss-covered boulder the size of a truck.
My garden.
The soil is still cold but thawing enough that bulbs are starting to nose their way up—tiny shoots of green fighting through last season’s leaf litter. Along the far edge, my garlic patch has survived winter like the hardy little warriors they are. A row of early onions is sprouting too, pale and determined. The root vegetables—carrots, golden beets, and those purple potatoes I traded with a selkie last year—won’t be ready to plant for a week or two, but I like checking the beds. Making sure the soil hasn’t been disturbed by animals or—last year—Elias tripping and apologizing out loud to the dirt.
He thought it was a deer trail. It wasn’t.
I crouch—carefully, because my knees could flatten a whole section of bulbs if I’m not paying attention—and start working. I rake aside winter debris with my hands, turning the soil, loosening clumps. Birds chatter overhead, delighted to finally have sunlight again.
The rhythm settles me and grounds me. It always has.
Unfortunately, I’m not alone.
There’s a rustle to my left—too deliberate for wind, too smug for leaf fall. I don’t look up. I don’t need to. I can feel him. Perched on the low cedar limb like he owns the place. The squirrel has returned. Again. He chitters softly, the sound attention-seeking and expectant, tail flicking in a way that suggests he believes we’re acquaintances. Or worse. Friends.
“No,” I tell him without lifting my head. “Absolutely not.”
He chitters louder.
I glance up just in time to see him inch closer along the branch, tiny paws gripping the bark, eyes bright and unrepentant. Last fall, I shared exactlyonehazelnut with him during a lean week. One. This was, apparently, a binding contract. Since then, he’s taken to following me through the clearing, stealing loose bulbs, and once—once—attempting to climb my leg while I was on a Network call.
I flick a clod of dirt in his direction. It lands nowhere near him. He does not retreat. He only sits back on his haunches and stares at me with the confidence of a creature who has never known consequences.
I bare my teeth at him. He chitters back.
Ignoring him, I reach for my makeshift gardening apron—an old canvas tarp tied around my waist—just as my phone buzzes in the pocket, nearly making me drop it.
A message from the Monster Network. I just hope this time it’s not about the mysterious claw markings popping up around the country.
MothAkai: ADMIN, wake up!
MothAkai: I need to finalize some fun bash details so need the attendee list.
