Chapter 7: Whispers in the Snow
Morning broke gray and heavy over Ashwood Hollow. The snowfall had thinned to a quiet drizzle of flakes, soft enough that the silence pressed harder than the storm. Clara stood in the wreckage of the church hall, boots crunching on broken glass, breath visible in the cold air.
The lanterns had long since burned out. The smell of smoke and blood clung to the wood. Claw marks raked deep into the beams, gouges so brutal she couldn't stop staring. No one wanted to be the one to clean this place yet.
Jonah was beside her, silent for once. His ranger's hat was pulled low, shadowing his eyes. He'd been with her since dawn, checking the damage, gathering what little evidence could be found—mostly shredded wood and massive tracks that circled the building before vanishing into the woods.
Finally, he broke the quiet. "Elias should've been torn apart."
Clara flinched. "Jonah—"
"No, listen." His voice was hard, flat. "I've seen bears maul hunters. I've seen wolves rip through fences. That thing was worse than both, and he went toe-to-toe with it like it was nothing. And he walked away without a scratch."
Clara swallowed, her throat tight. "I saw it too. But that doesn't mean—"
"It means he's not what he says he is." Jonah turned to her, his face drawn, eyes burning with a mix of fear and something else she couldn't name. "I don't know if he's working with that thing or if he is one of them, but either way, he's dangerous."
Clara hugged her coat tighter. Part of her wanted to agree, to let Jonah's certainty steady her. But another part—the louder part—kept remembering the way Elias had looked at her in the doorway. Fierce and wild, yes, but also… protective. Like he'd fight the world if it came for her.
She whispered, "He saved us."
Jonah's jaw worked. "Or he wanted to look like a hero."
Before Clara could answer, voices carried from outside. The tavern was already full, townsfolk crowding in despite the early hour. Fear had dragged them from their beds, and fear needed somewhere to go.
Jonah nodded toward the sound. "Come on. If we don't show, they'll make up their minds without us."
---
The tavern was thick with smoke and tension. Everyone crammed shoulder-to-shoulder at the tables, mugs of coffee clutched in white-knuckled hands. The fire in the hearth popped and hissed, but no warmth seemed to touch the room.
Marjorie stood near the bar, her shawl drawn tight, her voice sharp as a knife. "I warned you all, and now you've seen it with your own eyes. That creature is here because of outsiders. Because of her."
She pointed a bony finger at Clara.
The room rippled with whispers, eyes turning. Clara's cheeks burned.
Jonah stepped forward, bristling. "Enough, Marjorie. She didn't bring this thing."
"Didn't she?" Marjorie snapped. "It started after she arrived. That bookstore of hers, full of cursed books and God-knows-what—"
"That's not proof."
Marjorie sneered. "And what about your friend? Elias Thorn. What man could fight a beast like that and live? What man doesn't even bleed?"
Murmurs swelled. Clara's chest tightened. She opened her mouth, desperate to defend him, but Jonah cut in first.
"You don't know what he is," Jonah said grimly, "but you sure as hell don't want him near her."
The crowd stirred. Fear was contagious, and Marjorie fed it like kindling to flame.
Harvey Pike, still clutching his dented accordion from the night before, piped up nervously, "What if… what if Elias is the werewolf?"
Laughter broke out—nervous, jagged, not at all amused. Someone muttered, "Would explain a lot."
Clara felt the ground shift beneath her. She couldn't stay here, not with their eyes burning holes in her. Not with suspicion curling like smoke toward the one man who had risked himself to save them.
"I need some air," she whispered, and slipped out before Jonah could stop her.
---
The woods loomed dark and hushed, their snow-laden branches bowing low. Clara's breath clouded in the icy air as she followed the tracks leading out of town—massive prints, clawed and deep. But woven through them were lighter imprints, boot prints she recognized. Elias's.
Her chest tightened. Against all reason, against all warnings, she followed.
The trail wound toward the ridge where the forest thickened. A crow startled overhead, its wings cracking the silence. Clara flinched, then pressed on.
She found him at last, standing by the frozen creek. His coat was torn, the edges of his shirt singed from the fire, but he stood tall, broad shoulders rigid against the cold.
When he turned, she saw his eyes—gray as ever, but rimmed with a faint silver glow that faded as quickly as it appeared.
"Clara." His voice was rough, softer than she expected. "You shouldn't be here."
"I had to find you," she said, breathless. "They're turning on you. On me."
He looked away, jaw tight. "Let them."
"No." She stepped closer, snow crunching under her boots. "You saved us. And now they want to call you the monster? It isn't fair."
Elias gave a low, bitter laugh. "Fair? Clara, nothing about this is fair. That thing out there—it doesn't care about fairness. And the town? They'll believe whatever keeps them from admitting the truth."
"And what's the truth?" she demanded.
His gaze snapped back to hers, sharp enough to cut. For a heartbeat, she thought he'd finally tell her. That he'd unravel the secrets coiled behind those gray eyes.
Instead, he exhaled slowly, shoulders sinking. "The truth is… I'm not the man you think I am."
Her heart pounded. "Then what are you?"
Silence stretched, heavy, brittle. He stepped closer, close enough she could see the faint tremor in his hands, the way his breath misted between them. His voice dropped, raw and unguarded.
"I'm something caught between."
Her lips parted, questions tumbling in her throat, but before she could speak, he lifted a hand as if to touch her face—then stopped, fingers curling. The restraint in his posture was agonizing.
"I can't," he whispered. "Not with you. Not yet."
Her pulse raced, her body aching with the weight of words unspoken. She wanted to press closer, to demand answers, but she saw the struggle carved into his expression. He was holding something back—something dangerous.
Before she could push, a sound split the silence.
A scream.
Not from the woods—from the town.
Elias's head snapped toward the sound, his whole body tense in an instant. Clara's heart lurched.
Another scream followed, then shouting. Chaos.
Elias cursed under his breath, his silver glint flaring again for a fraction of a second. Then he was moving, faster than her eyes could follow, sprinting toward the village.
Clara stumbled after him, snow flying beneath her boots, her lungs burning with cold. The screams grew louder as they neared the tavern.
When they burst into the street, Clara's blood froze.
The tavern door was hanging open, snow blowing inside. People poured out, faces pale with terror.
And painted across the snow, gleaming crimson under the lantern light, was a trail of blood leading away into the dark.