The Space Between Full Moons

 Chapter One

The road to Thornwood Hollow ran out of pavement eleven miles before it ran out of trees.

Elena Voss noticed the exact moment the asphalt gave way to gravel, a small jolt through the steering wheel, like the mountain itself was announcing a boundary. She slowed the car, more out of respect than necessity, and watched the forest close in on either side. Douglas firs, dense and dark green, stood so tall they blotted out the tops of the ridgelines. It was the kind of place that made a person feel very small, very quickly.

She liked that feeling more than she probably should.

Three years photographing wildlife across four continents had taught her that the best images came from places that didn't care whether you lived or died. Thornwood Hollow, tucked into a fold of the Cascades with a population of four hundred and change, looked like it might not care either. Good. She'd had enough of places that cared too much, cities full of people who wanted things from her, a gallery relationship that had curdled into something she still didn't have a name for, an ex-fiancé's voice that still occasionally surfaced in her head at three in the morning, always at the same volume, always saying some version of the same disappointed thing.

Here, she'd just have the mountain. And the wolves, if she was lucky, the reason the magazine had sent her in the first place. A pack had been spotted for the first time in decades, and someone in an office in Seattle wanted proof, wanted photographs, wanted a story about nature reclaiming its ground. It was the kind of assignment that could rebuild a career that had gone quietly stale over the last two years, ever since the divorce from her own ambition — that was how she'd started thinking of it, privately, the slow uncoupling from the version of herself who used to chase a shot for the sheer hunger of getting it.

Elena wanted that hunger back. She just hadn't expected to find the story's other half standing in the middle of the road.

She braked hard enough to send her camera bag sliding off the passenger seat and thumping against the door. The man didn't flinch. He stood at the tree line with a rifle broken open over his forearm — not aimed, just carried, the way people who'd grown up around guns carried them, like an extension of the body rather than a threat. He was tall in a way that seemed almost incidental to him, like he hadn't asked for the height and wasn't particularly attached to it. Dark hair overdue for a cut, the kind of overdue that suggested other things mattered more than trips to town. A ranger's jacket, unzipped despite the cold, sleeves pushed up over forearms that looked like they did actual physical work instead of just implying it on a gym membership.

He was looking at her car like it had personally offended him.

Elena rolled down the window, heart still going a little too fast. "Sorry — did I almost hit you?"

"No." His voice was low, unhurried, faintly amused despite the flat set of his mouth. "But you might've hit the deer that was standing where you're parked about four seconds ago."

"I didn't see a deer."

"I know. That's sort of the problem." He came closer, unhurried, boots quiet on the gravel in a way that struck her, distantly, as strange for a man his size — and up close she could see his eyes were a pale, unusual gray-gold, the color of something caught between two states of weather, a sky that couldn't decide whether it wanted to storm. "You're going too fast for this road. Locals know to slow down past the split rock."

She glanced past him and saw it then — a boulder split clean down the middle, standing sentinel at the edge of the treeline like it had been struck by something with enormous, deliberate force. Lightning, maybe. Or the kind of slow patient violence a mountain could produce over a few thousand years. "I'm not local," she said.

"I noticed." His gaze flicked, briefly, to the rental car sticker in the corner of her windshield, then back to her face — and something in his expression shifted, some private calculation she couldn't read, gone as quickly as it arrived. "You're the photographer. The one from the magazine."

It wasn't a question, which meant word had already gotten around, which meant Thornwood Hollow was exactly as small as she'd been told back in Seattle, in an editor's office that smelled like burnt coffee and deadline panic. "Elena Voss," she said, offering a hand out the window before remembering there was several feet of cold mountain air between them. She let it drop, faintly embarrassed, and covered the gesture by pretending to adjust her mirror.

"Rowan Ashford." He didn't offer his own hand. "Forest Service. I patrol this section."

"Well, Rowan Ashford, Forest Service — is it always this friendly around here, or am I getting special treatment?"

Something almost like a smile moved through his face and didn't quite land, like a plane that had considered the runway and thought better of it. "Special treatment," he said, "would be letting you keep driving that fast." He nodded up the road, toward where she could just make out the first rooftops of the town proper, gray and huddled against the tree line. "Slow down. And Ms. Voss—"

"Elena."

"Elena." He said it like he was testing the weight of it, turning the word over the way you'd turn over a stone to see what lived underneath, and something in her chest responded before she could tell it not to, a small traitorous flicker she filed away to examine later, and possibly never. "Stay on the marked trails once you start shooting. Whatever you're hoping to find out here — it isn't always looking to be found."

"That sounds like a warning."

"It's a fact." He said it simply, without drama, which somehow made it land harder than if he'd tried to make it ominous. "Facts and warnings aren't always different things."

He stepped back into the tree line before she could ask what exactly he meant by that, and the forest swallowed him with an ease that struck her, even then, as faintly impossible for a man his size — no snap of branches, no rustle of disturbed undergrowth, just the abrupt and total absence of him, as though the woods had simply reclaimed something that belonged to it. She sat there a moment longer than she needed to, engine idling, watching the place where he'd disappeared, half expecting him to reemerge and explain the trick of it.

He didn't.

A raven called somewhere above the canopy, once, harsh and sudden, and went silent. The kind of silence that followed felt less like absence and more like something listening back, patient and unbothered, the way the whole mountain seemed to be listening back.

Elena shook it off, rolled up the window, and eased the car forward, slower now, the way he'd told her to — though she told herself it was her own decision, not his instruction, a distinction that felt important even as she recognized how thin it was. Ahead, the trees thinned just enough to show her the first outline of the town — a scatter of rooflines, a church spire, woodsmoke rising thin and gray against a sky the color of an old bruise, purple-yellow at the edges where the last of the daylight was losing its argument with the mountains. Somewhere beyond that, the ridgeline kept its shape, indifferent and enormous, holding whatever it was holding, the way it had held it for longer than the town at its feet had existed.

She thought about the rifle, broken open and harmless over his arm, and the way he'd looked at her car like an intrusion rather than a novelty. She thought about the ease with which the forest had taken him back, soundless, complete. She thought, unbidden and unwelcome, about the particular color of his eyes, and how she already suspected she'd be thinking about them again before the night was through.

She told herself the unsettled feeling in her stomach was just the altitude, the long drive, the strangeness of arriving anywhere new after dark. It was a reasonable explanation. It even sounded true, if she didn't examine it too closely.

Then, in the rearview mirror, something at the tree line kept pace with the car.

It was there for less than two seconds — low, fast, moving parallel to the road at a speed no man on foot should have been able to match, gone the instant she looked directly at the mirror instead of through it. Her foot came off the gas before she'd decided to lift it. The road behind her, when she dared a second glance, was empty. Just trees, and the dark filling in the spaces between them.

She drove the rest of the way into town without once checking the mirror again, both hands locked on the wheel, and did not stop shaking until she saw the first lit window of Thornwood Hollow up ahead.