“Me too,” I said, looking again at the brochure in my hands. Whatever else, the place was rustic, scenic, and out in the middle of nowhere. At least if I embarrassed myself, there wouldn’t be a bunch of cops or reporters looking to catch it on camera or video this time.
Just a whole lot of werewolves to spread the word back to the Other community what a spaz I am.
Chapter 3
Hunter, New York, was one of the coolest ski resort towns I’d ever seen. Well, the only one I’d ever seen. It was full of tiny businesses and big houses sprawled over a handful of streets and cradled in the shadows of the Catskill Mountains. Many of the stores were closed, some shuttered up tight, waiting for ski season to start. There were few streetlights, mostly on the main street in town. A handful of people were out picking up groceries or chatting with friends despite the chill in the clear mountain air. There weren’t many restaurants, but we made note of them in case we got a hankering for takeout later.
We were staying somewhere deeper in the mountains, a few miles outside the town proper. We pulled off the main road and followed a side street for a little while and then turned onto a tiny, rutted dirt track. I hadn’t spotted it until we were right on top of it. The path was wide enough that it was unmistakably a road, but one that didn’t seem well traveled or maintained. The hardy little Jeep bounced over the numerous potholes, shocks squealing in protest, with the occasional low-hanging branch grazing the car.
Chaz made an offhand remark about a car behind us that had followed us all the way up here. Despite the dark, the driver was using dim fog lights to get through the trees. Possibly whoever it was did not want us to know they were tailing us, but it could also have been another Were with good night vision. I didn’t pay it too much mind; more of my attention was on the creepy, dark road ahead of us.
Those grasping branches in the dark gave me the willies. The tree limbs were so thickly intertwined overhead that the moonlight peeping through didn’t help much in illuminating our way. Chaz had to let go of my hand to wrangle the steering wheel and keep us on track. Beyond the windows, I saw nothing but pitch-black, the only light coming from the headlights swaying and shivering over the heavy growth of trees and brush. He reassured me a couple of times that he could see perfectly well and that we were going the right way. I trusted his eyes better than my own, but I still clung to my seat hoping it would be over soon.
After what felt like an eternity of jostling and low scraping sounds, we pulled into a clearing so well-lit that it momentarily blinded me. I squinted against the glare, lifting my hand up to shade my eyes as I surveyed the open ground.
We’d pulled into a parking lot in front of a large timber lodge. Like the track, the lot was nothing but packed dirt. Someone had taken the time to lay treated lumber to define the edges and give some clue as to where to park. Forty or so other cars were scattered across the lot; Chaz and I must have been straggling behind the rest of the pack. We got out, and I shivered in the biting cold wind that rustled the trees around us. Pulling my light track jacket closed did nothing to ease the chill.
The lodge itself was impressive; a huge double-door entrance was lit with flickering gas lamps on either side, giving dim illumination to well-tended hedges that lined the front of the building and the carved wooden sign that read: WELCOME TO PINE CONE LODGE. The shutters had been folded back from the expansive windows, lights blazing and people moving around behind most of them. Wood smoke was heavy in the air, mixing with the clean scents of freshly turned earth, birch sap, and pine. An owl hooted somewhere off in the distance. The mountains thrust up around us, the place held in the cusp of a thickly wooded valley.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, hefting my purse up on my shoulder and helping Chaz pull luggage out of the trunk. “I haven’t been up in the mountains for a while. This is great!”