Page 40 of Crimson Moon Falling

Freda glanced around. “We’re sitting ducks out in the open. Let’s move.” They started toward the SUV.

“Why does your Alpha think you need so much protection?” Gunnar muttered.

Jamie adjusted his aviator sunglasses and glanced around. “Maybe because during your last investigation, she ended up kidnapped, tortured, branded, and with a fucking implant that’s slowly freezing her emotions.”

Gunnar’s massive shoulders tensed. “That wasn’t my fault, GQ boy.”

“It still happened, Shrek.”

I stepped between them when Gunnar’s eye started to twitch. “The coordinates from Viggo’s receipt point to an area near Mary Mountain, about four hours from here. Gunnar, can we get a head start today? We still have six hours before sunset.”

Gunnar eyed Mangus and Athena balefully. “Are the devil dogs coming too? Mangus smells like three-day-old roadkill.”

There was the pot calling the kettle black. “They’re cadejos,” I corrected. “And yes, they’re coming.” Mangus pressed his head against my leg, leaving a smear of drool on my pants.

Gunnar stared down at Athena, and she stared back. “Fine. But they ride in the cargo area.”

I loaded my gear while Gunnar and Jamie bickered about how far we could get before we’d have to camp for the night. I also pulled out my notes as Freda drove and Jamie rode shotgun.

“Drew sent me a few satellite maps of the area. The coordinates are deep in the backcountry, near an old thermal area that was closed to the public in the seventies after a series of unusual seismic events.”

Gunnar grunted as he studied the images. “It’s in the middle of nowhere.” He wasn’t wrong.

The landscape shifted from dense pine forests to open meadows, and the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the valley floor.

As Freda turned onto a less-traveled road, Gunnar pulled out his own notes. “While you were in Denver, I looked up a few things too. There have been more disappearances around Mary Mountain over the years than in most other parts of the Park. Hikers, mostly. The authorities wrote them off as getting lost, dying from falls or exposure, or even wildlife attacks.”

“You think they’re connected to whatever’s out there,” I guessed.

He nodded grimly. “Something’s off in that area. It’s like the Bermuda Triangle of Yellowstone. Beau mentioned a few Shoshone Tribe members think the area is cursed with Skinwalkers.”

“That’s a cheery thought,” Jamie muttered.

My father’s journal had mentioned “thin spots,” where the Earth’s core energy caused massive fluctuations, and that Yellowstone sat atop a supervolcano. The road narrowed as we climbed higher, and switchbacks cut through dense forest. Patches of steam rose from the ground in spots, a reminder of the volcanic forces sleeping beneath the park.

The trailhead parking lot appeared ahead, a small gravel area with a weathered sign marking the start of the Mary Mountain Trail. The area was remote enough to discourage most hikers, and the parking lot was empty, with an abandoned feel.

My mind automatically began calculating distances and scanning for threats. The late-afternoon sun slanted through the pines, painting long shadows across the gravel. Mangus pressed against my leg and let out a soft growl. Something about this place got his hackles up.

“We need to move quickly so we can find a spot and set up camp before dark,” Freda reminded us.

Jamie pulled out his pack and slung it over his shoulder. “The area’s been off-limits for decades, according to the Park website. Any patrols or inspections scheduled we need to know about?”

Gunnar shook his head as he strapped on his own pack. “Beau said it’s between inspections, so if anyone’s out here, they shouldn’t be.”

Freda checked their weapons, her eyes constantly scanning. “What’s our cover story if we do encounter anyone?”

“Research,” I answered, slipping on my own pack. “We’ll say we’re studying geothermal microsystems in the Park. I know enough that it’ll hold up if anyone asks.”

My pack held basic survival and camping gear, three days’ worth of food, water purification tablets, a first-aid kit, and my father’s journal. I’d analyzed everything with brutal efficiency, including weight distribution and caloric requirements.

“What exactly are you looking for?” Jamie asked.

I shrugged. “We don’t know, but we’re fairly certain something is there. It might be buried or camouflaged.”

We set off down the trail with Gunnar taking point. The Mary Mountain Trail wound through dense lodgepole pines, occasionally breaking into small meadows where summer wildflowers grew. Under different circumstances, I would’ve thoroughly enjoyed the beautiful hike.

I gave the dogs a drink in a collapsible rubber dog bowl, and Mangus slurped and splashed slimy water everywhere.