Page 45 of Death Valley

He hesitates, then shrugs. “Thought I heard something back there. Probably just echoes or rats, but…” He trails off, adjusting his hat with a trembling hand. “Let’s just get the hell out of these tunnels.”

I don’t press him. Better not to give voice to fears in places like this, where the darkness has weight and substance, where whispers can summon things best left undisturbed. Instead, I nod toward the faint gray light ahead where the others are already emerging.

“Almost through. Stay close,” I warn.

The final stretch of tunnel seems to elongate with each step, shadows retreating before our flashlight beams. The air grows heavier, pressing against my skin with clammy insistence. The horses sense it too—Jeopardy’s muscles tense beneath me, his ears flicking nervously back and forth.

Not much longer. Not much further. The mantra repeats with each hoofbeat.

When we finally emerge into the weak afternoon light, it feels like breaking the surface after too long underwater. The relief is immediate but short-lived as the biting wind hits us full force, carrying the first stinging particles of sleet. The turn in the weather that’s been threatening all day is finally making good on its promise. The reports said we should have had a clear spell for a few days, but things change so quickly up here.

“We need to push on,” I call to the others, who have stopped to regroup at the tunnel exit. “Mount Judah’s about three miles along the crest. If we ride hard, we can make it before dark.”

Red glances skeptically at the darkening sky. “In this weather? Trail’s going to disappear in an hour.”

“I know these mountains,” I reply, more sharply than intended.Better than you, I finish silently. “I can find the cabin blindfolded if necessary.”

I check my watch—3:18 p.m. Sunset comes early in October, earlier still when storm clouds blot out the sky. We have maybe two hours of usable light left, less if the snow picks up.

“Eli, take point,” I order, nudging Jeopardy forward. “You remember the way?”

He nods, his expression grave. Eli understands the stakes better than the others. He was there in the aftermath years ago, getting the call from my phone to come get me, luck having me in a rare patch of cell service. He helped me back to the ranch, half-dead and raving about things that couldn’t possibly exist.

Things that very much do exist, as we both know all too well.

The trail leading away from the tunnels follows an old railroad grade for half a mile before branching into the more rugged terrain of the upper slopes. Sleet has given way to light snow by the time we make the turn, fat flakes swirling in the wind and accumulating on the horses’ manes and our shoulders. The temperature is dropping rapidly, the kind of bone-deep mountain cold that seeps through layers and settles in your marrow.

Aubrey rides just ahead of me, her back straight despite what must be considerable discomfort after two days in the saddle. Duke plods carefully beneath her, finding secure footing on the increasingly treacherous path.

She surprises me, this woman. I’d expected complaints, hesitation, fear. Instead, she faces each challenge with quiet determination, adapting quickly to conditions that would break most city dwellers. For a fleeting moment I picture her at home on the ranch, seeing her slip into that lifestyle with ease, before I have to stop myself. I may have tasted her, but I don’t know her and I need to keep that distance between us.

The thought brings a twist of guilt. I push it aside, focusing on the immediate task of reaching shelter before the storm worsens. Before darkness falls.

Beforetheycome out to hunt.

A hundred thousand dollars. That’s what she’s paying me to find Lainey. Enough to clear most of my debt to Marcus, keep the ranch afloat, maintain my mother’s care for another year or more. When she first named the figure, it felt like salvation.

Now, as we climb higher into the teeth of the storm, I wonder if any amount is worth the risk. Worth leading these people—worth leadingher—into the territory of things that hunger for human flesh. Things I barely escaped the last time.

The trail steepens, switchbacking up a rocky slope toward the relative shelter of limber and white-bark pine. The trees grow stunted and wind-twisted at this elevation, their branches laden with snow. Between their trunks, I catch glimpses of the valley below, already disappearing beneath a blanket of white.

“How much further?” Cole calls from behind me, voice raised against the strengthening wind.

“Mile and a half, maybe two,” I answer. “We follow this ridge, then drop down into a protected valley. Cabin’s nestled against the eastern slope, sheltered from the worst of the weather and the peak.”

If we make it that far. The light is failing faster than I’d anticipated, the clouds bringing premature darkness. And with darkness comes danger.

I scan the ridgeline above us, searching for movement among the rocks and twisted pines. Nothing yet, but they’re there. Watching. Waiting. A curse as old as the mountains themselves.

Marcus would laugh if he could see me now, jumping at shadows, spooked by old legends. The crime boss values pragmatism above all else—cold, hard cash and the power it brings. To him, the world is simple: predators and prey, winners and losers. He’d never believe the truth about these mountains.

About what almost happened to me.

Sometimes I envy his ignorance, as well as covet his power.

“Jensen.” Eli has dropped back to ride beside me, his voice pitched low. “We’re losing light fast.”

I nod, already calculating. “Shortcut through the Emigrant Glades?”

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