Winter Lost

Snow shoveling in a blizzard when the metal underneath his feet was slick and set steeper than forty degrees was much more entertaining than the ordinary sort. Especially when, finished with the less snow-packed south-facing side, he turned his attention to the front, where the ice dam had kept the snow in place. The first load he shoveled off the roof landed either on top of someone or on a path someone had just cleared, from the swearing that drifted up to him.

“Sorry,” he called down, not really meaning it.

Adam had done his share of mountain climbing. The last time had been about twenty years ago, but he didn’t have any trouble remembering how it worked. The goblins’ equipment was a little lighter and more user-friendly than what he’d used, but that could have been as much due to price point as it was to a couple of decades of technological advancements.

Three stories in the air, the wind was more than brutal. After a few minutes of working on the north side, Adam put his safety glasses back on and pulled his balaclava over his face for good measure. He imagined Mercy making comments about bank robbers.

It wasn’t a quick job. There was a lot of roof, a lot of snow, and a stubborn ridge of ice. He had to temper the force he used when he was separating the ice from the metal roof so his hardened steel shovel didn’t go right through the aluminum.

After a bit the wind picked up and the temperature dropped, but by that time the work had warmed his muscles so he didn’t much notice. Werewolves were built for winter, even in human shape. He found clearing the roof deeply satisfying. An old soldier learned to relish a task with clear objectives.

Eventually, even with the bite of the wind and the occasional face-plant when his boots slipped, he lost himself in the work. The snowball caught him by surprise when it hit the back of his neck.

He jerked around, but there was no one on the roof with him. The trajectory had been wrong to come from the ground—it would have had to come over the ridge of the roof. He looked at the nearest trees suspiciously, though it would take a werewolf to make a snowball fly that far. No one lurked in the trees.

When nothing more happened, he looked down to take the next scrape—and saw an arrow drawn in the pristine snow he’d been about to shovel. The arrow had not been there when the snowball hit him. He would have noticed.

He inhaled, but he didn’t smell anyone. Though there was one person here he wouldn’t smell, wasn’t there?

“What’s up, Jack?” Adam asked, his gaze following the direction of the arrow until he saw something big moving out there in the woods. It was maybe a quarter of a mile away as the crow flies.

He pulled his safety glasses off and tipped his head to protect his eyes from the wind.

Without knowing exactly how far away it was, he couldn’t judge the size with accuracy—except that along the edges of the lake on the northeast side there were a series of picnic benches where, in better weather, guests could eat. One of those picnic tables was directly between Adam and the whatever it was—bear? It was the wrong shape for a bear, but closer to that than a moose. The picnic table, which was closer, was less than half the size of the creature. Grizzly, Adam thought. Or something with a grizzly size and shape.

Despite the distance, he breathed in, his wolf itching to identify the predator who had entered his territory, no matter how temporary that territory was. Adam agreed with the wolf, especially as the creature waited just along the path Mercy would be taking back from the ranch.

He stared at the distant creature for a few breaths. Thought about why Jack would be worried about a grizzly that far away from the lodge. Then he reached for Mercy through their bond.

It was his habit not to spy on his wife; he knew how she felt about it. Mostly he was content just to know that she was out there, somewhere. Instantly he could tell that she was close—and that was all he could pick up. She wasn’t blocking him, and there was nothing wrong with their bond. Maybe, he thought, as his pulse picked up with the call to action, whatever was interfering with their bond was the same thing that interfered with his sat phone. Hrímnir’s storm eliminating communication, maybe. Magic could be literal like that.

Mercy should be on her way back from the horses by now. He’d lost track of time, but he’d been up here awhile. And if she traveled cross-country, which would be faster than the road, he reckoned that her path would cross right where that beast was.

It—and it didn’t move like any bear he’d ever seen—was waiting for Mercy.

Although this conviction came without facts to back it up, Adam had survived this long by not questioning his odd convictions. Instincts. And something had driven Jack to make sure Adam noticed the creature lying in wait.