That’s so unexpectedly profound I actually laugh out loud. “Wow. Never thought of it that way.”
We stand in a comfortable silence for a moment, the only sounds the dripping trees and the rustle of Gus’s fur in the slight breeze. It feels oddly normal. Just two professionals, a delivery driver and a reclusive cryptid, shooting the breeze in the Montana wilderness.
“Weather’s going to turn,” Gus says finally, lifting his nose to sniff the air. “Can feel it in the ground vibrations. You should try to get your route finished sooner rather than later.”
I hadn’t been concerned before, but I trust a creature who literally lives and breathes this mountain far more than the Pine Ridge radio forecast. “Anything I should worry about?”
“Mountain’s been restless,” he says, tapping one massive, leathery foot against the earth. The ground gives a slight thud. “Small tremors. Unusual settling. Nothing immediately dangerous, but… the high roads can get unpredictable. Be cautious.”
“Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll keep an eye out.” I hesitate, then decide to just go for it. “Hey, so, are you friends with anyone else on this mountain? Like, say… someone with a surplus of legs?”
He gives a slow, deliberate shrug. “A surplus of legs is subjective. To a snake, even one pair of legs is too many.”
He’s playing coy. I can tell. “Okay, fair point. Let me be more specific… Do you know the Vyder who lives up on Ridgeline?”
Gus’s entire posture changes. The casual, friendly demeanor vanishes, replaced by a deep, primal stillness. He’s instantly on high alert. “You know of the Vyder?”
“Yes. He’s a new client.” I suddenly worry if I revealed too much. “I don’t know much about his kind, though. The encyclopedia entries are… sparse.”
“They are sparse because most thought them extinct.” He’s silent for a moment, his gaze boring into me with startling intensity.“The stories about them are old. Very old. Vyders do not live near settlements. They are solitary. Territorial.”
The quiet awe and underlying menace in his voice make me lean forward. “What do the stories say about them, Gus?”
He considers the gravity of his words. “That they bond for life,” he says finally, the words a rough exhale. “One mate, forever. When they choose, they choose completely.”
My pulse gives a traitorous little kick. “Completely?”
“It is not a casual thing for them,” he says. “The old tales say losing a mate can shatter their minds. It’s why they are so careful. So deliberate. Why they court for so long, to be certain.”
Courting.The word echoes in my head, the same one Riven used.
The reality-TV-watching, pink-slipper-wearing, socially stunted spider man is engaging in a sacred, life-or-death mating ritual. And I’m… his test subject? His intended?
“I should… I should probably get going,” I say, my voice a little breathless. My logistical brain is yelling at me to ask more questions, but my gut is telling me to just drive. “Thank you, Gus.”
Gus gives a slow, solemn nod, clutching his books. “Be careful on the mountain today.”
And with that, the nine-foot-tall legend melts back into the forest, leaving me standing by my truck with a racing heart and aterrifyingly clearer picture of the beautiful, complicated web I’ve wandered into.
I take Gus’s warning asgospel. The rest of my morning route is a masterclass in efficiency, a blur of familiar dirt roads and quick drop-offs. The drizzle remains steady, but the air feels heavier now, charged with a pressure that makes my ears pop.
I’m about two-thirds of the way to Riven’s place, navigating a series of winding switchbacks carved into the mountainside, when the heavens open up.
The steady drizzle becomes a downpour, and then a deluge. Within minutes, my windshield wipers are losing the battle, frantically smearing sheets of water back and forth. The road turns into a shallow stream of mud and gravel as I push forward.
Then comes the hail. It starts small, like pebbles thrown against the glass. Then it escalates. Marble-sized chunks of ice begin to hammer against the truck, a percussive assault that makes me flinch with every impact. It sounds like a heavenly machine gun is trying to turn my delivery truck into Swiss cheese.
Gripping the wheel until my knuckles turn white, I slow to a crawl. “Okay, easy does it,” I mutter to myself, my own voice a shaky counterpoint to the storm’s fury.
This is bad. This is escalating way faster than any forecast predicted.
A low, grinding rumble reaches me, a sound that somehow cuts through the roar of the rain and hail. My first thought is thunder, but that’s not it. Thunder rolls and echoes. This soundgrinds. It’s constant, directional, and it’s coming from somewhere up the mountain, behind me.
My eyes fly to the side mirror, and my stomach plummets into my boots.
The mirror reflects a disaster movie.
The mountainside I just passed, the steep slope of rock and timber above the road, ismoving. Not just a few rocks, but a whole section of it. A river of earth and stone and splintered trees is flowing downhill, gaining speed, devouring everything in its path.
