This is a series of short stories, detailing the adventures of Chelsea Childling. You can start with her origin story or pick any story from the index.

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Whiskey burned, but not enough. Chelsea could still taste ocean salt and Jackson’s last kiss. She signaled for another drink.

“Aren’t you hunting tonight?” Worry shaded Morgan’s voice.

“Nope.” Chelsea sighed as the bartender poured her another round. “Tonight, I’m getting too drunk to drive and staying put.” 

If she didn’t, she’d find a reason to take the ferry across the bay and find Jack. And Amber.

“Tomorrow.” Chelsea downed her new drink. “I’ll hunt tomorrow.” She signaled the bartender for another drink. And another. And another. Until she knew she’d sleep for a few hours.

But as the next night blued the sky, and Jackson hadn’t called or texted, Chelsea couldn’t stomach going to the bar. Seeing the pity and worry on Morgan’s face. Hoping like hell not to run into Tracey. 

She didn’t want to see an ex-hook up. Especially not the one she left on such bad terms. Guilt and loneliness made for really dumb decisions, especially with booze in the mix.

From the seat beside her, Bentley whined and leaned his giant head on her shoulder. 

She scratched behind his ear. “You’re right, I should go find a job. But fuck Seattle.”

The huge mutt whined again and licked at her ear.

“Yes, the coffee is amazing, and the street markets are fabulous. And I love all the artwork. But this city sucks for me.”

Without a second thought, she texted Jackson that she was leaving town, turned her car to the highway, and headed for the desert and Keegan. But as the trees thinned, and the mountains grew, the thought of Keegan didn’t soothe her at all. He’d been skeptical of her and Jack from the beginning, and even though she’d agreed that only Jackson might be able to bring Amber back, Keegan would have doubts.

And he lived with his utter bitch of a sister, who Chelsea might end up punching given the mood she was in.

And Jackson still hadn’t called or texted.

So she blew past his exit and deep into the Nevada desert. Sage brush and the occasional mountain were her only companions besides Bentley. 

She debated going to see Andy. He had more faith in Jackson than Keegan, but he also made it clear he was expecting this thing with the three of them to end badly because of Amber. Listening to his lyrical, prattling “I told you so” didn’t appeal at all. 

In the end, Chelsea headed for the one place she knew she could get her mind right. She pulled up to the Blind Bronco some time in the early hours of the morning. Once she opened the door, Bentley hurried out to the field, plowing through knee deep snow to run a little. 

Chelsea shot Jackson a text regarding her location before popping open her trunk. She kept her few favorite pieces of clothes in there. In this case, the black Stetson that matched her coat; Knee length black leather, covered in fringe. She’d bought the hat at the same time, but unlike her coat, rarely wore it since she left South Dakota the last time. It was time to change back.

Feeling at once at home, but yet a stranger, she headed for the bar. A fire burned outside the white trailer, and a few hunters stood around it, warming their hands against the falling snow. She nodded to them as she went in, not caring to see is she knew them or not. 

Jackson still hadn’t called or texted.

Florence beamed at her across the full bar. “Chelsea! Good to see you.” 

She tried to smile at the teenaged beauty queen because Florence was a friend. Instead she stomped up to the bar. “I need a beer and job. And in about that order.”

Smile fading, Florence grabbed a bottle of something local and a glass. “Wanna talk about it?”

“The beer or the job?”

“Okay then.” She flipped her long pony tail over her shoulder. “There’s group heading out tomorrow. There’s been a bolter sighting. Meet them here around eight.”

Chelsea nodded. “Thanks. And the bunk?”

Florence grabbed a set of keys from her apron. “Just cleaned it.”

“Good. Cool.” Chelsea slapped a few bills on the counter, and twisted off the top of her beer. “See you tomorrow at eight.” Beer in hand, and her desire for talk completely spent, she headed back out into the snow. 

A beaten, slippery path lead to the refurbished shed outback. She whistled for Bentley at the door and they headed into the bunk together. 

Chelsea helped with the bolter the next night, and a nit of nightlings the night after that. And Jackson still hadn’t contacted her. Her days began to blur together. Get up, fight a monster, drink enough to sleep. And then do it again. And he still didn’t let her know what was going on.

Florence kept trying to pry to find out what was wrong, but Chelsea didn’t have an answer for her. She didn’t know how to explain. She’d sent Jackson to Amber, despite knowing their history. No, because she knew their history. She just thought Jack would keep her in the loop.

And he stilled hadn’t called or texted.

One afternoon, she rolled over and looked out the bunk window at all the snow, and found that she didn’t want to get up. So she didn’t.

At times, hunger had her out of bed and snacking, but she didn’t shower or dress. Didn’t go over the Bronco. Didn’t get a job from Florence. She just ate and slept, and snuggled Bentley. Waiting for Jackson to call.

Days passed, short, grey, and cold. Still, Chelsea couldn’t find the urge to leave the bunk.

A knock on the door startled her fully awake. Rubbing at her eyes, she cracked the door open to an angry scowl under a thick, bobble hat.  “Jesus, princess, how long has it been since you showered? You reek.”

She froze. “Keegan?”

He shivered. “Yeah. Can I come inside? It’s freezing out there.”

She stepped aside, too stunned to do anything else. “Of course.” She stared as he shucked off his heavy coat and snow covered hat. “What are you doing here?”

He gave a dark laugh. “Florence called. She said you showed up pissed off and then locked yourself in here after a few weeks.” He fixed an annoyed stare at her. “You ready to talk yet?”

Chelsea waited for annoyance, anger, something to bubble up. Instead she slumped to the bed. “If I wanted to talk, I would have called you.”

“Fine.” He snorted and settled in a chair at the table. “I’ll talk. You listen.”