Page 1 of Bear Love's Hidden Destiny
Chapter One
Isabella
I pushed open the door to my Seattle apartment, kicking off my boots and dropping my keys on the counter. The place was small, cluttered with books and maps, my desk a mess of coffee mugs and half-finished research notes. I was exhausted from a long day at the university, where I had been chasing leads on a forgotten Sumerian trade route for my latest paper. Archaeology was not glamorous, but it was my life, digging up truths nobody else cared about. As I shrugged off my jacket, I noticed a package on the kitchen table, one I did not remember seeing when I left that morning. It was a plain brown box, about the size of a shoebox, with a crisp white envelope taped to the top. My name, Isabella Washington, was typed neatly across it.
I frowned, tearing open the envelope first. The letter inside was from a law firm I had never heard of, based out of a small town in Oregon. The words hit me hard: my grandfather, Edgar Washington, had passed away two weeks ago. I had not seen him since I was a kid, back when he would show up once a year with a gruff nod and a story about some far-off place. We were notclose, he was more myth than family, but the news still hurt. The letter said he had left me one personal item, nothing else. No explanation, no inheritance, just this box. I set the letter down and pried open the wooden lid, the hinges creaking like they had not been touched in years.
Inside was a leather-bound journal, its cover worn soft, the edges frayed. I ran my fingers over it, feeling the weight of something old, something important. Flipping it open, I found pages filled with tight, slanted handwriting, sketches of maps, and drawings of strange, animal-like figures, half-human, half-beast. Symbols I did not recognize were scattered across the pages, not matching any culture I had studied, and I had studied plenty. The ink was faded in places, like it had been written decades ago, but when I reached the last page, my breath caught. My full name was scrawled in bold, fresh ink, like it had been written yesterday. Below it, coordinates pointed to a place called Fir Hollow, somewhere deep in the Pacific Northwest. I had never heard of it.
"Who writes their granddaughter’s name in a creepy old book?" I muttered, grabbing my laptop. A quick search pulled up Fir Hollow, a tiny town nestled in Washington’s Olympic Peninsula, surrounded by ancient forests and not much else. The coordinates lined up with a spot called Devil’s Backbone Ridge, a name that sounded like it belonged in a ghost story. I leaned back in my chair, the journal open in my lap. Part of me wanted to toss it in a drawer and forget it. I had papers to grade, a lecture to prep. But the other part, the part that spent years chasing obscure truths, could not let it go. My grandfather had left this for me, and that pull in my chest, the one that always drove me to dig deeper, was already humming.
By noon the next day, I was in my beat-up Jeep, driving north with the journal tucked into my backpack. The city faded into endless evergreens, the air growing sharp with pine and dampearth. My phone’s GPS gave up an hour outside Fir Hollow, leaving me with just the journal’s hand-drawn map and a vague sense of direction. The town itself was barely a blip, two streets, a gas station, and a diner called Mabel’s that looked like it had not changed since the 1950s. I parked outside the diner, figuring I would grab some coffee and ask about the ridge. The bell above the door jangled as I stepped inside, and every head turned to stare. A dozen pairs of eyes followed me to a booth, their whispers sharp in the quiet.
"New face," a guy in a flannel muttered to his buddy, not even trying to be subtle.
I slid into the booth, pretending not to notice. A waitress, maybe in her fifties, with a name tag reading "Doris" sauntered over, coffee pot in hand. "What can I get you, hon?" she asked, her smile tight.
"Coffee, black," I said, pulling out the journal. "And maybe some directions. I’m looking for Devil’s Backbone Ridge."
Her hand froze mid-pour, coffee sloshing onto the table. "Devil’s Backbone?" she said, her voice dropping. "Nobody goes up there. It’s all cliffs and brambles. What’s a city girl like you want with that place?"
I opened the journal to the map, tapping the coordinates. "It’s for work. I’m an archaeologist. Got a lead on something up there."
She squinted at the page, then at me, like she was trying to figure out if I was lying. "Work, huh? Well, good luck. Follow the north trail out of town, but it’s a rough hike. You got gear?"
"Yeah, I’m set," I said, though her stare made me second-guess myself. "Anything I should know about the ridge?"
She hesitated, wiping her hands on her apron. "Just stick to the trail. And don’t go poking around where you’re not wanted." Before I could ask what she meant, she walked off, leaving the coffee pot on the table.
I sipped the coffee, bitter and lukewarm, and flipped through the journal again. The sketches of those half-human figures were unsettling, wolves, bears, even birds, all with human eyes. I shook it off, chalking it up to my grandfather’s weird imagination. But that pull in my chest was stronger now, like the forest itself was calling me. I paid for the coffee and headed out, ignoring the stares that followed me to the door.
The north trail was easy enough to find, a dirt path winding into the woods. The air was thick with mist, the kind that clung to your skin and made everything feel muffled. My hiking boots crunched on pine needles as I followed the journal’s map, the coordinates burned into my head. The forest was dense, old-growth trees towering so high they blocked out the sun. Every now and then, I would catch a glimpse of movement, a deer, maybe, or just the wind, but it made my skin prickle. I had been on plenty of solo hikes, but this place felt different, like it was watching me.
After an hour, I reached a clearing where the map marked Devil’s Backbone Ridge. It was not much to look at, just a rocky outcrop jutting over a steep drop, shrouded in fog. I pulled out the journal, double-checking the coordinates. This was the spot. I stepped closer to the edge, peering down into the mist. The ground looked solid enough, but something felt off, like the air was heavier here. I knelt to examine the dirt, hoping for a clue, maybe a carving, a relic, anything to explain why my grandfather sent me here.
"Hey, you shouldn’t be here," a voice called out, sharp and low.
I spun around, heart pounding. An older woman stood at the edge of the clearing, her gray hair pulled back in a tight bun. She wore a faded jacket and carried a walking stick, but her eyes were what stopped me, wide, almost panicked, like she had seen a ghost.
"Sorry, I’m just hiking," I said, standing up. "I’m an archaeologist. Doing some research."
She took a step closer, her gaze flicking to the journal in my hand. "You look just like her," she whispered, her voice trembling. "You shouldn’t be here. Go back to town."
"Like who?" I asked, my stomach twisting. "What are you talking about?"
But she was already backing away, shaking her head. "Leave this place alone," she said, then turned and vanished into the trees.
I stood there, the journal heavy in my hands. Her words echoed in my head, but I was not about to turn back now. Whatever my grandfather wanted me to find, it was here. I took another step toward the ridge, scanning the ground for anything unusual. The mist was thicker now, curling around my ankles like it was alive. I moved closer to the edge, trying to see through the fog, when the ground beneath me shifted.
It happened fast, too fast to react. The dirt gave way, and I was falling, sliding down the steep incline. Rocks scraped my arms, my backpack snagged on a root, and I scrambled for something to grab. My hands clawed at the earth, but it crumbled under my fingers. I was going to hit the rocks below, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. My heart pounded, my vision blurring as the drop loomed closer.
A roar cut through the mist, deep and guttural, shaking the air. I barely had time to register it before a massive shape burst through the fog, a bear, huge and dark, charging straight at me. Its eyes locked on mine, wild and intense, and I braced for the end. But then, impossibly, the bear’s form shimmered, collapsing into itself. Fur became skin, claws became hands, and a man, a tall, broad man with dark eyes and no clothes, leapt toward me. His arms wrapped around me, pulling me against his chest just before I hit the rocks.
Everything fades as I hear him whisper, "I’ve got you."
Chapter Two
Benedict
