Morning arrives with the kind of determined brightness that makes you feel guilty for dreading it.
I'm on my second cup of coffee, standing at the kitchen window and watching the driveway like it might sprout teeth, when I see the dust cloud. Someone's coming up the road—too early to be Elias, who said he'd arrive around nine. The dashboard clock on the microwave reads 7:43.
The scarf warms against my throat. Not danger-warm. Recognition-warm.
A familiar beat-up truck rolls into view, and I feel my shoulders relax and tense simultaneously. Uncle Pete.
Of course Aunt Maeve called him. Of course she did. She probably has a phone tree of people designated to "check on Scarlett" in order of how likely they are to actually drag me back to civilization.
I'm at the door before he's fully parked, stepping onto the porch with my coffee mug as armor. Pete unfolds himself from the driver's seat—all leather jacket and perpetual bedhead despite the early hour, moving with that easy grace that's always seemed too fluid for someone fully human.
I've never let myself think too hard about that.
"Morning, Red," he calls, hefting a paper bag that smells like fresh donuts and forgiveness. "Figured you might not have gotten around to breakfast yet."
"Uncle Pete." I lean against the porch post, trying to look casual instead of like I spent half the night reading my dead grandmother's diary about her supernatural romance. "Aunt Maeve called you."
"She's worried." He climbs the porch steps, and I notice the way his eyes do a quick sweep—windows, tree line, the new boards on the door frame. Cataloging. Always cataloging. "Can you blame her?"
"I can be annoyed by her."
"Fair." He offers the bag. "Maple bars. Still warm."
I take it because I'm eighteen and my frontal lobe isn't fully developed and warm donuts trump pride every time. "You didn't have to drive all the way out here."
"I was in the area." The lie is comfortable, well-worn.
"Your place is forty minutes south."
"Like I said. Area." He glances past me into the cottage. "You going to invite me in, or do I need to stand on the porch like a vampire?"
I snort despite myself and step aside. "Come in. Coffee?"
"Please."
We settle into the familiar rhythm—me pouring coffee, him examining the cottage with eyes that miss nothing. He pauses at the corkboard with Elara's rules, runs a finger along the faded red marker, and something soft crosses his face.
"She was something else," he says quietly.
"Yeah."
"You doing okay? Really?"
I consider lying. Consider saying I'm fine, everything's fine, I'm a perfectly normal teenager dealing with grief in perfectly normal ways. But this is Pete, who's been showing up for me since before I understood what showing up meant.
"I'm complicated," I say finally. "But I'm here. I'm not leaving."
"I know." He accepts the coffee mug, wrapping both hands around it. "Maeve mentioned you might have company coming? Some kid named Elias?"
"Elias Cross. We were friends growing up. He's—" How do I explain this? "—trying to be helpful. Aunt Maeve arranged it."
Pete's expression does something complicated. "Cross. That name's familiar."
"His dad died a few years ago. Cancer."
"Right. I remember now." Pete sips his coffee, studying me over the rim. "What kind of helpful are we talking about?"
"The checking-windows-and-being-a-human-presence kind. He's leaving for some training program next week, so it's temporary."
"Training program." Pete sets his mug down with a careful click. "What kind?"
"He didn't give details. Something about—" I stop, because I'm not sure how much Elias wants people knowing. "—wilderness survival? Emergency response? I don't know, honestly. We're not as close as we used to be."
Pete is quiet for a long moment, his colors doing something I've never quite seen before—gold and silver threading together, sharp and assessing. Then he stands and walks to the window, looking out at the woods with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
"Red," he says slowly. "Has anything... unusual happened since you moved in?"
My mouth goes dry. "Define unusual."
"Strange sounds. Things moved that shouldn't be. Feeling watched." He turns to face me. "Wolves."
The word hangs in the air like a knife.
I think about Lucian. About frost circles and bread offerings and gold eyes that see through me. About counting to seven and failing to make it to thirteen.
"Why do you ask?"
"Because I know what killed your parents wasn't normal wolves." His voice is steady, but his colors are storm-dark. "And I know Elara had... arrangements with the things in these woods. Understandings. But she's gone now, and those understandings might not transfer to you automatically."
My heart is hammering. "What kind of arrangements?"
Before Pete can answer, I hear it—the distinct sound of a vehicle coming up the drive. Too soon for casual. Too fast for friendly.
Pete's hand goes to his jacket, and I see it for the first time—the bulge that suggests he's carrying something more serious than a wallet. His whole body changes, going from casual uncle to something else, something dangerous and ready.
"Stay behind me," he says quietly.
"Pete—"
"Red. Behind me. Now."
The vehicle—a black truck, newer and cleaner than Pete's—comes to a sharp stop. A figure emerges, and even from here I can see he's wound tight, moving with purpose. Broad shoulders, tactical jacket, something about the way he carries himself that screams training.
Elias.
But Pete doesn't know that. All Pete sees is a stranger approaching the cottage where his dead best friend's daughter lives alone, moving like someone ready for a fight.
"Get inside," Pete orders, and there's steel in his voice I've rarely heard. "Lock the door."
"Uncle Pete, it's okay—"
"I said get inside."
But I'm already moving toward the door, because I can see what's about to happen. Elias is reaching the porch, his hand going to his hip in a mirror of Pete's motion, and they're both reading each other as threats and this is about to go very wrong very fast.
"Stop!" I shout, stepping between them as Elias hits the first porch step. "Both of you, just—stop."
Elias freezes, his hand still hovering near his waist. Up close, I can see how much he's changed—not just taller and broader, but harder somehow. His eyes do a quick tactical assessment: me, Pete, distance, exits. His colors are sharp and controlled—gold discipline overlaying silver readiness.
"Red," he says carefully. "You okay?"
"I'm fine. This is my Uncle Pete. Pete, this is Elias Cross. The friend I told you about."
Pete's hand moves away from his jacket, but his posture doesn't relax. "Cross."
"Sir." Elias's eyes flick to Pete's jacket, to the way he's standing, and something shifts in his expression. Recognition. "You're Peter Wolfe."
The air goes very still.
"That's right," Pete says slowly. "And you're a hunter initiate. I can smell the training on you."
"Completed initiate," Elias corrects, his voice steady. "Third Ring. Just graduated last month."
They stare at each other, and I feel like I'm missing half the conversation. "Okay," I say loudly. "Someone want to explain what's happening? Because I feel like I walked into the middle of a movie I haven't seen."
Neither of them moves. Then Pete's mouth quirks in something that might be amusement or might be resignation. "Come inside, kid. We need to talk."
Five minutes later, we're arranged around the kitchen table like the world's most awkward summit meeting. I've distributed coffee and donuts, but no one's touching them. The tension is thick enough to cut.
Elias is staring at Pete's wrist.
I follow his gaze and see it for the first time—just visible where Pete's sleeve has ridden up—a symbol traced in what looks like silver ink against his skin. Not a tattoo. Something that shimmers slightly, catches the light wrong, feels alive.
"When did you get your first mark?" Elias asks, and his voice has gone carefully neutral.
"Long time ago." Pete doesn't try to hide it, just rolls his sleeve up properly to reveal more of the symbol. It's intricate, beautiful—swirling lines that suggest wind and motion, all flowing from a central point. "Wind. First Mark I ever earned."
My brain is trying to process this. "Mark? What are you talking about?"
They both look at me, then at each other, some silent conversation happening that I'm not part of.
"Elias," Pete says finally. "You want to explain, or should I?"
Elias runs a hand through his hair, looking suddenly younger. "This is going to sound insane."
"My grandmother talked to trees and made rules about not wearing red on certain nights," I say flatly. "Try me."
He takes a breath. "Okay. So. The world is bigger than most people know. There are things out there—creatures, entities, whatever you want to call them—that exist alongside humans. Most people never see them. The ones who do either go crazy or learn to deal with it."
"I'm familiar with that concept," I say, thinking of gold eyes and frost circles.
"Right. Well, throughout history, there have been people who... specialize in dealing with these things. Hunters. We're trained to protect regular people from supernatural threats, to maintain boundaries, to fight when fighting is necessary."
"And to die young," Pete adds dryly. "Don't sugarcoat it, kid."
Elias's jaw tightens. "The survival rate has improved."
"Has it?"
"Can we focus?" I interrupt. "The marks. What are they?"
Elias rolls up his own sleeve, and I see it—a delicate tracery of silver lines around his wrist, different from Pete's but just as clearly unnatural. The pattern suggests ice crystals, frozen beauty, cold precision.
"Snow," Elias says. "My first Mark. Each Mark represents a... primordial force. Something fundamental to how the world works. We earn them through training, through trial, through proving we can handle that kind of power without being consumed by it."
"There are thirteen," Pete continues. "Thirteen Marks, thirteen forces. Snow, Fire, Metal, Stone, Wind, Water, Thorn, Sun, Moon, Salt, Ash, Bone, Mirror. Each one gives the bearer a specific ability—not magic exactly, but... influence. Control over that aspect of reality."
I stare at the symbols on their wrists, my mind racing. "So what does Snow do?"
"Clarity," Elias says quietly. "It cools rage, slows frenzy, gives me a few seconds of calm in situations where calm shouldn't be possible. Not mind control—more like... emotional temperature regulation. For myself and for others."
"And Wind?" I look at Pete.
"Carries information. Lets me hear things I shouldn't be able to hear, smell things from miles away. Moves fast when I need to." He smiles slightly. "Also how I knew you were in trouble before you hit the ground that day at the lake. Wind told me you were falling."
The pieces click together. The impossible catch. The way he always seems to know when I need him. The fluid grace that's not quite human.
"You're a hunter," I say. "You've always been a hunter."
"Retired," Pete corrects. "Mostly. I keep an eye on the territory, make sure nothing gets too aggressive, maintain the old agreements. But I'm not active Corps anymore."
"Why not?"
His colors darken—blue and gold and that persistent red. "Because your mother asked me not to be. Said she didn't want to lose anyone else to teeth and claws." He looks down at his coffee. "I promised her I'd stay safe. Stay close. Be here for you."
The weight of that settles over the table.
Elias clears his throat. "The Corps has a classification system. It's based on an old story—The Three Little Pigs."
I blink. "You're kidding."
"I wish I was. But it's effective." He pulls out his phone and opens a notes app, like he's prepared a whole presentation. Of course he has. This is Elias. "Supernatural threats are categorized by method, not strength. Straw, Stick, and Brick."
"Okay," I say slowly. "Explain."
"Straw-level threats are frenzy-based. Animals acting on pure instinct, no planning, no strategy. Dangerous because they're unpredictable, but manageable if you stay calm and know what you're doing. Most rabid wolves, possessed deer, things like that."
"The story," Pete interjects, "is that the first little pig built his house out of straw—quick, easy, no foundation. The wolf huffed and puffed and blew it down because there was no real defense. Straw threats are like that wolf—all aggression, no tactics."
"Stick-level is where it gets complicated," Elias continues. "These are threats with some planning, some intelligence. They hunt in patterns, learn from mistakes, use basic strategy. Most werewolves fall into this category. Vampires that are newly turned. Things that are smart enough to be dangerous but not smart enough to be truly terrifying."
"The second pig built with sticks," Pete says. "Better than straw, lasted longer, but still vulnerable. Stick threats can be outwitted with the right preparation."
I'm starting to see where this is going. "And Brick?"
Elias and Pete exchange a look.
"Brick-level threats are methodical," Elias says carefully. "They plan. They're patient. They understand human psychology well enough to manipulate it. They don't just attack—they court. They make you want to invite them in."
Pete leans forward. "The third pig built his house with brick—solid, strong, took time and effort. The wolf couldn't blow it down. So what did he do?"
"He tried to come down the chimney," I whisper, remembering the story.
"Right. He changed tactics. Adapted. Found another way in." Pete's eyes are intense. "Brick-level threats don't just break down doors, Red. They knock politely and wait for you to open them."
My skin goes cold. Lucian. The careful distance. The respect for boundaries. The waiting.
I can't come in without permission.
I won't leave, but I'll give you space.
Count to thirteen. I'll wait.
"How do you know," I ask, my voice barely steady, "if something is Brick-level?"
"Patterns," Elias says. "They leave offerings. They establish routines. They respect boundaries you set—not because they're kind, but because they're playing a long game. They want you to choose them, because a choice is stronger than a taking."
"They court," Pete adds quietly. "Like the wolf courted the pigs. 'Little pig, little pig, let me come in.' He asked. He didn't just attack."
The bread on my nightstand. The frost circles that never cross the threshold. The way Lucian stops when I tell him to stop, backs away when I ask for space, waits when I need him to wait.
"What happens," I force myself to ask, "if you let a Brick-level threat in?"
Elias's colors spike with concern. "Red, has something—"
"Hypothetically."
Pete and Elias look at each other again. Then Pete speaks, his voice gentle but firm. "Depends on what it wants. Some Brick-levels are territorial—they want land, hunting grounds, to establish dominance. Some are hungry—they want to feed, and they're patient enough to fatten the prey first. And some..."
"Some want connection," Elias finishes. "Partnership. They're intelligent enough to be lonely. Those are the most dangerous because they don't necessarily want to hurt you. They want to keep you."
The scarf is burning against my throat now, hot enough that I have to resist the urge to tear it off.
"Elara knew," I say. "About all of this. She had... arrangements."
Pete nods slowly. "Your grandmother was what we call a Threshold Keeper. Someone who lives on the boundary between human and other, who maintains relationships with both sides. She could talk to things most hunters would kill on sight, negotiate where we'd fight. She kept this territory peaceful for decades."
"By making deals with wolves," I say.
"By making deals with everything," Pete corrects. "The wolves were just one part of it. She had arrangements with the ravens, the old trees, the things in the quarry. She made this place safe by making it balanced. Giving as much as she took. Respecting boundaries."
"And now she's gone," Elias says quietly. "Those arrangements might not hold. Especially if there are threats testing the boundaries."
"Is there?" Pete asks me directly. "Red, has something been approaching the house? Testing limits?"
I could lie. I should lie. But I'm so tired of secrets, and these are the two people in my life who might actually understand.
"Yes," I say. "There's been... someone. Something. Coming to the property. Leaving offerings. Talking to me."
Elias goes very still. "What kind of offerings?"
"Bread. Fresh bread, still warm." I touch the scarf unconsciously. "It appears on my nightstand. I don't know how it gets inside."
"Christ," Pete mutters. "That's textbook Brick behavior. The bread is significant—it's not just feeding, it's providing. Showing it can care for you."
"Has it tried to hurt you?" Elias's hand moves to his wrist, to the Snow Mark, and I can feel the temperature in the room drop slightly. His training kicking in.
"No. The opposite. It's been..." I struggle for words. "Careful. Respectful. It asks before approaching. Stops when I tell it to. Waits when I ask for space."
"All classic courtship behavior," Pete says. "It's trying to make you feel safe. Make you trust it."
"Or," I say, hearing the defensive edge in my voice, "it actually respects my boundaries."
They both look at me.
"Red," Elias says gently. "You're defending it."
"I'm stating facts."
"You're rationalizing." Pete's voice is sad. "Sweetheart, that's what Brick-levels do. They make you feel like you're making choices, like you're in control. But every choice they offer is designed to lead you closer to them."
"Like counting to thirteen," I say bitterly. "Like making me think I have a say."
Elias frowns. "Counting to thirteen?"
I pull Elara's journal from where I left it on the counter and open it to the relevant page. "It was one of Grandma's rules. Count to thirteen before saying yes to anything beautiful. Because thirteen is where you choose."
Pete reads over my shoulder, and I watch his face change. "Oh, Elara."
"What?"
"Thirteen isn't random." He traces the words with one finger. "It's a ward. A protection. Most supernatural entities are bound by patterns—three, seven, nine. Prime numbers. Sacred geometry. Thirteen is prime, but it's also unlucky. Unstable. It's the number that breaks patterns."
"So when you make someone count to thirteen," Elias says slowly, catching on, "you're forcing them to break out of the compulsion. To make a conscious choice instead of following the pull."
"Exactly." Pete looks at me. "If this thing is making you count, it's either trying to prove it's worth choosing consciously... or it's using Elara's own protection against you, making you think you're safe when you're not."
My head is spinning. "How do I know which?"
"You don't," Elias says. "That's why it's so dangerous. Brick-level threats are good at this, Red. They can wait years, decades, generations. They play the long game better than humans can imagine."
"So what do I do?" I look between them. "Just... never open the door? Never trust anything? Live in fear?"
"You let us help you." Pete's voice is firm. "That's why I'm here. Why Elias is here. We can set proper wards, establish real boundaries. Protection that doesn't rely on you being perfect all the time."
"And if it's already inside those boundaries?" I ask quietly.
Silence.
"Red," Elias says carefully. "Have you invited it inside?"
I think about Lucian standing at the threshold, asking permission. About telling him he could come to the porch steps but no further. About the door he broke through last night—
Wait. Last night?
But that was a dream. Wasn't it?
The look on my face must give something away, because Pete stands abruptly. "Show me. Right now. Show me every entrance to this house."
We do a circuit—doors, windows, the crawl space Elias finds in the back that I didn't even know existed. Pete's Wind Mark must be active because he keeps pausing, sniffing the air, listening to things I can't hear.
At the back door, he stops. Kneels down. Runs his finger along the threshold.
"There," he says quietly. "Can you see it?"
I crouch beside him. The wood looks normal at first, but when I focus, I can see it—the faintest scorch mark, circular, right at the entry point. Like something burned through the ward that should have been there.
"Frost," Pete says. "Something drew a circle here. Recently. Within the last day or two."
My stomach drops. The frost circle I saw. The one I didn't step into.
"It asked permission," I whisper. "The circle was outside the door. I didn't cross it."
"But you saw it," Elias says. "You acknowledged it. In some traditions, that's as good as invitation."
Pete stands, his expression grim. "We need to reinforce everything. Now. Before tonight."
"Why tonight?"
"Because Brick-levels are patient, but they're not stupid. It knows you have hunters here now. It'll either back off and wait us out, or it'll make a move while it still has the chance."
Elias is already pulling supplies from his truck—chalk, salt, small vials of things I don't recognize. "Red, I need you to tell us everything. Every interaction. Every gift. Every word it spoke to you. Don't leave anything out."
I look at the scarf around my neck. At the journal on the table. At these two men who showed up to protect me from something I'm not sure I want protection from.
"His name is Lucian," I say, and watch their faces change. "And I've already counted to seven."