Page 37 of The Reveal (Bloodlore #1)

And this is how I find myself agreeing to hike up Mount McLoughlin on the third of October—much too late into fall to attempt this trail, by all accounts—under a full moon and in the company of a werewolf.

McLoughlin is a supposedly dormant volcano, though I’m not sure I ever trust claims of dormancy no matter how many eras it’s been.

On clear days, you can stand in certain places in the Rogue Valley and see all the way down to Mount Shasta in California, and then look north to McLoughlin, too.

They’re like a matched pair, since McLoughlin is the southernmost volcano in the state. The next in line is Crater Lake.

There’s no part of the valley where McLoughlin isn’t waiting to peek out all year long.

The peak is snowcapped for much of the year, sometimes wreathed in clouds, and only clear enough to climb toward the end of summer.

After September—and sometimes during—the snow comes back, making the trailhead impossible to reach, and the trail itself a mess.

It’s ninety-five hundred feet high, though the trail is only about five miles long.

With, sadly, four thousand feet of elevation gain.

I have never felt the slightest inclination to climb it before, mostly because my quads hurt just thinking about even attempting it.

Some things are better looked at from afar.

I knew people, however, who went ahead and made the climb every year.

They would set out before dawn, because the climb takes a minimum of six hours if you’re in excellent hiking shape .

And there’s a scramble at the top once you pass the tree line and have nothing but lava rock and other rubble to clamber over to get to the summit.

The reward for all that effort, naturally, is the view that might or might not be cloudy, and then you get to turn around and make your way back down again. Hopefully faster.

No, thank you. I’m capable of coming up with pointless exercises on my own without potentially falling off the side of dangerous mountains in pursuit of nasty rituals involving very sharp knives.

But Maddox and I agree to set out before dawn all the same.

I dig out my old hiking boots, which of course I have even though I’ve never been a serious hiker, because what I am instead is a native Oregonian.

We are prepared, at all times, for any potential hikes and all hiking-associated issues, and we always have the relevant gear on hand.

Like water filtration and a pop-up tent, if needed.

I don’t bring those things. I do pack a first aid kit, even though it seems a little bit ridiculous if I think about the amount of blood I keep seeing in those visions.

Do I think I’ll combat the ritualistic killing with some cotton swabs and medical tape?

I also pack snacks. Far more useful.

Maddox, on the other hand, flits into the kitchen in jeans, flip-flops, and a sweatshirt that has the name of a coffee shop that no longer exists emblazoned on its front.

We gaze at each other. She looks like she’s going for a stroll, possibly on a beach. I look like I’m about to climb Everest.

“You’re going to ... hike McLoughlin in flip-flops?” I ask.

She gazes back at me. Blandly. “Don’t you worry about my hiking. I’ll be just fine.”

I discover pretty quickly that just fine is an understatement.

We get to the trailhead, after surviving Maddox’s reckless driving for some thirty-five miles into the wilderness.

Then up the old Forest Service access road that no one’s touched in years.

I settle in for what I anticipate will be a fairly arduous hike, but Maddox just .

.. lilts along. She doesn’t have to stop to catch her breath.

She doesn’t have to choose between talking and living.

She doesn’t even seem to notice as we start gaining elevation.

The fact that she’s wearing flip-flops on questionable terrain doesn’t seem to slow her down at all.

The only thing slowing her down is me.

I’m not sure why it takes me so long to realize that if she wanted to, Maddox could simply lope her way up the side of the mountain without a care in the world—and probably without breathing heavily while she’s at it—but is holding back.

For me.

I have a lot of time to think about that, especially when I stop trying to chat with her as we go.

“You seem a little broody,” she says at one point.

I wave that off, while panting. “Oh, I’m just contemplating my fitness level compared to your fitness level, wondering why anyone thinks hiking is fun, and in between all that, I’m focusing on the great many people who have decided to lie to me over the past few years. You know. Light and easy stuff.”

She laughs. “I mean, part of that is that I’m not a human,” she reminds me. “You’re doing great for a human who also hasn’t trained for this.”

“I was born here. What training could I possibly need?”

That bravado lasts about three steps.

We hike on through the morning. We stop to eat lunch, though it’s pretty clear that I’m the only one who requires calories to go on. Maddox is lounging around as if she’s in a bar. Or perhaps on a poolside recliner somewhere. That’s how little this hike requires of her.

I eat what I can, hoping that it gives me more energy, because I’m going to need it.

We set out again. And it’s worse. Slower, steeper.

I know that I must look wretched when Maddox takes my backpack.

“I’ll take a turn.” She sounds so cheerful, complete with a smile. “It’s only fair.”

I know perfectly well she’s taking it out of pity, but I remind myself that there’s absolutely no point in attempting to prove my strength to an actual supernatural creature, so I don’t.

We climb. Everything hurts, then hurts some more, and still we trudge on.

I think about how I sneaked into Gran’s room early this morning, leaving her some breakfast and her coffee in an insulated mug.

Careful, child, she whispered, when I thought she was asleep. Fate does not look kindly on those who seek to thwart it.

I wanted to sink down onto the side of her bed.

I wanted to crawl up and curl myself into her and let her hold me the way she did when I was little.

When my mother had broken off another piece of my heart and smashed it on the ground.

When I believed she could fix everything with a hand on my forehead and a few soothing sounds.

I wanted to tell her about Augie. About all the things I saw. About the things that are happening to me.

About this terrible pull I feel toward Ariel and how I wish it were as simple as sex.

How I can’t get past that moment when I ran up the stairs and out of that dungeon, and felt sheer relief that he was there. Waiting.

Like he could fix everything, even me.

I wanted to tell her that I don’t know what this makes me and I don’t know who I am.

But I already know that if I said something like that to my grandmother, she would very likely tell me to snap out of it. And not soothingly.

You can’t be anyone but you, try though you might, she would say, the way she did when I was in seventh grade and was sure that everyone only pretended to tolerate me because they loved Augie so much, and I was their consolation prize.

That’s your only power in any given situation, so it’s best to come to terms with it.

That’s what I tell myself now as my calves complain and my hamstrings scream and my feet swell up in these boots I haven’t worn in years.

I keep going.

But as the day wears on, it gets harder. Not just because it’s steep and relentless, but because the vision keeps pounding at me, more with every step.

By afternoon it begins to feel as if the vision itself is pummeling me with nasty psychic fists. As if the vision wants me off this mountain and away from the scene of the crimes that will be committed here.

I figure that can only mean I’m in the right place.

Maddox starts telling me stories. Silly tales of inconsequential things, like episodes of long-ago television shows we watched when we were kids.

I understand at once that she’s distracting me, and I’m grateful.

Though I can’t really concentrate on what she’s saying, that’s okay, because for a while it seems as if the sound of her cheerful commentary alone might keep the worst of the visions away.

Sadly, this doesn’t last.

What does last is the headache, the worst one yet.

As it starts to get dark, I slow down even more, from a crawl to something slugs could beat without trying hard, because all I can see is blood.

Not the trail before me. Not the trees all around.

Those wicked blades piercing flesh. The grotesque dancing and that flickering flame and that blood, everywhere.

As if the point of the whole thing is a wholesale exsanguination.

As if they want to paint the forest, and the mountain, and the whole damn valley with the fruits of their bloodletting.

I have to say, it feels a lot like the sort of Goddess of Filth carnage I’ve heard about and seen too much of in my nightmares. The moment I think it, I know.

It’s her. It’s been her all along.

And it’s grisly, this coming sacrifice. I can feel the weight of it. There’s a sour copper taste in my mouth, and I’m moving slower and slower, as if I’m the one who’s been stabbed.

I have to force myself to keep moving anyway.

“We can stop,” Maddox says. More than once. “I can always run on ahead and scope things out.”

I want that to be the solution. I collapse, maybe at the notion that there can be any solution that isn’t this pounding in my head. She crouches next to me, and when I look at her, I can see that there’s worry there.

Not just for me.

I’m afraid I know why. “You don’t think that you can find it, do you? That only I can.”

Maddox doesn’t look all that cheerful now. “What I’m betting is that it’s the kind of thing that we’ll only be able to find afterward. I think you’re probably the only one who can find it ahead of time. Because to you, it’s already happened.”