Page 33 of Alokar
“Got you a good smeller there?” Hank asked, his gruff voice cutting through the stillness as he watched Ewok.
“Better than most,” Ewok admitted with a modest shrug, his nostrils flaring as he tested the air currents.
“What are you trying to find?” Hank’s boots crunched on pine needles as he followed Ewok’s deliberate movements around the shrouded form. “We know a grizzly killed him.”
“I am aware,” Ewok paused mid-sniff, his dark eyes turning to glance meaningfully between me and Hank, a shadow of concern crossing his features.
I stood clutching my folded tent against my chest like a shield, unwilling to pack it away just yet. What had started as one of the most wonderful nights of my life—filled with pleasure and connection—had ended in blood and horror. I was struggling to reconcile how, once again, beauty and brutality could exist in such close proximity.
“It’s just that the grizzly carried a strong undercurrent of decay,” Ewok continued his olfactory exploration, his brow furrowed in concentration.
While Ewok had assured me it was a grizzly and not Yaard who had torn Rodney apart, I understood the peculiarity in the bear’s scent had troubled him.
“That’s not uncommon,” Hank huffed dismissively, returning to stuffing his sleeping bag in his pack with unnecessary force. “Griz’s get hurt fighting each other over territory and rot from the inside out—walking infections.”
“Do you still smell it? The grizzly?” I took a cautious step closer to Ewok, craving his reassuring presence. I knew that grizzlies often lingered near their kills like patient sentinels, waiting for the perfect moment to return and claim the grisly spoils. Not to mention, the scent of decay could also signal the onset of rabies, and that terrified me. I didn’t know how Ewok’s alien form would handle a disease like that—and I didn’t want to find out.
He lifted his head, catching the stir of the morning breeze and drew in a deep, measured breath. “Faintly—it’s very far away now.”
“Any hint of Yaard?” I whispered.
“Not the first whiff,” Ewok said, his tone heavy with disappointment and perhaps a trace of relief. “Maybe he is truly dead.”
I hoped so, though the knot in my stomach suggested otherwise.
We traveled down the mountain in silence, forming an odd sort of funeral procession. Hank took the front, his ancient frame moving with practiced grace as he led Rodney’s chestnut mare Biscuit, her master’s canvas-wrapped body secured across her broad back. The horse’s ears flicked nervously, her hooves picking carefully over the rocky trail as if she sensed the gravity of her burden.
I came next, leading Jubal. The leather reins felt slick in my palms, and I found myself constantly glancing back at Ewok, who followed up the rear, managing both Bertha and Big Kate, a massive Quarter horse that made the mountain path seem almost comically small beneath her.
Ewok didn’t engage his human disguise until the first distant rumblings of voices drifted up from the valley below. The moment the camouflage settled over his features, he immediately began to scratch. I looked forward to the day he wouldn’t need to hide behind the uncomfortable facade any longer, though the thought brought a sharp pang of loss. When that day came, I would likely never see him again. The possibility sat like a stone in my chest.
Despite the wholenot actually humancomplication, I was falling for Ewok. Falling hard and fast, like tumbling down a mountainside with no way to stop. And honestly, I didn’t know if I wanted to stop even if I could.
By the time we reached the Franklin Falls trailhead in the early afternoon, a considerable crowd of people from nearby Redmond had gathered. Bad news traveled fast in a small town. Pickup trucks and SUVs lined the access road, the occupants milling about with the morbid curiosity that tragedy always seemed to attract. I spotted Stella among the onlookers, her eyes tracking me and Ewok with barely concealed longing. I guessed her handsome lumberjack still hadn’t returned.
Ewok stayed close to my side as we gave our account of the incident to Sheriff Pettrie, his muscled arm wrapped snugly around my waist in a gesture that felt both possessive and comforting. When the sheriff questioned Ewok’s sudden presence in our community, Hank stepped forward, lying with such astounding conviction that Ewok was one of my father’s research assistants, that I almost believed it myself.
The sun was dipping low, the first twinkling of stars visible in the darkening sky, when I pulled my old pickup in front of the small log cabin I’d shared with my dad.
It wasn’t our primary home—just my favorite. We’d spent every moment here when his job or my schooling didn’t mandate we be elsewhere.
The cabin squatted among the pines, its hand-hewn logs darkened to deep brown by decades of mountain weather. Rodney was right, chinking between the timbers had cracked and crumbled in places, allowing thin slivers of daylight topierce the interior. A stone chimney rose from the moss-covered shake roof, mortar stained black with years of wood smoke.
A single room held the essentials: a cast-iron wood stove that dominated one corner, rough-planked shelves lined with dented cans and mason jars, and a metal-framed bed sat against the far wall, its thin mattress having seen better days. Animal pelts—mostly deer and elk—hung from wooden pegs driven between the logs, their musty scent mingling with the permanent aroma of wood smoke and old leather.
A single window offered a view of the clearing where split firewood lay stacked against the cabin’s north wall. The heavy wooden door, reinforced with iron strapping, bore deep gouges—whether from desperate animals seeking shelter or something else entirely was impossible to say.
Years from now, when I thought about home, this would be the place I remembered.
I guided Jubal and Bertha into the nearby wooden shed, their hooves echoing hollowly against the packed dirt floor as they settled into their familiar stalls with weary sighs. The sweet scent of hay mingled with leather and horse sweat as I filled their water troughs and measured out modest portions of oats—just enough to sustain them through the night, with the promise of a proper grooming and generous feed come morning. Meanwhile, Ewok moved between the truck and cabin, carrying our mud-stained packs and gear.
By the time I entered the cabin, Ewok had lit the stove, pulled the tea from my backpack, set the kettle to heat, and had rummaged through the cabinet to find two chipped but sturdy mugs. He’d finally turned off his disguise device, although I toldhim it was safe earlier when we’d turned onto the dirt road that led to the cabin.
“Hungry?” I asked, my own stomach rumbling at the idea.
He nodded, his glance shooting through the window, senses sussing out the local game.
“Not tonight,” I stopped his perusal with a hand on his arm. “We’re both tired.” Instead, I grabbed a couple of cans of stew from the shelf, poured the contents into a dented pot, and set it on the stove to heat.
