Free In the Barren Ground by Loreth Anne White

enemies right out the gate.”
    Crash read some random text in the middle of the book about a small hunting party in the Barrens with a Voyageur guide.
    “This is set locally,” he said with surprise.
    “It is, and it’s set in the past. A horror novel written right in this lodge, by one of my first and subsequently most regular guests. He comes each winter now, to polish his final draft-of-the-year.”
    Crash glanced at the name on the spine. “Drakon Sinovski?”
    “Pseudonym. His real name is Henry Spatt. Not so romantic—or horrible —as Drakon, eh?” He took another suck on his joint. “Just seeing him in the flesh, you’d never guess he had this dark shit in his brain. Then again, you never can tell a killer just by looking in his eyes.” He exhaled smoke around his words, pointed his joint at the book. “Sold over one million copies worldwide that one did. Next ones never took off quite so well. And those masks above the fireplace there—” He motioned to several wooden masks all painted in bold reds with black and white, gaping mouths, and reeds for hair. One was a double-headed crow with a squarish beak almost the length of a short man’s arm. Another looked as though it might be sporting real human hair.
    “They’re gifts from Henry,” he said. “All from the West Coast. They depict various cannibalistic creatures of North American indigenous lore, like the Tsonoqua . Or the secretive Hamatsa cannibal society’s terrible man-eating beast with the unpronounceable name of Baxbaxwalanuksiwe . Interesting mythos around those, really, because there is often an element of complicity among the victims. And of course, if bitten, they become cannibals themselves. Reminiscent of the modern vampire trope, no?”
    The weed was making Sturmann-Taylor loquacious.
    “Yeah,” Crash said absently, replacing the book. It was not his thing, books.
    Sturmann-Taylor chuckled—a kind of self-indulgent, guttural sound that was contagious, and usually made others smile. He took another deep drag, closing his eyes as he held the smoke in his lungs. He breathed out leisurely. “Sure you don’t want some?” he said, offering the joint to Crash.
    “I quit sucking smoke into my lungs when I quit heroin.”
    Sturmann-Taylor’s eyes turned serious. He held Crash’s gaze for several beats. The fire cracked, and a log ember fell in a powdery crash.
    “Well, I like it,” he said, finally. “Reminds me of my university lecturing days. Got the best pussy during those years. Can I tempt you with another java?”
    Crash glanced out of the window. The guys had finished offloading. “I still need to make another run before dark. Yellowknife and back. And one more tomorrow again. Hopefully before that series of storms sock us in. Reckon we’re going to be grounded for a week or two.”
    “We should talk,” Sturmann-Taylor said, nipping the live end off his joint. His voice had changed. He was all business. “I might need transport for . . . shall we say, a more sensitive haul than usual.”
    Crash’s pulse quickened. He remained outwardly cool. “Sure. Whenever you’re ready, you know where to find me.” He returned his coffee cup and saucer to the tray, made for the door. Sturmann-Taylor moved to show him out, but Crash held up his hand. “No worries. I know the way.”
    The “butler,” however, emerged from the shadows outside the door and tracked him to the exit. The man stood silently watching as Crash made his way over the snow-covered lawn to his plane. Crash had walked by the open door of the lodge gym once, and seen the butler with the punching bag. Krav Maga trained, he’d deduced.
    Crash readied his plane and taxied into position on the runway. As he gave his Beaver throttle, making her quiver at the seams, he saw Sturmann-Taylor watching from the library window. A sober coolness filled Crash.
    It was going to require several more trips out here before he gained tacit entrance into