What the hell was that?

  My body jerks—sharp, full-body lurch, heart punching straight up into my throat. Muscle memory taking the wheel before my brain even buckles its seatbelt. God, how long had it been since something rattled me like that? Not since the good old days, praying the foxhole wouldn't turn into confetti courtesy of incoming mortars. Character-building, they called it. Survivors’ humor.

  And dammit, that had been a good knife.

  Balanced, wicked sharp, light enough to forget it was there until you needed it.

  It belonged to a twitchy little raccoon with grabby paws and a nose for trouble. He traded it for a handful of acorn popcorn, of all things. Highway robbery, plain and simple.

  But, something’s out there.

  Right past the sputtering edge of the firelight, where the shadows pack themselves tight, elbowing for space like nosy neighbors at a funeral. Watching. No—staring. Heavy enough that I can feel it. Like greasy fingers combing through my skin, peeling layers back just to see what’s underneath.

  And it’s not just curious.

  No innocent rubbernecking here.

  This thing feels focused. Sharp. Predatory.

  Like a butcher deciding which part to carve first.

  Before my mind even catches up, my body’s already moving—lowering my center, setting my weight, breathing shallow. Instinct hijacking the controls, same as it always does when the breaker flips. Fight or flight, stamped into my bones from a lifetime ago.

  But what the hell is it?

  Some half-starved predator sniffing around for an easy meal?

  A rogue beast with a grudge and too much time on its paws?

  Or something worse... something that never had a place in nature to begin with?

  Hell, maybe I just scared off a paying customer. Wouldn’t that be my luck.

  Welcome to Grant’s Traveling Emporium of Regrets and Miscellaneous Dead Things. No refunds.

  I wait.

  Breath locked tight in my chest.

  Heartbeat pounding a slow, stupid drumbeat in my ears.

  Nothing moves.

  Nothing breathes.

  That presence—thick, foul, almost wet with malice—just... vanishes. As if it had never been there at all. Like the woods shrugged it off, wiping the slate clean.

  Great. Either I'm cracking like a cheap plate, or something’s out there playing peekaboo with my sanity.

  Maybe I’m just seeing ghosts.

  Maybe all those campfire horror stories I laughed off as a kid are crawling out of the woodwork for an encore.

  Get it together, Grant.

  Forty-and-something's too damn young to die of sheer, weapons-grade stupidity.

  Snap.

  The sound slices through the night like a blade slipping between ribs.

  Instantly, everything around the fire freezes.

  Not the casual, maybe-it-was-the-wind kind of freeze.

  No, this is the real deal—the deathly, predatory stillness that seeps into the marrow. The kind where even blinking feels like a risk.

  Fur fluffs up. Tails double in size. Ears pin flat.

  Even the potato—yeah, the stupid potato with legs—locks up, stiff as a dropped puppet, tiny muscles vibrating like a wound-up spring.

  “…Shit,” I whisper, voice barely scraping past my lips.

  Not a curse.

  Not a prayer.

  Just an acknowledgment.

  The kind of grim little confession you make when the rules of the game change, and you’re pretty sure you’re holding the losing hand.

  Whatever’s out there?

  It’s not playing anymore.

  Crimson eyes blink at me from the gloom—two pinpricks of light bobbing between gnarled trees. The shadows creep at the edges of the firelight, twitching and flickering like they’ve got bad intentions and worse timing.

  Every muscle coils up tight, wound like a spring ready to snap.

  Fight. Run. Hide. Make a terrible decision. Pick your poison, Grant.

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  I scramble for a weapon and come up with... a stick. A glorious, splintery masterpiece, about as useful as a pool noodle in a knife fight.

  Perfect. Real survivalist behavior. Toss your only decent weapon and grab a tree branch. Smart.

  The shadows breathe closer. I swear I can feel them exhaling against my skin.

  Heart hammering against my ribs like a caffeinated drummer, I raise the mighty twig of destiny.

  Something lurches out of the woods, arms and legs flailing, and belly-flops into the dirt with a heavy whump that kicks up a sad little puff of dust.

  "Master…?" a tiny, hiccuping voice stammers out, thick with the kind of raw panic you usually only hear from lost toddlers—or people about to butcher a karaoke song.

  I let out a long, shaky breath I didn’t even realize I was strangling inside my chest.

  Oh, for the love of—

  "You?" I bark out a dry, incredulous laugh. "How the hell did you find me?"

  She lifts her hand like a solemn little knight returning from battle. Nestled in her palm—my knife.

  My beautiful, stupidly-thrown-away knife, gleaming under the firelight like it's proud of itself for betraying me.

  "This was stuck on a tree," she says, sniffling, like she just delivered the Holy Grail instead of nearly giving me a heart attack.

  Odd. Was she the one skulking around earlier...?

  "Okay, Joan of Arc," I mutter, dragging a hand down my face. "You saw some random knife jammed into a tree and just thought, yep, definitely Grant's. No doubt about it?"

  She beams like I handed her a diploma. "Silly Master!" she chirps, voice syrupy-sweet. "I recognized the scent! Master smells..."

  Her nose twitches. Her pupils dilate like a cat stalking prey.

  "...So manly... so juicy..." she breathes out, licking her lips.

  And for a horrifying second, I think she might actually drool.

  Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Not today, Satan.

  I backpedal two solid steps and whip out the universal signal for Absolutely Not—one stiff hand held up between us like a traffic cop for bad ideas.

  "Not doing this again," I say, firm, full of the kind of conviction usually reserved for New Year’s resolutions that die by February.

  She sniffles harder, crimson eyes wobbling, perched on the knife’s edge of tears.

  Then, out of nowhere, a low rumble shakes the air.

  Grrpt!

  My head snaps toward the sound like it’s been yanked on a string.

  The trees sway. The shadows lean in. Even the night itself holds its breath.

  Nope. False alarm.

  It’s her stomach.

  Because of course it is. Because this is my life now. Permanent apocalypse-grade hunger, no matter where I turn.

  "Food!" she squeals, pure joy bursting out of her tiny body like confetti.

  Her eyes sparkle. Her gaze locks onto the mushrooms sizzling pitifully over my sad little campfire.

  "NO!" the critters around me shriek, voices so high-pitched and desperate it sounds like a bad cartoon.

  Grrpt!

  Another stomach growl—louder this time. Looming threat level: imminent.

  The demon girl zeroes in on the mushrooms like a predator spotting a wounded gazelle. Her nose twitches. Her tongue flicks out. Drool glistens on her bottom lip.

  Not good.

  Not good at all.

  "You made..." she breathes, starry-eyed, "...so much yummy food..."

  She shuffles a step closer, vibrating with excitement.

  Oh hell no.

  I thrust my mighty stick between us like it’s Excalibur, the only thing standing between civilization and the oncoming apocalypse.

  "Stay back. Keep at least this much distance between you and the food. Non-negotiable."

  Her face crumples. Tears well up, wobbling like an overfilled water balloon about to pop.

  "But... why, Master?" she whimpers, her voice cracking like a kicked puppy.

  I sigh. Long. Heavy. The sigh of a man who’s lived through too much stupid to be surprised anymore.

  "Because, little lady, you are the walking, talking definition of stranger danger."

  She tilts her head, blinking at me like I just started speaking dolphin.

  Then she giggles.

  A soft, tinkling laugh that would’ve been cute—if it didn’t carry the faintest undercurrent of I will absolutely bite you if given half a chance.

  "Stranger danger?" she repeats, her smile sugary-sweet. "Silly Master! I’m not a stranger—and you’re not in danger!"

  I narrow my eyes, deeply unconvinced.

  "Yeah," I mutter darkly, "that’s what they all say... right before you wake up duct-taped to a tree."