We hit the road again, leaving the diner and its too-quiet patrons behind. The Harley grumbled beneath us, spitting occasional protests, but it kept moving. Jasper clung to the backseat like the wind itself might snatch him off if he loosened his grip.
I tried to focus on the cold road ahead, on the cracks of frost breaking across the highway, on the rising forests swallowing the sides of the road.
But I couldn't stop thinking about my mouth.
"My tongue feels weird," I muttered over the engine and the wind. "Mouth too. Not just the teeth. Everything's... off."
Jasper leaned in closer from behind. "What do you mean off?"
I rubbed my jaw with the back of my glove, flexing it like I could work the discomfort out. "I don't know. Heavy? Too big? Feels like there's metal in there or something. Worse than the claws."
It wasn't pain exactly, more like a dull pressure, like my jaw wasn't sure what size it wanted to be anymore. I could feel the unfamiliar weight of sharper teeth tucked behind my lips, the slight stiffness of my tongue like it wasn't fitting quite right.
I gritted my teeth — carefully — and kept driving.
"It's probably a blessing," Jasper offered weakly. "Or a curse. Or a transformation. Or—"
"Not helping," I cut him off.
I hated it. The way it felt like there was more mouth than there should be. Like my body was gearing up for something it hadn't even told me about yet. And the worst part?
The metal buried inside me — the claws, the healing, whatever was fused to my bones — felt more natural than whatever was happening inside my own head now.
I flexed my jaw again. No change.
Just me, the cold wind, a faulty Harley, and a creeping suspicion that my body was still changing.
Still evolving.
The miles rolled by, the Harley growling low as we pushed deeper into the wooded backroads. Snow-laden pines pressed in from both sides like frozen sentries, and the cold gnawed at the edges of my jacket.
Then — I caught it.
A scent.
Sharp. Bitter. Coppery.
I instinctively sniffed again, subtly this time, trying not to let Jasper notice. It wasn't engine oil, gas fumes, or the usual roadside decay. It was... wild. Like wet fur, woodsmoke, and iron, all tangled together.
I adjusted my grip on the handlebars and kept riding, but my jaw tightened.
Whatever it was, it wasn't just lingering — it was fresh. Close.
I tilted my head slightly, catching the wind as it rolled off the hills and through the trees.
There, pacing us through the woods.
A shadow. Four-legged. Heavy. Smooth. It glided between the trees like it belonged there, muscles barely disturbing the snow, but every now and then I caught the glint of something unnatural.
Antlers.
Twisted.
Gnarled like old roots but sharp like blades.
And those eyes —
Not bright. Not flaming like a hellhound's.
Just dull, burning embers fading behind a veil of frost.
Jasper hadn't noticed yet.
I didn't say a word. I just kept driving, letting my instincts work quietly. But deep down, I knew it.
Something was following us.
And it wasn't hungry.
It was watching.
The creature didn't move as we passed it the first time. Just stood there between the trees, partially obscured by the frost-laced branches. Watching. Always watching.
I kept my eyes on the road, pretending I hadn't noticed, but I could feel its stare. Heavy. Ancient. It stuck to me like frostbite.
Jasper was too focused on not falling off the bike to notice.
A few miles further down, just when I started convincing myself it might've been nothing — there it was again. Same creature. Same dead stare. Same pacing alongside us.
Only now it wasn't just hidden in the brush.
This time, I caught a good look.
It stood in a small clearing just off the highway, illuminated faintly by the morning sun breaking through the treeline. The creature was caked in blood — some dried, some fresh — smearing its pale arms and mottled clothes. Except, it wasn't wearing normal clothes.
Fur.
Leaves.
And skin.
The patchwork draped over her like some demented shaman's robe. The antlers crowning her head stretched upward, jagged and twisted, making her silhouette seem massive — monstrous.
But beneath all of it, she looked like... a girl.
Too perfect. Too symmetrical. Like someone had carved her from marble but never finished the job. Something about the smoothness of her face, the way her features refused to fully emote, made my stomach knot.
And then I saw it —
Pointed ears.
Not the playful kind you see on elves in kids' cartoons. Sharp. Long. Stained dark at the tips.
Her eyes locked on mine the moment I recognized her for what she was.
I didn't wait.
I twisted the throttle hard, and the Harley screamed forward.
Jasper yelped, nearly sliding off the back. "What the—? What's wrong?!"
I didn't answer.
I just knew.
Whatever that thing was?
It wasn't just watching.
It was toying.
And I wasn't about to stick around to see what game it wanted to play.
We roared around the next bend, but there she was — again.
Standing by the roadside like she'd never moved. Twisted antlers framing her too-perfect face, blood dripping lazily from her fingers. The forest itself seemed to lean away from her, trees bending slightly as if unwilling to be too close.
Then she did something simple.
She lifted one hand, stained crimson, and pressed a single finger to her lips.
Shhhh.
Instantly, the world dimmed.
The hum of the engine muffled. The wind dulled. The trees swaying in the wind stopped swaying entirely.
And my mouth —
It snapped shut.
Not by choice. My lips pressed tight, locked, like I'd bitten down on an invisible hook. I couldn't even grunt.
Panic flared instantly.
I tried to yell, to cuss, anything, but it was like my mouth wasn't mine anymore.
The Harley kept tearing down the road, but the quiet wasn't natural. It was dead. No birds. No wind. Just the soft sound of tires against frozen pavement, and that distant, faint whisper of her finger still pressed to her lips.
Jasper was saying something behind me, I could feel him shaking me, trying to get my attention, but I couldn't hear him.
The girl's lips curled into a smile, soft and knowing, like she could hear every thought racing through my head.
Then she tilted her head slightly.
And vanished.
No dust. No flash. No sound.
Just gone.
The sound of the engine snapped back like a rubber band, wind howling, trees swaying violently as if making up for the stolen silence. My mouth unlocked all at once, and I gasped, nearly veering off the road.
Jasper screamed over the wind. "What the Hades was THAT?! Lucas?!"
But I could only grip the handlebars tighter, heart racing.
I kept driving, knuckles white on the grips, the Harley's vibrations barely registering through the adrenaline freezing my system. My heart hammered in my ears.
Jasper tapped frantically on my shoulder. "Lucas! What happened?!"
I slowed down just enough to speak, swallowing hard as I tried to process it. "You didn't see it? She was right there."
"She—?" Jasper blinked, confused. "Lucas, I didn't see anyone. There was nothing there! You just— you froze! Like you were staring at the trees!"
I shot him a glance. "She shushed me! My mouth— I couldn't even move it! The sound— it was gone. The whole world just... shut up."
Jasper's face paled, ears twitching under his beanie. He looked genuinely freaked now, but not for the reason I wanted. "Lucas... I swear on the gods, I didn't see anything. I didn't hear anything either. It's been normal since we left the diner. Nothing's been following us."
I stared ahead.
No.
No, I saw her.
Felt her.
Smelled the blood.
The silence wasn't just in my head.
But Jasper's eyes told me the truth. He hadn't seen it. He couldn't. It wasn't hiding behind trees, it wasn't invisible — it was something else. Something that could selectively play with me like I was a toy.
And that scared me more than anything.
I gritted my teeth — carefully this time, mindful of the unnatural jaggedness still scraping the inside of my mouth. The sensation was still there. The change was still real.
The road eventually spat us out onto the approach for the U.S.-Canada border crossing. Snow piled high on the shoulders of the highway, and a tired-looking checkpoint loomed ahead, complete with chain-link fencing, floodlights, and a line of cars idling with exhaust curling into the cold air.
Jasper shifted nervously behind me. "Border patrol," he muttered. "You have your papers, right?"
"Yeah," I said absently, pulling into the back of the line behind a rusted-out pickup. "Not sure they'll accept possible demigod with monster PTSD as a valid occupation, but I've got ID."
We sat there in the slow crawl of cars, the sun barely cresting through the thick gray clouds. The tension in the air hadn't left me. Not since the forest. Not since her.
I scanned the tree line, then the cars around us, trying to spot any hint of the antlered girl again. But the woods were just woods now. The road was just a road. Everyone else looked like regular, bored travelers. Families, truckers, tourists.
Jasper leaned close, voice low. "You're sure you saw something back there?"
I didn't answer.
I knew I saw something. I could still feel it crawling under my skin.
The Harley idled quietly as the line crept forward, car by car, each one getting waved through after brief checks at the booth.
I kept glancing at the woods, expecting the faint sound of hooves on snow, or the shimmer of antlers peeking between branches.
Nothing.
Just silence — but this time, normal silence. No reality-breaking hush, no oppressive stillness. Just the regular kind that blankets tired border crossings.
Jasper rubbed his arms to stay warm. "They'll just ask for papers, maybe ask where we're headed. Don't mention Camp."
"Wasn't planning to."
In truth, I wasn't worried about the border guards.
I was worried about what might be following us to the other side.
The line crawled forward at a snail's pace, each car inching closer to the checkpoint. The Harley's engine rattled quietly under me, sounding like it was just as sick of waiting as I was. The closer we got to the booth, the heavier the air felt — not magical, not like the Fae's silence, but the mundane weight of authority. Guns. Radios. The works.
Jasper adjusted his beanie nervously, hooves tapping softly against the foot pegs.
Finally, it was our turn.
I rolled up to the booth where a border guard, thick-jacketed and red-nosed, leaned out with practiced disinterest. His badge read Officer Dalca. He gave us both a once-over, eyes lingering a second too long on me.
"Morning," he said. "Papers?"
I handed over my ID and Jasper's forged documentation without hesitation. The officer flipped through them, frowning slightly, like he wasn't sure if he was bored or suspicious.
"Where you headed?" he asked, flipping Jasper's paper over as if checking for invisible ink.
"Portland," I answered smoothly. "Visiting family."
Jasper nodded too quickly beside me.
Dalca stared. Not at the papers. At me.
His eyes narrowed, and for a split second — just a second — I thought I saw the faintest shimmer. Like the same kind of shimmer I saw around the Fae girl. Faint, like heat distortion curling behind his pupils.
"You're an early riser," he said slowly, voice a little too flat. "Long way from Anchorage."
I forced a smile. "Aren't we all."
He held my gaze. The tension thickened.
I could feel the markings under my sleeves, pulsing faintly.
And then — just as suddenly — he nodded and handed the papers back. "Have a safe trip."
Relief tried to creep in, but I wasn't buying it.
I drove forward without a word, clearing the checkpoint and merging back onto the highway, Jasper still glued to my back.
Once we were safely away, Jasper leaned close and whispered, "Lucas… did you see his eyes?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
We both fell silent.
The hours rolled by in silence as the Harley chewed through the miles, taking us closer to Seattle. The highway gradually gave way to wider roads, the towering silhouettes of the city emerging from the fog like a rusted crown.
Seattle.
Gray skies. Constant drizzle. The kind of cold that didn't just bite — it lingered. Streets were busy, but not crowded, the usual bustle of a city that barely noticed its own strangeness.
I weaved through traffic, letting instinct guide me as we rolled past block after block, trying to find something cheap and forgettable for the night.
As we cut through the downtown core, one building stood out like it always did — Amazon HQ. A massive sprawl of glass and steel, reflecting the cloudy sky and towering over the other buildings like some modern temple to capitalism.
I felt it before I even saw it.
A smell.
Subtle at first. Faintly metallic. Damp. Like wet fur and rust mixed together, sour under the usual scent of city grime.
Jasper didn't seem to notice, but it hit me like a bad memory. It grew stronger the closer we got to the massive complex, lingering under the drizzle and cold like it belonged here.
I sniffed again, trying to place it, but the best I could rationalize was sewer smell. Cities had them, after all, and Seattle wasn't exactly famous for its fresh air.
Still, the closer we rode past Amazon's glass giant, the worse it got. Like something old was hiding beneath all that glass and steel, buried under conference rooms and overpriced lattes.
I forced myself to ignore it.
Probably nothing. Probably just pipes.
Still, I gunned the Harley a little harder, putting distance between us and the tower.
Jasper didn't say a word. Just held on as we kept heading deeper into the city.
We found a motel tucked between a strip mall and an abandoned laundromat, the kind of place where the lights buzzed just a little too much and the lobby smelled faintly like bleach and old coffee.
But it was cheap, and they didn't ask questions.
I grabbed a room, paid in cash, and unloaded the essentials. The Harley, however, wasn't going to survive much longer on prayers and duct tape. It needed real help.
After a bit of walking and a lot of wandering, I found a garage on the edge of an industrial park — Marty's Auto. Rusty signage, scattered tools, and enough broken cars out front to make you question its legitimacy. Looked like my kind of place.
Inside, the smell of oil, metal, and burnt coffee greeted me.
There was a guy under a beaten-up pickup, boots sticking out, country music softly playing from a dusty radio. I called out, "Hey, you do walk-ins?"
"Depends," the man's voice came from under the truck, muffled but calm. "You in a rush or just in denial about your ride falling apart?"
"Little of both," I replied.
A chuckle. "Bring it in."
I rolled the Harley inside and watched as the guy slid out from under the truck, wiping his hands on a rag. Mid-forties, broad-shouldered, wearing stained coveralls like a uniform. Grease-streaked and unbothered.
But the moment he looked up, I saw it.
Just one eye.
Set dead center on his forehead.
I stiffened instantly, reaching reflexively toward my glove.
The man caught it immediately and raised his free hand. "Easy, kid. Relax." His voice was calm, steady. "I'm one of the good ones."
I didn't lower my guard, but I didn't bolt either.
The cyclops — because, yeah, it wasn't like there was another explanation — casually tossed the rag aside and walked over to the Harley like this happened every Tuesday.
"Name's Donnie," he said. "Donnie Ferris. I'll fix her up good, promise." He gave me a once-over. "You're new, ain't ya? First time out of the bubble?"
I said nothing.
He just grinned. "Figured. Don't worry, I ain't in the monster business. Just keep machines runnin' for kids like you."
He offered me a price that was weirdly fair. Too fair.
My instincts told me I should be suspicious.
But something about the way he worked? The quiet ease? The fact that he didn't flinch when he noticed the faint blue glow under my sleeves?
I got the sense he was telling the truth.
Still, I kept one foot ready to step back.
"Deal," I said eventually.
"Good choice." He winked — or, well, blinked, since he only had the one eye.
After sealing the deal with Donnie and watching him get to work with practiced, mechanical ease, I decided not to stick around. I wasn't about to hover over a cyclops while he wrenched on my only ride — especially one who seemed way too comfortable with my situation.
The afternoon was sinking into that grey Seattle gloom as I stepped out of the garage.
I raised a hand at the first cab I saw trundling down the street, and thankfully, the driver pulled over. I slid into the back seat, giving him the name of the motel without much enthusiasm.
The cab smelled like old fries and cheap air freshener. Seattle charm, I guess.
As we rolled back toward the motel, I caught myself watching the streets a little too carefully. The city was normal enough — people going about their business, cars stuck in light traffic, rain drizzling steadily.
But that tension hadn't left me.
I couldn't shake the image of her from earlier. The antlers. The silence. The eyes.
Or the way Officer Dalca at the border had looked at me like he was reading a language I didn't know I was speaking.
I rubbed at my jaw, still hyper-aware of the strange weight inside my mouth. It wasn't just uncomfortable anymore. It was settling in, like my body had already accepted it, even if my brain hadn't.
I slumped back against the seat and tried to push the paranoia down.
When we pulled into the motel's cracked parking lot, I tossed the cabbie some cash and stepped out into the drizzle, cold air biting through my jacket.
Jasper was pacing by the room door, arms crossed tight, eyes darting like he was expecting the apocalypse to stroll up behind me.
"Took you long enough," he said, but there was no real bite in it. Just worry.
"Bike's getting patched up," I replied flatly. "And you're never gonna believe who the mechanic is."
Jasper's eyes narrowed. "Who?"
I shrugged. "Cyclops."
Jasper's mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. "Cyclops? Like—Polyphemus, sheep-eating, Odysseus-hating—those Cyclopes?"
"Relax," I said, waving a hand. "Name's Donnie. One eye. Smells like oil and motor grease. He gave me a fair price and didn't try to eat me. I think that qualifies as friendly."
Jasper rubbed his temples like he was catching a migraine. "Friendly Cyclopes don't exist."
"Then maybe someone forgot to send him the memo," I said, pushing past him to the door. "Anyway, he's working on the Harley."
We stepped inside, and for a moment, the quiet of the motel room almost felt like safety.
Almost.
I dropped onto my bed, letting out a long sigh while Jasper hovered near the window, pulling the curtain aside every few minutes to peek outside like we were being tailed by the mob.
"You're awfully twitchy for someone who claims nothing followed us," I said.
"I don't know what's going on!" Jasper snapped, flustered. "You're seeing things I can't, you've got these—" he gestured wildly at my hidden arms, "—markings, you're healing like a Titan, and now you're cool with random Cyclopes playing mechanic? None of this is normal!"
I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "Normal died in Anchorage."
Jasper sat heavily on the edge of his bed. The tension between us hung thick for a while, only broken by the faint hum of the cheap heater.
Outside, the drizzle kept tapping softly against the window.
I rubbed my face, jaw aching faintly again, and felt the markings on my arms pulse subtly under my sleeves. Not sharp, not painful, just present. Like they were reminding me they hadn't gone anywhere.
CP Bank: 200cp
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