the other Son

Chapter 44

Fear made him feel alive.

Tristan believed he was carved out for this – the impending crackle of lightning on his skin, the taste of petrichor on the tip of his tongue and the sooty darkness of the night wrapped around his shoulders like a heavy cloak. He felt more real, more like himself in the barely there glow of the early morning hours instead of the glaringly bright light of the day where everything was laid bare, the good, the bad, the pretty and the ugly.

Adrenaline and the harsh twinge of fear racing through his veins, the roar of the evil crawling under the paper-thin barrier of his skin and the possibility of everything – he could've laughed loudly, madly.

Murray Street lay lifeless and he heard the growl of thunder in the distance, more of a vibration in his chest than an actual sound.

There was a window cracked open next to the front door of the house across the street. Unlike Tristan the killer wasn't in the possession of a key nevertheless found another way to enter.

Not much time was left until the man – according to Finnegan – found out the apartment was empty, no Jonathan Walsh to take revenge on. Tristan crossed the street with a few big strides and slid the key into the slot as soundlessly as possible. He pushed the door open a few inches and listened closely and upon not detecting any sounds heading his way stepped inside.

The hallway was hardly two metres long and a steep staircase led upstairs to the flat. Cold air slipped inside through the open window. As he climbed the stairs the occasional creak and groan of old floorboards disturbed the silence despite the man's apparent attempt to keep quiet.

Eanverness' houses were old though, some of them dating back to the nineteen-hundreds and the Victorian Era, blissfully untouched by wars and natural disasters, and there was no way in hell anything weighing more than a pound was left undetected.

He reached the top of the staircase without any trouble. The veiny shadows were withing violently around his eyes and he would've bet money on his iris having receded completely, allowing the inhumane to crawl free. He welcomed it this time, welcomed the sharpness of the air in his lungs, the excited thrum somewhere at the base of his skull, the malicious hunger.

It would be so easy, so fucking easy to wipe the killer off of the world's surface like an ugly stain. No flesh left to rot, no bones to bury.

Pale slivers of light illuminated the room, just enough as to not bump into furniture with every step.

Adrenaline and the twinge of fear sharpened his senses.

Rustling came from the bedroom which was the third room in the apartment apart from the bathroom and living space with a small kitchenette. The air smelled stale and a bit damp, typical for these old buildings if they weren't aired out regularly.

Additionally, there was a strange scent lingering – reminiscent of a dry bag of herbal tea and – Finnegan's words echoed in his mind – strangely burnt.

The mutt had told the truth.

Tristan sidestepped the sofa and peered into the bedroom through the half-open door. Movement, erratic and jerky, somewhere in the depths of the twilight. The flash of fair skin, heavy breathing.

One minute to catch a killer.

Stereotypically, the man wore black, melting into the shadows. His face was hidden by a hood and every move emitted a new wave of that distinct smell.

A floorboard creaked under Tristan's foot.

They both froze.

Thunder rumbled outside. A storm was heading their way.