Page 28 of Grizzly's Grump
My bear wants more. He wants everything. Mine, he growls, low and primal inside me.
I press my lips to the top of her head, inhaling the scent of peaches and sugar and something purely Cilla—sunlight and grit and fire wrapped in softness. She’s fire. And my bear? He’s already burning.
I could stay like this forever, but the hum beneath us won’t let me. It’s the ley lines again—subtle at first, but relentless. Beneath the calm, something ancient stirs, and it’s not going away.
It’s not the kind of vibration you feel in your skin or even hear in your ears. My bear feels it first—a shift in the air, a resonance too deep for human senses. It reverberates in my bones, a primal warning, as if the earth itself is growling low and long beneath us, pressing against the edge of what I can contain.
This isn't an echo from the truck. It’s something older, something living, and my animal side rises to meet it with wary anticipation in the aftermath of good sex. This is deeper. Wilder. A pulse that thrums through the bones of the truck and echoes straight into mine. The same humming that shook us earlier hasn’t stopped—it’s just waiting. Gathering strength. And I know what it is before the confirmation comes.
The ley lines are flaring again—an invisible storm building under my skin, setting every instinct on edge. My bear senses it first, that primal tension in the earth like a predator about to pounce, and I swear the pulse syncs with my heartbeat, dragging my thoughts straight back to Cilla and what this might mean for her.
I ease out from under her as gently as I can. She stirs but doesn’t wake, just rolls into the blankets and clutches the pillow to her chest. The sight of her there—bare, beautiful, vulnerable—makes something savage rise in me.
I can’t keep her safe if I don’t know what’s coming. And I sure as hell can’t face it alone. Not with the lines acting up again and the pulse echoing through every inch of this town. I need answers—and my brothers may be the only ones who can help me find them.
I dress quickly, jaw tight, and shove the food truck’s door open. The air outside is sharp, cooler than it should be, with a tang of static clinging to it like something’s about to break. The sky’s taken on that strange twilight cast that comes right before a ley flare—the light too dim, too off, like a film overlay.
A flicker in the corner of my vision jerks my head to the left, instinct kicking in before thought can catch up.
Lights along Workshop Row blink once, twice… then go dark.
"Shit."
A sudden chorus of hoots breaks the fragile quiet—eerie in its timing and far too many to be natural. I turn toward the sound and spot them: owls, at least six, perched unnaturally close on the old fire tower. Their formation is too rigid, too intentional. They don’t move. They just watch, silent and unblinking, and every instinct in me knows—it’s wrong. Very wrong.
I glance up at the tower one last time, unsettled by the unwavering stare locked on me. As I turn away, my thoughts drift to June, the owl-shifter archivist. If anyone mightunderstand what this owl behavior means—or what the ley lines are trying to tell us—it’s her. Maybe Fen, too. The seer might not always give straight answers, but her instincts are dead-on when it comes to this kind of energy. I make a mental note to track them down.
Then the ground vibrates—a low, rhythmic thud that pulses through my boots and rattles up my spine. It's not just noise or tremor; it's alive. Each thud feels like the earth is trying to speak in a language older than words, pressing urgency into my bones with every beat.
I follow the sound toward Main, muscles taut and senses flaring. The deer come first—a blur of brown and white streaking past in a frantic wave. An entire herd barrels through town, hooves clattering against the pavement in a frenzy of movement, panic-fueled chaos echoing off storefronts and street signs. They don’t scatter when they see me. They don’t veer or hesitate. Just keep running, wild-eyed and erratic, as if something bigger than fear is chasing them.
I reach for my phone, glancing up as a pair of foxes dart across the far end of the lot—unnaturally quiet, their movements too smooth, too synchronized. It sends another ripple of unease down my spine. The ley lines aren't just stirring; they're calling attention from all corners of the wild. Something is rising—and it’s drawing everything to it.
"Eli, meet me at the workshop," I say, keeping my voice low but urgent. "Bring the others. We need to talk—something’s not right."
There's a beat of silence on the other end, and then Eli grunts. "You seeing the same weirdness we are?"
"Yeah. Owls, deer, foxes—it's like something's calling all the wild to town. And the lines are humming."
"Got it. I’ll wrangle the others. Give us ten."
"Make it five," I mutter, already heading toward the barn. "This isn’t waiting."
He says nothing else. He doesn’t need to.
Ten minutes later, my brothers are there. Eli, stone-faced as always. Sawyer, dragging his work boots, paint still streaked up one arm. Beau, with his hoodie half-zipped and phone still in hand. Jonah, bleary-eyed but alert.
We circle up in the workshop’s main room, the familiar scent of sawdust and machine oil grounding us as much as the walls themselves. It's not just a place to build furniture—it's where we build plans, where shit gets real. The overhead lights flicker once, like even the space itself is reacting to what’s coming., the heavy scent of sawdust grounding us as much as anything can.
"It’s starting again," I say, before turning to Sawyer. "Tanner?"
My brother is a single dad, and Tanner is his son. "I left him with Fen." We all give him a look. "Think what you want, but Fen would die before she'd let the ley lines take him."
He's not wrong about that.
Eli nods. "We're seeing the same surge pattern as three months ago, before the last spike."
"It’s stronger this time," Jonah mutters. "Owls don’t cluster like that. Not unless they’re reacting to a major disruption."
