Sierra Blackwood knelt in the mud and pressed her fingers into a paw print wider than her hand. For three years she had hunted the creature the campers of Antremeda only whispered about. This track was fresh. She could still smell the animal on the wet air. Then thunder cracked the sky, and the first rain hit the print like a fist. She stood fast. The storm rolled down the mountain in a gray wall. Wind bent the pines flat. Sierra knew what rain did to tracks. Ten more minutes and the trail would wash away, along with any hope of following it today. Her flashlight and axe hung from her pack, but neither could keep her dry, and her gear would soak through in minutes. She scanned the slope. No overhang. No cave. Just trees whipping in the wind. Rain drove into her eyes and blurred the path ahead. She marked the paw print's direction in her memory, then turned and ran uphill, away from the trail, looking for cover. A flash of purple stopped her. A spread of wisteria vines climbed an old dead trunk, blossoms shaking in the storm. She had seen those vines before, in a story an old trapper once told her by a fire. He said they grew beside a shelter left by the first hunters of this land. She pushed through the hanging flowers. Behind them stood a log cabin. It was large and low, its shingled roof dark with rain, its timbers gray with age. A green door sat under the porch. Sierra ran to it and shoved. The door held. She threw her shoulder against it twice. On the third try the latch gave, and she stumbled inside as the sky opened. Rain hammered the roof. Sierra dropped her pack and caught her breath. The cabin was dry. A stone hearth stood cold against one wall. She had shelter. Her gear was safe. But she had left the fresh trail behind her, and outside the rain was scrubbing it clean. She wiped her face and looked around the room for anything useful. On the mantel above the hearth lay a small brass compass, green with age. She picked it up and turned it in her hand. The back was worn smooth, but she could still read the letters scratched there. They spelled her grandfather's name. Sierra's breath caught. Her grandfather had vanished in these mountains chasing the same creature she now tracked. No one had ever found him. She had thought this cabin belonged to strangers. She turned the compass over again to be sure. The needle swung, then settled, pointing steady toward the storm and the trail she had lost.

By morning the storm had passed. Sierra stepped out of the cabin into wet light and dripping vines. The mud held no track now. The rain had scrubbed the slope clean, just as she feared. She had no fresh sign to follow. Without one, three years of hunting ended here. She turned her grandfather's brass compass in her hand and tried to think. The needle would not settle. It swung, held, then swung again. She frowned. A good compass points north and stays there. This one kept dragging toward the ridge, away from the trail she had lost. She tapped the brass case. The needle held its odd course. Her grandfather had walked these mountains chasing the same creature. Maybe the compass had learned something he wanted to leave behind. Sierra made a choice. She had no track. She had his compass. She would follow where it pointed. She hiked through the wet pines all morning. The needle pulled her over the ridge and down into a dry valley. Below stood a cluster of gray buildings, old and slumped. One had a wide porch and a sign hung from an iron arm. The wind rocked it. She could still read the burned letters: a saloon, from the days when hunters and trappers gathered here. The town looked long dead. A small cat sat in the saloon doorway. Its coat was a jumble of orange, black, and cream, like scraps sewn together. It watched her come. Then it rose, stretched, and trotted inside. Sierra pushed through the swinging doors. Dust coated the tables. The cat wove between chair legs and stopped at the bar. She knelt beside it. In the dust on the floor lay tracks. Not the cat's small prints. These were wide, deep, and clawed. A paw print bigger than her hand. Her breath caught. The same print. Fresh, cut clean into the dust. The creature had walked this floor, and not long ago. She pressed her fingers to the mark and felt the cold coming off it. The cat mewed and pawed at something under the bar. Sierra reached into the dark and pulled out a boot. Old leather, split at the seam. She turned it and found initials scratched near the heel. The same initials scratched on the compass. Her grandfather's. Sierra sat back on her heels. She had her trail again. The compass had not lied. But the fresh print and the worn boot lay side by side in the dust, and that meant one hard thing. The creature had followed her grandfather's path into this town. Now it walked the same floor she did. She stood and drew the axe from her pack. The tracks led toward a back door, still swinging. Sierra gripped the handle and followed.