Epilogue; The Custodians

Trace was taken down from Phantom Peak without further incident, just questions racing through his mind. That night, the storm moved in. A dusting of a few inches of snow coated the higher peaks. Had he not been found, he would’ve died of exposure, becoming a meal for the scavengers and bleached bones upon the tundra. Another victim of the mountain locals called haunted or cursed.

It was only when the doctors began to examine him that he really felt he had gone downhill. The skull fracture had caused swelling to his brain, which had damaged motor skills to his right side. Not that it really mattered; his right collarbone was broken in three places and his right forearm in six. He had broken his back, as was well his pelvis. His right leg was not so much shattered as ground into powder.

He would live, but it was questionable how well he would be able to function, let alone walk. Trace wondered if being told he’d survive, given the damage, was really good news after all. Maybe exposure was the better option.

“A few years ago, Lazarus’s big sister was in a rollover up Deneb Gulch. The doctors said she’d never walk again.” Ian said a few days later. “Six months later, she was dragging herself along through Leeds’s town park with a set of crutches. She’s determined to summit the Death’s Head in the next two years.”

Trace knew his cousin was trying to help. Telling him not to give up. The pain and the surgeries and talk of therapy made such pep talks sounds silly. A few days after Ian’s visit, a card arrived for him. It was a picture of some nameless snowcapped peak with a very brief message written inside;

If you give up now, then your injuries have beaten you. Bear that in mind.

-L. Lankin

***

It was the middle of March when Ian brought him up to Marrakech. His leg, precariously held together by pins, like a few other parts of his body, was encased in a brace and he hobbled along with crutches. One of his doctors remarked how proud he was of Trace’s progress and he mentioned the name Bast Lankin. The doctor chuckled.

“Her stubbornness is contagious,” the doctor said.

A fat full moon shone down upon the fresh fallen snow across Gaia’s Backbone, making the high peaks look like they were encrusted in a blanket of cut diamonds. Warm light and jovial voices spilled out of Magpie Jack’s. Trace smiled weakly to himself. It had been six months since he’d had a beer, and he intended to buy a glass of wine for the man who pulled him off of Phantom Peak.

Lankin was sitting with Bast and a brunette girl who was introduced as Sydney. He traded civilities with Ian that seemed strained at best. Even so, it seemed the two men respected one another.

“And how long before I pull you off another mountain?” Lankin asked Trace with a smirk that was rather predatory.

“Hopefully never again,” he replied. “But I want to start hitting trails again by summer. My girlfriend’s been taking me to Denver’s City Park to try walking a little more outside of PT.”

“That’s good. You’ll recover. Give it a season, you’ll be hitting the Backcountry again.”

“I’m hoping so,” Trace said. “I don’t know that I’ll be trying another shot at Phantom Peak.”

“That’s probably for the best,” Lankin mused.

“I’m still trying to wrap my head around what happened up there,” Trace said. “I swear I heard laughing and voices. I swear I saw a girl, and maybe even a guy, not a stands of aspens. And the mountain lions? Was I in shock, or did you really call them Mother and Father?”

Lankin’s gaze hardened. He seemed to be restraining something. Trace noticed how Bast was eyeing him strangely. Both Ian and Sydney seemed uneasy at the Lankin siblings’ reaction.

“Let’s go up to the bar and get a drink, Trace,” Lankin said suddenly. “I owe you a beer from our first meeting, and I’m sure Grizz would be interested to hear of your trials and tribulations.”

“Oh, sure. Let’s go.”

The others watched them go up to the bar. Grizz made an excited greeting at receiving his company, calling for a round, on him. Ian looked over at Bast, but quickly averted his gaze, going back to his beer. Sydney started to open her mouth, but was silenced by gentle squeeze to her wrist.

“Were you to ask some of these old-timers, like Grizz, we Lankins don’t die, we just disappear,” Bast began, as though in a trance. “That we haunt the wilderness, as it were. There are other old-timers who say our parents are shape-shifters. Some will claim to hear their voices on the wind and others say to have seen them just as they must have looked the day they left Lazarus and I.” She looked away, almost wistfully. “Then, there are those who say they appear as two groves of aspens; one with yellow leaves and one with red, far closer to tree-line than normal. And, of course, the mountain lions…

“They watch. Perhaps it is they are the ones who decide who comes out of the Backcountry and who doesn’t. Some would call it all ghost stories, and there’s a logical explanation. But they’re up there, and they’re always watching.”

Watcher Upon the Rocks

For Trace, all he had were the moments. Moments of pain. Moments of cold. Moments of hunger. Moments of thirst. Moments of fear. Moments of anger. All of these were shrouded in intervening moments of blackness. He really had no idea how long he’d been where he was. Although, once he woke to the sight of the moon staring down at him like a cold half-lidded eye against phantasm clouds, giving him the impression at least one day had passed. Beyond that, time had little meaning. With what had happened to his right arm, it’s not like he could check his watch or reach for his phone to pretend to call for help.

He assessed the damage in stages. For every bit he discovered, the pain sent him back into the black. First, was his head, which had been wet and sticky on the left side. When he tried to touch it, it felt like something that was supposed to be solid gave way. He might have screamed before he passed out. Next, was the realization he could not feel his right arm, and it looked like his collarbone might even be sticking out of his shirt. Finally, he was able to lift his head up just enough to see his right leg was at an odd angle and partially buried.

First, he was terrified. Injured, half-buried under scree, this was not good. He was in no condition to move and it could be days before anyone even thought to look for him. Then, the anger came. He was angry that he thought he could beat Phantom Peak, that he let himself get caught in this situation, that he didn’t listen to the stories, that he’d stupidly left his pack behind when he went scrambling across the scree.

He was going to die. That much was obvious. He had no food or water with him and he was injured. What was worse about this realization was the knowledge that it was not going to be a quick death. Ravens would probably be picking at his flesh while he would still be alive to feel it.

The rain brought him back. Cold drops pelting his damaged frame. He opened his mouth and greedily gulped at the little bit of water falling from the sky. The breeze chilled him. He could already see the sky clearing, even if the clouds overhead were so ominously black.

Something was watching him. There was no doubt about it. He could feel the eyes burning into him. Slowly, despite the pain in doing so, he turned his head slightly to see what it was.

The mountain lion laid passively just a few yards to his right, its tail moving slightly. It didn’t look like it was going to pounce just yet. Instead, it just watched him. Only when another, far larger, cat walked up, did the first one stand to stretch. Trace swallowed back a hard lump just hoping they’d make it quick.

“Hello, Mother. It’s been a bit.” The voice sounded familiar. “I was just telling Father I was up here looking for someone that Bast said was in need of help. I’m sure she’ll just be positively tickled to know I reached him in time. Thank you so much for looking after him for me. It appears I have a new place to look for the lost here now.”

Both mountain lions were standing and watching. Then, they turned and began to walk away. Perhaps under normal circumstances, Trace would’ve been surprised beyond all reason, but he was on Phantom Peak. His experience here had taught him reason didn’t readily apply.

There were people checking him. He looked up to see a pair of familiar feline gray eyes framed by a mane of rust colored dreadlocks. The wine guy from Magpie Jack’s. Something that looked like a smile crossed his face.

“It’s alright, you’re okay,” he began. “You’ve been injured, but I’m here to help. My name is Lazarus Lankin. Can you tell me your name?”

“Trace…” He wheezed, his throat was so dry it hurt. “Trace McAlester.”

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Trace, Trace McAlester.”

“Just Trace,” he said, almost laughing.

“I know a girl named Just Sydney,” Lankin said in a friendly tone. “She’s yet to tell me the etymology of her name, though I think it’s Farsi.”

This got Trace to laugh, but then the pain seized him.

“Hush, relax, and save your strength,” Lankin cooed before looking over his shoulder. “Help me get his leg uncovered, then you haul ass back up to the summit to radio Connelly.”

“Do we have to worry about your…parents?” Ian asked as he started to remove rocks from around Trace’s leg.

“No.”

“I never imagined you as the superstitious sort, Lazarus,” Ian mused. “Always living by that rule of respecting the Backcountry or it’ll kill you.”

“I do live by that, but you are up here because of a premonition from my sister,” Lankin said. “I allow for the possibility my parents have turned into a pair of mountain lions.” He shrugged. “It’s a leap of faith.”

“Isn’t a leap of faith the same as superstition?”

“Not really,” Lankin said casually. “Every moment here in the mountains is a leap of faith, and in the Backcountry? Doubly so.” He paused to chuckle. “Really, Deputy, I thought you’d know that by now.”

They worked in silence to get Trace’s leg uncovered. The sun came back out, warming things once more. Ian then began to hike back up to get a signal to contact Connelly. Lankin set about making sure Trace was stable enough to transport.

“You’re doing great,” he said in a warm tone. “We’ll be getting you out of here soon. In fact, we should be down in time for trivia at Magpie Jack’s, and you’re young and strong, you’ll be better and back to getting into Backcountry trouble before you know it.”

“I thought I heard someone,” Trace said weakly. “A girl. Thought I saw someone too, but it was just a tree.”

Lankin looked at Trace a moment before looking down toward tree-line. Along the krumholtz, the mountain lion pair stared back, before melting into the shadows once more.

“How interesting,” he muttered.

Watcher Upon the Mountaintop

Ian liked to consider himself in good shape, but he could hardly keep up. Lankin set a merciless pace, only stopping long enough for Ian to catch up. The snarl on his face reflected his agitation at having to slow down. Above them, clouds were gathering and the air hinted of rain, perhaps even graupel.

Once Ian returned to Lankin’s he barely had time to transfer his gear from one vehicle to another. Lankin set off at a furious pace, getting them to the dirt tracks four-wheelers used around Gaia’s Backbone at a speed that would have resulted in a severe speeding ticket at the very least. He drove at least two, perhaps even three miles past any four-by-four road Ian was aware of before finally stopping, getting out of his vehicle and slipping into his pack before the engine had completely shut off. Lankin was already at least fifty yards away when he looked back at Ian, still getting his back on.

“We do not have time for you to dally, Deputy,” Lankin said, making no effort to mask his ire at the situation.

The sky turned black, matching his mood. Ian struggled to keep up. What was more unsettling than his companion’s mood was the fact he could feel eyes on him. Someone, something was following just out of sight. If Lankin was aware of it, he didn’t let on. He just kept his purposeful gate, marching toward the summit of Phantom Peak with grim determination of a pallbearer on the way to a gravesite.

It took two hours to reach tree-line from where they parked. Lankin finally stopped at a rather large boulder to have some water and unshoulder his pack. When Ian finally caught up, he looked on impassively.

“This is the trail, such as it is,” Lankin said. “Anyone who comes up here seems to intuit this route. It would seem that your cousin just kept going instead of turning around. If he was smart, he made for the lake on the other side, which is what the ones who come down off this mountain do.”

“And if he didn’t?” Ian asked breathlessly.

“If we don’t find him on this route, we won’t,” Lankin replied. “You’ll have to reconcile he’s one of the lost.”

“That’s a cold way of looking at it,” Ian muttered.

“No, Deputy,” Lankin corrected. “It’s realistic.”

A drop pelted Ian’s face, cold and jarring. There was a chill on the breeze. Although there was clear skies on either side of them, the sky above looked like it would open up with a deluge.

“It might blow over, but we should put on our shells,” Lankin said. “This boulder here has a nice cut we can use for a bivouac if needs be. The summer before my sister’s accident, we camped here.”

“You camped here?!?” Ian exclaimed. “With all the stories? My god! Why?”

“We had our reasons.”

They crawled inside the cut to put on their hardshells. Both men noticed the pack stashed next to the rock. Ian felt his heart sink at the realization of whom it belonged to. It didn’t fit; Trace was young and a little cocky, but to just leave his pack seemed too careless. Lankin noted the pack with a detached glance, his eyes tracking back out to dirt and rock landscape outside. It was starting to drizzle.

Movement caught Ian’s attention. He moved back toward the opening to get a better look, hoping it was Trace coming back to collect his pack, making this whole trip for naught. His hopes were dashed when he saw it wasn’t. In fact, it wasn’t even human.

The mountain lion looked to weigh three hundred pounds if it weighed an ounce. It was sitting looking directly at the boulder, directly at the two men. Without a conscious thought, Ian’s hand slipped down to the pistol he had belted to his waist. He only realized what he was doing when he felt a strong hand seize his wrist.

“Don’t you dare!” Lankin hissed.

With that, he pulled the hood of his shell over his head and reshouldered his pack. He stepped out into the rain causally, walking toward the big cat. Ian watched horrified as Lankin got to within just a few yards of the animal and stopped. The mountain lion could easily pounce if it so desired. At the moment it just watched as the person in front of it folded his arms across his chest and smiled off-handedly.

“Hello, Father. It’s been a bit.”

The mountain lion yawned before it laid itself down. It’s tail swished back and forth as something of an afterthought. If anything, it really didn’t seem at all interested.

“So, I’m up here looking for someone,” Lankin continued. “Someone Bast seems to think is alive, and perhaps in need of some help. Have you seen anyone like that?”

The mountain lion stood up and stretched. With another large yawn it revealed its full set of large teeth. It turned and started walking in the direction of a scree field.

“Are you coming, Deputy?” Lankin called over his shoulder as he began to walk, not bothering to see if he was being followed.

The Wrath of the Sphinx

Deputy Ian McAlester never really cared for coming to Marrakech. The town had no formal law enforcement of its own, and the it was unspoken, but understood, the sheriff only came in if called, even then, being looked on with disdain by watching locals. That was not to say Marrakech was lawless. It was often said in semi-joking terms that the rule of law was not in the hands of the mayor and town board, but that of three individuals; Ira Milligan, Grizz, and Lazarus Lankin. The last person to try and tangle with that law was Franklin Davis, almost two years before, in connection with the murder of Donovan Tabor. Ian had been the one to come up and make the arrest.

There was a ball of anxiety in his gut as he pulled across the driving bridge to the last house on Lovecraft Lane. Two vehicles sat in the drive, notating someone was home. As he got out of his truck, Ian could hear the sound of wood being split out back. It reminded him that there was a storm forecasted to move in. There was even the suggestion that this could bring the first flakes of snow for the season above tree-line.

Following the sounds of chopping and splitting, Ian came upon Lankin, working in an almost effortless fashion on some logs just short of the cliff overlooking Marrakech Gulch. He was dressed in jeans and a pair of boots, his wiry muscles cording and snapping in an almost predatory rhythm. A woman with long, curly brown hair was gathering the split pieces and taking them to be stacked by the back door. She was the one who noticed Ian in his full Levant County Sheriff's uniform.

“You’ve got company, Lazarus,” she said.

He turned, ever so slightly in mid-swing, to regard Ian before splitting the log he was working on as though it was an afterthought. The girl was walking toward Lankin as he reached down to hand her the split pieces of wood with one hand, in the other, he kept holding his splitting maul. He gave her an off-handed smile as she took the wood.

“Why don’t you go brew us some tea,” he said softly.

“Don’t be too long,” she whispered, giving him a kiss on the cheek and going into the house.

“Your sister said you were seeing someone,” Ian said after she went inside. “She said it was sort of serious. Well, serious for you.”

“What do you want, Deputy?” Lankin inquired coldly, setting up another log to split.

Ian jerked back, as though he had been physically struck. It was obvious Lankin had no interest in small talk. Not with him. The only time Lankin went out of his way to deal with the sheriff's department was during a rescue. Even then, it was done so dismissively.

“You and Grizz spoke to my cousin, Trace, a week or two back,” Ian started. “Tried to warn him off Phantom Peak.”

“And?” The spitting maul slammed into wood with a thunderous crack.

“His girlfriend called me today,” Ian continued. “Apparently, Saturday, he came up here to try it anyway.”

“It’s Tuesday, Deputy,” Lankin observed, swinging again, not checking to see if he was heard over the impact of the maul into wood.

“Exactly!” Ian exclaimed. “He’s hasn’t come back yet! Which means he’s still up there.”

“Most likely.”

“’Most likely’?!? Lazarus, he could be injured, or worse.”

“He could,” the log split and another was set in its place.

“And you’re just going to split wood?” Ian found himself starting to shake. “There’s suppose to be weather moving in!”

“Yes, weather is moving in, which is why I’m getting my firewood ready.”

“I can’t believe you!”

“Connelly is in charge of rescue operations in this county,” Lankin said casually, swinging down on the fresh log. “Have you even bothered to talk to him?”

“You’d be the first person he’d call, Lazarus,” Ian said. “Everyone knows you’re the go-to guy for the Backcountry. No one knows Gaia’s Backbone as well as you. Even Phantom Peak.”

“Call Connelly and tell him to have a body bag ready.”

“You’re not even going to try?!?” By this time, Ian was standing face to face with Lankin. “You bastard! You pussy! What? You afraid because Phantom Peak’s where your mommy and daddy disappeared?”

In a flash, Ian found himself hanging above Marrakech Gulch, Lankin’s left hand locked tightly around his throat, his splitting maul slightly raised. His gray eyes were narrowed with predatory intensity. Something that sounded like a growl resounded in the back of his throat.

“The sphinx used to ask travelers a riddle about a creature who walked on different numbers of legs at different times of the day,” Lankin hissed. "Although I always liked the version of the riddle my sister told me; ‘shall I kill you, traveler? Or shall I set you free? What walks on four legs? Then two? Then three?’”

“Lazarus…”Ian wheezed.

“The riddle!” He roared. “What is the fucking answer?”

“Man!” Ian screamed “Man! It’s Man! Okay!?!”

He found himself back on the ground, sputtering for breath. For a brief moment, he considered charging Lankin for assaulting him. The splitting maul coming down into the log, just inches from Ian’s face, shattering the log into two pieces, got him to reconsider.

“Don’t ever mention my parents again!” Lankin growled.

“Sonuvabitch!” Ian wheezed. “You do have a weakness after all.”

“Call Connelly and get a body bag, Deputy,” Lankin said. “Three days missing on Phantom Peak? It’s not going to be a happy ending.”

“He’s still alive!”

“Oh? And you know this?” Lankin mocked. “Are we psychic now, Deputy McAlester?”

“No, but some people think your sister is,” he retorted. “And she says Trace is still alive up there!”

Lankin froze in mid-swing on another log. Slowly, he lowered the splitting maul, his head cocking to the side inquisitively. Perhaps at some other time, Ian would’ve been amused to see Lankin looking almost shocked.

“Really, Lazarus,” Ian began, pulling himself off the ground. “Do you think I’d have come up here to ask you otherwise? The only reason I’m here is because Bast said there’s still a chance.”

“Go grab your gear and be back here in an hour.”

“Now?” It was Ian’s turn to be shocked. The sphinx-like smile returned to Lankin’s face as he once more raised the maul and split the log in one stroke.

“Yes, now,” he replied off-handedly. “Weather’s coming and we don’t want to prove my dear sister wrong, now do we?”

Siren Song

There was something invigorating about the trail becoming less defined. Between what he was able to get out of Lankin and a topo map of Gaia’s Backbone, it was quite plain there was no real trail to reach Phantom Peak. Of course, the way both he and Grizz talked, it wasn’t like one would really want to go up there. Trace, however, was determined. After all, those were only stories and unfortunate accidents. The mountain wasn’t really cursed or haunted or both.

It was a steady uphill climb. Not a steep grade, but enough to remind him he was gaining elevation. On occasion, he thought back to that night at Magpie Jack’s and the stories he was told. Some smacked of not being prepared or just simple bad luck. There were a few other tales that were not so easy to dismiss logically; like those of hearing a voice or two almost out of range, or seeing something out of the peripheries that was gone in a blink, but left the uneasy feeling of being watched, if not followed. In an attempt to not spook himself, Trace chuckled, thinking of Grizz and Lankin as mountain yokels, backwoods hicks. It was a given they’d be superstitious.

Somewhere close to tree-line he began to get that feeling of being watched. It chilled him and he tried to tell himself he was letting his mind play tricks on him. There was nothing malign on Phantom Peak, despite what the locals might believe. Still, as he walked, the sensation stayed with him, nagging, causing him to subconsciously look over his shoulder once or twice. There would never be anything, which aggravated his self-annoyance. With a curse under his breath, he pushed on.

The summit was just above the krummholtz. Just a little over eleven-thousand feet. It was barren and rock-strewn. He could see the Death’s Head and Hell’s Watchtower in the distance. The sky was remarkably clear and the air was warm. The sensation of being watched slipped to the back of his mind as he took a moment to be satisfied with his accomplishment.

Removing his back, he leaned against a fairly large boulder and pulled out an energy bar. He figured he’d grab his camera and take some pictures to show those rednecks down in Marrakech that there was nothing to be frightened of. They could start telling a new story; the tale of the man who came up and down Phantom Peak one fine September day without the slightest bit of trouble or terror.

The sound of laughter made him jump. It was innocent, carefree, and decidedly feminine. Trace looked around and saw no one. He was about to dismiss it as the wind when it came again. Whoever it was seemed to be having a wonderful time. Stashing his pack in a cut in the boulder, he began to follow the sound.

Coming upon some loose scree, he caught sight of something below him, what looked like perhaps blond hair and pale skin moving in the early autumn breeze. Another giggle, slightly louder this time, echoed in his ears. With a smile, Trace picked his way along the scree to get a better look. At one point, he thought he heard a man’s voice as well. Just a little ways from the blond was some red and slightly darker color. Young lovers, perhaps, having a little tryst out in the backcountry.

Halfway down the scree, the laughing and voices stopped. Something changed with figures Trace had been observing as he scrambled closer. They no longer bore even the slightest resemblance to people. They were trees. Two sets of aspens showing their fall colors in the golden afternoon light.

This was perplexing; Trace had better than twenty-twenty vision. He couldn’t imagine being fooled so easily. Although at first he was willing to think it might have been the wind, there were distinct voices. Human voices. It was all very strange. His mind struggled to make sense of it as he took his next step.

That’s when his foot slipped and all his questions became irrelevant. The world gave out from under him. He was falling, the sound of sliding scree replacing that of laughter in his ears.

Prologue; Curiosity and the Cat

It was a quiet night at Magpie Jack’s. The type that would warrant an early close were it not for the scattered silent patrons about the bar. A lone television set showed some scarcely watched program. Someone had put on a few classic rock songs on the jukebox, but no one was really paying attention. The bartender was playing solitaire while Grizz read the paper.

A few stools over was Trace, a young man who had a cousin that lived over in Petra. He would come up to go hiking along Gaia’s Backbone, stopping in at Magpie Jack’s for a beer and the occasional snippet of gossip. In the few years since he moved to Colorado from upstate New York, he’d been able to get a few hiking tips and stories out of the locals of Levant County by virtue of his family ties. If Grzz was in when he came by for a beer, he’d remark that foreigner was in his bar again. Trace never took it as an insult, though sometimes he wondered if he should.

He sipped his beer silently, trying to decide how he was going to he was going to ask the question he had on his mind. Sometimes, people would roll their eyes at him. He figured it was because they were mountain locals and he was this guy who moved from New York to take a job in Denver and came up on the weekends. Sometimes, he wondered if the locals around the county just humored him, as though it didn’t matter that he had a cousin in Petra, he was still an outsider.

“Been sitting there all quiet for a bit,” Grizz said, not even looking up from his paper. “But I can feel your eyes on me.”

“Sorry,” Trace said, taking a swig of beer. “Wanted to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“Up along Gaia’s Backbone, looks to be south and west of Hell’s Watchtower, I swear there’s this other peak, but I never get a good look at it,” Trace said. “It’s either always hazy or there’s clouds around it. Am I seeing things?”

“No,” Grizz replied curtly.

“So there is a peak there!” Trace felt himself getting excited. “Does it have a name?”

“Phantom Peak.”

“That sounds ominous,” Trace said with a bit of a forced laugh.

“’Cause it is,” Grizz snorted.

“Any trails?” Trace asked. “Is it really technical?”

“Got a death wish?” Grizz shot back.

That made Trace swallow a hard lump in his throat. Grizz was a gruff character to begin with, but this was different. There was almost hostility in his voice. Something about that mountain seemed anger him.

“How do you mean?” Trace started. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Don’t matter,” Grizz replied. “You got it in your head to check it out.” He then shot Trace a look out of the corner of his eye. “Not a lot of people go up there, and even less come back. Some people say it’s cursed.”

“Yikes.”

“Thirty years back, one of my sons climbed up there to commit suicide,” Grizz said softly, “It wasn’t until another rescue, a few years ago, that they even found his bones. Almost everyone around here has known someone who has either disappeared or outright died up there.”

“I’m sorry,” Trace wanted to reach out, but the look in Grizz’s eye told him he’d lose a hand doing it.

“You didn’t know.”

“So, I guess you’re the wrong person to ask about it,” Trace mused.

“You guessed right,” Grizz said, his gaze slowly shifting down the bar.

At the end was a man Trace would tell his Denver friends was the wine guy, because he always drank red wine. Although he’d never been formerly introduced, Trace knew the wine guy was someone a lot of people respected. Even as their eyes met, he could feel a strange, feline gaze boring into him. The wine guy’s finger was lazily circling the top of his glass. Without a word, he started over, his gray eyes fixed and intent, his movements, cat-like. Trace extended his hand.

“Trace McAlester,” he began. “Can I get you another glass of wine…?”

“Lazarus Lankin,” his grip was firm. He finished his wine in a single gulp. “If you are so inclined, I’d love another glass.”

“On me, Lazarus,” Grizz put in, which illicited an off-handed smile.

“I’m the one who found his son’s remains,” Lankin said casually. “Thus, he’ll sometimes get me a free glass as a sort of recompense.”

“Oh my god!” Trace exclaimed. “So you know about Phantom Peak then?”

“Intimately,” Lankin said, taking his fresh glass of wine.

“What’s it like? What’s up top?” Trace couldn’t help himself; he was excited and intrigued. His curiosity was getting the better of him. This did not go unnoticed.

“You’d rather not,” Lankin said as he took a long sip of wine. “Phantom Peak is the kind of place your nightmares are scared to go. Trust me.”