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My grip tightens on the wheel. “He hasn’t hiked in months. He’s been scared of those woods since Ava, and he finally tries, he finally gets himself out there, and he falls into a creek at North Ridge. I mean, Jesus Christ, it’s like the place waited.”
The words leave a bad taste in my mouth because some part of me almost believes them.
The bond pulses again, and I feel Onyx far off, but not far enough. His concern presses against the edge of my mind, trying to find room. Last night sits between us like a slammed door. I don’t have time to open it. I can’t manage his fear and mine at the same time, not with Jonah soaked and hurt by a creek that’s already swallowed too many stories.
Not now, I think, though I’m not sure whether I send it or only wish I could.
Parker’s voice lowers. “You’re gonna get him. He’s gonna be pissed and embarrassed, and you’re gonna pretend not to fuss, and then you’re gonna fuss anyway.”
I huff a humorless breath. “Probably.”
“And he’ll try again.” I glance at him despite myself. Parker’s eyes stay on the road, and he’s a hell of a lot calmer than I am. “Maybe not right away. But he will. Kid’s got Dawson stubbornness. It’s obnoxious.”
I swallow and look back at the road as branches scrape along the passenger side. “Yeah. He does.”
The service road narrows, ruts deep from last week’s rain. I park where the track washes out, leaving the truck angled near a stand of young birch. Parker grabs the first-aid kit before I can, and I take the emergency blanket, radio, and a coil of rope because habit is habit even when panic is chewing through my ribs.
The forest closes around us the second we leave the truck.
North Ridge has always felt different. Even before Onyx, before blue lanterns meant anything other than old ghost stories and trauma, this part of the woods had a watchful edge. The trees grow tighter here, roots raised and knuckled under the soil, rocks slick with moss.
The creek runs below us somewhere, louder than it should be after only a little rain, hidden by slope and fern until you’re nearly on top of it. The air smells of cedar, cold water, damp leaves, and something faintly sweet that makes every muscle in my body lock.
Labrador tea.
No.
Not now, Onyx.
My head turns before I can stop it, searching between trunks, but there’s nothing. No skull in shadow. No blue flame. No sense of Onyx directly near me, only the bond flickering with unsettled static beneath my own fear.
Parker stops a few steps ahead and looks back. “You smell somethin’?”
I blink. “What?”
He looks at me with a raised brow. “You stopped and sniffed the air. Did you smell somethin’?”
“Uh… No, I don’t smell anythin’.” Did I do that?
His expression is unreadable for half a second, then he nods. “C’mon, creek’s this way.”
I should be leading. I know that. This is my call, my nephew, my route. But Parker moves with certainty, and my head is full of Jonah’s voice, Onyx’s alarm, and the sweet scent around us. I push forward, catching up, boots slipping once on wet leaves.
“Jonah!” I call as we descend toward the crossing. “It’s Lucas. You hear me?”
No answer. The creek grows louder.
I try the radio. “Jonah, this is Lucas. We’re close to the split pine. Give me a shout if you hear me.”
Static and nothing else.
“He may have set it down,” Parker says behind me now. “Or the battery died.”
“Yeah.”
His voice is still too calm. I hate that thought the second I have it. Parker is helping; he’s carrying the first-aid kit and came with me without hesitation. He’s being calm because I’m not. That’s how it works. That’s how partners work.
So why does the back of my neck feel wrong?
