Page 70 of The Reveal
The thing is, I just like her. And liking her is not complicated by her holding my twin brother naked in a prison cell under the river. Or by my wanting to fuck her. That’s strictly a vampire thing, it seems.
It also doesn’t escape me that there’s no one else in the world who can understand my situation the way she can. For a variety of reasons.
“Maybe if we can find this woman on her mountaintop, we can save her,” I say after a few more moments roll by and the moon is already looking toward the horizon. “But I’m not sure that we can. I’m not sure if a vision is set in stone or if it can be changed.”
“Nobody is,” Maddox replies. “There are a lot of theories, but really? Nobody knows anything. No matter what they might tell you.”
“That’s what I like about you. Filled with platitudes and easy comfort.”
Maddox smiles at that. She looks up at that nearly full moon.
“Tomorrow the moon will be full and bright,” she says softly. “Great hiking weather. And if you’re climbing up mountains, you might need someone with a very good nose and an excellent sense of direction.”
When she looks at me and smiles, I don’t think I’m a fool that I smile back.
Because this is the other side of the Reveal, and everything is complicated, sure. But that doesn’t make it fake.
Still, when I finally go to rest my bones in my bed upstairs, what I think about is Ariel. His hand on my throat and that look in his silver eyes.
As if maybe, just maybe, I’m more than just a pawn to him, too.
17.
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 hoursif you’re in excellent hiking shape. And there’s ascramble 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 aboutmyhiking. I’ll be just fine.”
I discover pretty quickly thatjust fineis 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 choosebetween 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.
