ASTERWICK 11 - Rhea (Patreon)

10.17.26 – 8:00 a.m.

Rhea’s Apartment – East Asterwick

Rhea Blackwood – Current: 5’8” 120 lbs

Rhea woke at eight and stayed still. No heat moved under her skin. Her arms felt normal. Her shoulders felt normal. Her heart was not trying to beat through her ribs. Five days had passed since the vial. Five days since the backroom smelled like cedar and wet iron. Five days since pale vapor crawled over her hand. Five days since her clothes tightened at Caleb’s table and her body changed shape inside them. Nothing else had happened.

That should have helped. Rhea threw off the blanket and crossed her apartment to the bathroom. She switched on the light. The mirror gave her the same face she had always owned. Dark eyes. Sharp jaw. Black hair flattened on one side. She checked anyway. Arms first. Then shoulders. Then her waist. She turned sideways and lifted her shirt, same taut yet soft midsection, same breasts she’d always had. Nothing looked larger. Nothing looked wrong.

She hated that she was doing this. She hated more that she was not convinced. “It was a fluke,” she told the mirror. “Stress. Adrenaline. Nothing supernatural.” The words sounded weak in the small room. She still remembered the warmth inside the vial. She remembered the low hum under the hiss. She remembered how charged her body had felt. Strong. Heavy. Ready. Normal had returned. Trust had not.

By ten, Rhea needed out of the apartment. She pulled on jeans, boots, and her riding jacket. Then she went downstairs to the narrow awning beside the tailor shop. Her Harley V-Rod waited beneath it. The bike was black, low, and heavy through the frame. Chrome caught the gray morning light along the exhaust and engine casing. It looked fast while standing still. Rhea trusted that about it.

She rolled it onto Alder Street, thumbed the starter, and felt the engine come alive under her. The first hard pulse traveled through the seat, the bars, and her boots. It pushed everything else out of her head. Almost.

She rode north through town, past wet brick storefronts and the old mill buildings, then took the mountain road above the river. The pavement narrowed after the last houses. Fir trees closed in on both sides. Fog hung between their trunks in long white bands.

The road climbed in tight curves. Rhea leaned the motorcycle through them, smooth on the throttle. Water shone on the blacktop. Ferns crowded the ditches. Below the guardrail, the valley opened green and deep, with Asterwick tucked beneath a low ceiling of cloud.

She passed a clear-cut slope where young firs stood in ordered rows. Beyond it, darker mountains rose toward the coast. Their upper ridges vanished into cloud. Rhea eased off the throttle at a gravel overlook and stopped, killing the engine. The scene was the kind of thing posted above a motivational quote and hung in an office. The approach of helicopters interrupted her sightseeing.

The sound reached her before she saw them. A heavy, repeated thump moved across the valley. Too deep for the medical helicopter from Saint Brigid’s. Too slow for the small forest service aircraft that sometimes followed the river.

Two Army -she assumed they were Army- helicopters appeared above the western ridge. They were large, dark, and blunt through the nose, with long bodies and wide rotor disks. They flew low beneath the cloud cover, moving northeast across the mountains. The second helicopter carried something beneath it. A rectangular container hung from long cables below the fuselage. Matte gray. About the size of a shipping container, maybe smaller. It swayed once as the helicopter crossed a pocket of rough air, then steadied.

Rhea watched until both aircraft disappeared behind the next ridge. Military helicopters were not impossible in Oregon. Training flights happened. Equipment moved. Bases existed beyond the mountains. There were a dozen normal explanations. Her mind chose the white van instead. Headlights off. No markings. Waiting behind the Giant’s Rest.

Then the vial beneath the mop sink. Clear glass. Pale residue. Warm through the towel. Rhea tightened her hands around the grips. “Not everything is connected,” she said inside her helmet. The empty road gave her no opinion. She started the bike forward and took the long route back to Asterwick.

By nine that night, the Giant’s Rest was loud enough to bury a confession. Students packed the booths. Loggers crowded the bar. Regulars claimed their usual stools and complained when anyone stood too close. Glasses knocked. The jukebox fought with twenty conversations and lost.

Rhea adjusted her apron and tucked a bar towel through the strings. Orders came fast. Two Foggy Ales. Three lagers. Whiskey neat. Vodka soda. Fries for table six. She moved through the routine without thinking. For ten minutes, she felt normal. “Rhea.” Her manager, Hal Brenner, waved her toward the far end of the taps. He was thick through the middle, red through the face, and already sweating through his collar.

A new tap handle stood beside the Foggy Ale. White ceramic. Black tree logo. NIGHT TIMBER ALE was printed in narrow green letters. Hal tapped it with one finger. “Push this one tonight.” “What is it?” “Small-batch ale. New supplier.” “Any good?” Hal shrugged. “Supplier’s offering incentives.” Rhea raised an eyebrow. The Giant’s Rest never received incentives. Trial kegs, branded coasters, and bad sales pitches, yes. Money for moving pints, never. “That doesn’t sound suspicious.” Hal gave her a tired look. “Tonight it sounds profitable. Sell beer. Embrace capitalism.”

Rhea poured a short taste. The ale was deep amber beneath a thick cream head. Toasted malt and pine rose from the glass, followed by orange peel and something faintly mineral underneath. She checked again. The mineral note vanished beneath the hops.

She took another careful sip. The ale was excellent. Rich without being heavy. Caramel at the front, bright citrus in the middle, and a clean pine finish that made her want another taste before she had finished the first. “Damn,” she said, looking at the glass. Night Timber sold itself after that. Old Pete ordered one, tasted it, and immediately asked for another. Two students abandoned their usual pitcher of Foggy Ale for it. A woman near the taps told her friend it might be the best beer the Giant’s Rest had ever served.

Rhea noticed because she was looking for reasons to notice. That did not make them evidence. Within twenty minutes, the white tap handle became part of the bar. Orders covered it. Hands passed in front of it. Rhea stopped watching. The front door opened. Cold air pushed through the room. A few people looked over.

The June Rhea remembered had been compact and quick, all sharp edges and restless energy. The woman crossing the bar now seemed built on an entirely different scale. Her shoulders filled her sweatshirt. Her chest and arms strained the front and sleeves. Her legs moved carefully beneath dark sweatpants, each step measured. She was taller than most of the men in the room and built heavier than all but a few.

Heat came off her from ten feet away. Her eyes were too bright. The room shifted around her. Conversations lowered. Heads turned. People made space without knowing why. Rhea shut off the tap. “Holy shit.” Hal looked up, puzzled but she left him standing there, cutting through the crowd.

June had reached the corner booth. She lowered herself onto the bench with care. The wood creaked under her. Rhea stopped beside the table. “Don’t,” June said. “I haven’t said anything.” “Your face did.” “My face is trying to understand why you look like you ate your old self.”

June looked down. The new sweatshirt fit, but closely, following the broad line of her shoulders and the full shape of her chest. Her sweatpants held just as snugly through her hips and thighs. Nothing was tearing. Nothing was in danger of giving way. The clothes simply made it impossible to pretend her body had not changed.

“It was on sale,” she said. “Stop.” The humor left June’s face. Rhea lowered her voice. “Something happened to me Monday night.” June’s eyes moved to hers. “After close, I found a vial in the backroom. No label. No cap. Something pale inside it.” Rhea rubbed one thumb across her palm. “There was residue on the floor. It gave off vapor. I breathed some in.”

June’s forced smile disappeared. “Were you hurt?” “No. I felt good.” Rhea hated how that sounded. “Hot. Charged. Like I could keep moving all night. Then my clothes started fitting wrong.” June sat straighter. The booth complained beneath her. Rhea continued. “My body changed. Not a little. I left my D&D session early because I thought everyone could see it. By morning it was gone.” “D&D?” Rhea stared daggers at her. “Focus, Park.”

June looked down at her hands. “You believe me,” Rhea said. June did not answer. “That is not the face of someone deciding whether I’m crazy.” June curled her fingers into her palms. “Something happened to me too.” Rhea waited. “It started earlier this week. Small changes. Bursts of strength. Sometimes I got taller for a minute and then mostly went back.” June swallowed. “This morning it got worse.”

“Worse meaning this?” June nodded. “How did it happen?” Rhea asked. June hesitated. “Mira and I went hiking to a place we’d been to before, before this all started happening.” “The cabin?” June shot Rhea a surprised glance. “Sorry, bartender ears, I overheard the both of you talking about stuff the other night.”

“Did you find a vial like I did?” “No.” The answer came too fast. June glanced toward the crowd. “Something else. I don’t want to get into all of it here.” “Looks like the changes stayed this time?” Rhea asked instead. June’s hands closed around the edge of the table. The wood gave a small crack. She released it immediately.

“Yes,” June said. “The other times I came back. Not all the way, but close. This time I kept waiting. Nothing happened.” Rhea studied her face. Beneath the humor and forced calm, June looked exhausted. “Does Mira know you’re here?” “She has a date with Grant.” “Tonight?” “Cloth napkins and everything.” June looked toward the bar. “I told her I needed air. What I need is a beer. Maybe several. Can you help me?” The edge of her mouth curled into a tired grin.

Rhea’s knees threatened to forget their job. She blamed the long shift. “Sit tight.” She returned to the bar. Hal was juggling orders at the register, sweat shining along his hairline. “Where the hell have you been?” “Customer service.” Rhea took two clean pint glasses from the rack.

She considered the Foggy Ale, then glanced at the new white tap. Night Timber was just what they needed. June wanted alcohol, not a mystery to solve, and Rhea wanted five minutes to sit across from her. She pulled the handle and filled both glasses. Hal stared at her. “You’re drinking now?” “I’m on my break.”

“You can’t leave me back here alone. Look at this place.” Rhea lifted both beers. “Embrace capitalism.” “Rhea.” “Ten minutes.” She was already walking away. She set one pint in front of June and carried the other around to the opposite side of the booth. June looked from the beer to Rhea. “That was fast.”

“I’m professionally gifted.” Rhea slid onto the bench and raised her glass. “To surviving whatever the hell this week was.” June touched her pint to Rhea’s. “Low standard. I support it.” They drank. June’s eyebrows rose. “Okay. That’s really good.” “Right?” Rhea took another swallow. The caramel opened into bright citrus and pine. The beer went down too easily.

Across the table, June looked even larger sitting still. Her shoulders spread beyond the old shape Rhea carried in memory. Her arms filled the sweatshirt sleeves, and the booth seemed built for a smaller version of her. Rhea’s crush had always been manageable—a private warmth she could bury under sarcasm and professional distance. Now it opened inside her with alarming force. Taller June. Broader June. The same sharp eyes and crooked mouth in a body that made Rhea forget where to put her hands. She took another drink to hide the way she was staring. It did not help.

For a few minutes they stopped talking about bodies, cabins, and impossible substances. They drank instead. Rhea finished first. June followed with a long pull that emptied her glass, then set it down beside Rhea’s. “I needed that,” June said. Her gaze stayed on the glass. Rhea caught herself admiring June again and didn’t know where to look so she glanced down at her empty pint. A thin collar of foam clung to the bottom. Something moved inside it. Green flashed, then violet, so faint Rhea almost blamed the bar lights.

June turned the empty pint. The shimmer moved with the foam instead of the glass. “Rhea.” Rhea leaned closer. “I see it.” June ran her tongue across her teeth. The pleasure left her face. “There’s a mineral finish. Stronger now that the beer’s gone.” “The vial smelled like that.”

June shook her head slowly. “Not just the smell.” She lowered her voice. “It tastes like the stuff I swallowed this morning.” Rhea’s eyes went wide. June added, “I’m not ready to tell that story.” Rhea looked toward the white tap handle. Then at the half-finished Night Timber pints scattered across the bar.

“Hal said the supplier is paying him to push it,” she said. June pushed both empty glasses away. “You need to stop serving this.” A shout cut across the room. Two men stood near the center of the bar. Rhea knew both of them. Cole Mercer worked at the mill. Travis Dune hauled timber and believed every disagreement improved with volume.

Cole shoved Travis. Travis shoved back. A stool tipped over. Someone grabbed a tray of drinks. The crowd opened around the fight. Rhea turned toward them. “Stay here,” she told June. June followed Rhea anyway. Cole drove both hands into Travis’s chest. Travis stumbled backward.

Travis recovered and shoved Cole hard enough to send him backward through the gap in the crowd. Cole’s heel caught the fallen stool. He stumbled, windmilled once, and slammed shoulder-first into June. She barely moved. One heel slid half an inch across the boards. Cole rebounded from her like he had hit a padded wall. He turned, startled first, then angry because people were watching. He had to tip his head back to meet her eyes.

“Back up, you big freak.” Cole planted a hand against June’s shoulder and shoved. Nothing happened. His arm locked. His boots slipped against a wet patch on the floor. June stood where she was, broad shoulders square, expression going still. The sweatshirt compressed beneath his palm, but the body inside it did not yield.

June looked down at his hand. “Freak, huh?” Cole shoved again, harder. His face reddened with effort. June caught his wrist, her grip like iron. She did not twist or jerk. She simply pulled his hand away, turned him, and guided him backward with steady force. Cole fought for balance. June kept moving him until the backs of his knees struck a chair. Then she pressed down.

He sat. The room quieted around them. Cole flushed with anger. Pride made one last bad decision for him. “What the hell are you supposed to be?” He sprang up and swung at her. It was wide and clumsy with too much beer. June blocked the punch with one forearm. Knuckles struck muscle with a flat, ugly sound. Cole grunted and grabbed his hand. June did not flinch.

Her eyes flashed. Anger showed in them with no cover and no apology. She punched him once. It was fast—too fast. He did not have time to react. Her fist struck him between the eyes. A wet crack followed. Cole’s head snapped back, and he fell into the chair, breaking it apart.

June turned her smoldering gaze toward Travis. The fight had left the man. He took a few steps backward and shook his head. “Fuck this, I’m out.” He shoved his way past some onlookers and left the bar. June’s chest rose and fell beneath the sweatshirt. Her fists opened slowly, as if each finger required a separate decision.

Rhea watched her friend and crush. She had changed for one night. Mira, from what she had overheard, had changed by inches. June had gone far past both of them. June looked at Rhea. The anger vanished. Fear replaced it. Not fear of Cole or Travis. Fear of her own hands. “June,” Rhea said and reached for her.

June stepped back and shook her head. Then she pushed through the crowd and left. The door slammed behind her. For three seconds, nobody spoke. Then the room filled with questions. Cole groaned, and a couple of patrons helped him to his feet. “Fuck, man, I think she broke my nose!” he whined nasally.

Rhea ignored them. Hal shouted something from the register. She did not hear it. She went back to the booth and collected their empty glasses. A thin collar of foam still clung to the bottoms. Green shifted inside it. The residue felt warm through the glass. A soft hum reached her fingertips. Rhea looked at the new tap. Then at the half-empty pints spread through the bar. Rhea couldn’t help but feel like things were going to get worse before they got better, for anybody.