Greykin Chronicles | Greykin Mountain

| 1 | In Pursuit of the Lost

THIS IS A PREVIEW. THE WHOLE STORY AND FOLLOWING BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE THROUGH AMAZON AS PAPERBACK, HARDCOVER, AND E-BOOK, AND THROUGH MY INKITT PAID TIERS.

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Jackson Carter loved a mystery—the kind that kept him up at night in fear the shadows might devour him. That was why he found himself in Ascela's bitter tundra as the sun set over the sharp, towering mountains.

With a huff of exertion, he dragged his shins through the knee-deep snow, trying to shake the sinister feeling of eyes examining his every move. He glanced to his left, gazing into the thick fir forest, but even if something was watching him beyond the tree line, his cerulean eyes wouldn't be able to see it. The blizzard was picking up.

He focused on the warm glow of a village a hundred yards ahead. That was where his findings had led him. It didn't look like much: a few brick houses, a post office, a single store, and a bar. At least the roads had been cleared of snow—mostly.

His legs shuddered in relief once he broke free of the snow onto the slushy path, the weight of his luggage causing him to stumble a little—and when a pack of dogs raced past hauling their sled, Jackson haphazardly stepped aside, watching them as their master, who was wrapped in at least three different animal skins, headed towards the store.

Jackson felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He looked over his shoulder, and when he eyed the steep hill leading up further into the mountains, a strange part of him felt as if that was the direction he should head in. It was almost as if something was calling him...or someone. But that wasn't where he needed to go.

As fast as his aching legs would carry him, he hurried towards the bar. He hastily pulled the door open and stepped inside, battling with it for a moment as the wind wrestled to keep it from closing. Once he finally won the conflict, he sighed and turned to face the room of silent, staring faces.

The bar felt like a dimly lit haven in the middle of the snowy nowhere, a rough refuge for those who dared to live in the wilds. A similar dead look loomed in everyone's eyes, a reflection of hard lives spent in harsh conditions; the men sitting around the room were rugged and weathered, their faces etched with the lines of countless battles against the elements. Each man sported a long, thick beard, matted and flecked with traces of snow and frost. Their hair, peeking out from beneath woollen caps or fur-lined hoods, was equally unkempt.

They all wore the same chequered shirts, red and black or blue and black, the colours faded from years of wear. Over those, they donned heavy animal-pelt coats; some were the deep brown of bear fur, others the grey of wolf or the mottled white and grey of snow hares. Their hands, calloused and scarred, wrapped around mugs of strong ale. Boots, heavy and worn, were caked with mud and snow, the soles thick and reinforced for the treacherous terrain. The men sat with a certain heaviness as if the weight of the wilderness pressed down on their shoulders even here in this small slice of civilization.

Jackson smiled, but when he realized that they couldn't see his face beneath the scarf he had wrapped around it, he lifted his stiff arm to wave. But all that ensued were quiet whispers and skeptical frowns.

He wouldn't let that stop him, though. He made his way over to the bar, pulling off his gloves as the warmth of the room's fire began to melt the ice from his clothes. He let his rucksack fall off his back, and as it hit the floor with a thump, he rested his arms on the bar.

"Hey, could I get a coffee please?" he asked the bartender, but the gruffly man looked him up and down and scoffed. "Okay...cocoa? Tea?"

The bartender responded with a grunt and snatched a white mug.