Page 11 of Sentinel of Talon Mountain
“Son of a...” I bite the rest off and swallow it hard. “I didn’t see anyone close enough to do that.”
“They didn’t need to be close. Trailhead, store, snowmobile rental shed—anywhere you hung that pack.” His eyes meet mine. “Or at your cabin.”
The world tilts. “No.”
“Wren.”
“I lock my door.” Stupid, useless thing to say. I hear it leave my mouth and want to snatch it back. Locks stop friends and the wind. They don’t stop a patient adversary.
He sets the bagged tracker on the table between us like a line drawn in black plastic. “We’ll take the battery out and use the shell to bait them later. For now—boots.”
I toe them off, jaw clenched. He runs the wand along the soles, the laces, the heel cups. The LED stays quiet. I exhale, shaky, then immediately feel ridiculous for needing that much air.
“Any of your gear in the truck?” he asks.
“I hiked in, remember? No truck.”
He has the good grace to look sheepish. “Right.”
He moves around the cottage with quick efficiency, killing unnecessary lights, checking latches, sliding a steel rod into concealed brackets that lock the shutters from the inside. Not paranoia—discipline. It should grate, but instead it settles something jagged in me.
“Before we go further,” I say, because the need nags, “you were at Base Camp.”
He doesn’t pause. “Just passing through.”
“You called me loud.”
“You were fighting for a hand.” He glances over. “I respect loud when it saves someone's fingers.”
I don’t have an answer for that, so I find a safer battlefield. “You keep saying we.”
“You came here. That makes it we until this is done.” He slides a folded sweater across the table. “You’re staying in the loft. I’ll take first watch.”
“What if they come back,” I ask, “and the dot isn’t for the map this time?”
“Then I put myself between you and the dot.” No bravado. Just policy.
Something in my chest, tight since the shot, loosens a fraction and scares me worse than the shooter did.
We drift into a rhythm because bodies know how to do that under pressure: he sets a kettle, I sort gear; he checks a perimeter sensor, I reload a flashlight; he gives orders I pretend I’m choosing to follow. The storm pours itself against the cottage, relentless.
When the kettle clicks, he puts a mug of tea by my elbow like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Chamomile,” he says. “Don’t argue.”
“I was going to say thank you.”
“Acceptable.”
The quiet that follows isn’t comfortable, but it’s not empty either. I don’t mistake that for safety.
A faint tap rattles the porch. Not the ping of brass. A different sound—a delicate, insistent tick like wood flexing under weight.
We look at each other.
He moves first, killing the nearest lamps until the room sinks into a softer dark. He puts a finger to his lips and points to the side of the window. I edge there, breathing shallow, every nerve awake.
When he lifts the curtain two fingers’ width, the porch is a gray smear of snow and shadow. Nothing moves. Nothing human.
Then I see it: a slender shaft embedded in the doorjamb, still quivering as the wind tugs at it. A black-shafted arrow juts from the jamb, still quivering. A strip of birch peel lashes the fletching—my mark, stolen and inverted, turned into a weapon against me.
