𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐀 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

XXXVIII

I'm confused for a second, having completely forgotten the doodle on my hip bone. I flip him off lazily."I like them," I say, taking another sip before examining the strikes that branch out from under the waistband of my boxers, to my lower abs, up to my waist until it touches right above my heart. "Might just keep them."

He nods comically, picking up the pot of coffee. He's quiet for a second, for two—a red flag for a man with a big mouth. I wait for the catch, wait for him to finally blurt it out. Eventually, he does. "I need to go back to Hendrix."

My brows knit together. "No. Wouldn't you be considered an accomplice?"

He shakes his head, pouring his coffee. "They know you've snapped out of it, but they've forgotten me, I'm sure. They still think I'm under their control." He looks at me, his amber eyes shining despite the bags under them. "Are you worried about me?"

I stare at him before rolling my eyes. "And if they suspect you?"

"I trained with you, you know." He says. "I'm not as stupid as I pretend to be."

"Oh, yeah?" I ask, and he nods as if to show me that yes,—he's serious. "Your coffee is spilling, Nguyen."

He looks down and curses, rushing to get a cloth. I have to purse my lips together to hide the smirk that threatens to pull at my lips. Deep, deep down, I know he's not stupid. Born into a bloodline that's worked with mine for so long, I'm not yet arrogant enough to believe he's been dealt colorful cards in life. I know he's seen some of the same things I've seen, having been forced to endure some of my training with me. But while I'm quiet and closed off, he's loud and talkative. We're opposites, in many ways. But when Jane walks down the staircase in my wrinkled button-up, we both muster up a smile for her—a silent agreement passing between us. We're going to be okay. We have to be.

          Janes pov
It's been a few hours since Xanders left, and the power has gone off. In a maze of bedrooms, thirteen bathrooms, four floors, eight thousand square feet, arches upon arches, staircase after another, dead end following another, traps on top of another—we're lost.

"Fuck," I curse when my head clashes into Henry's back, and a dry laugh rumbles through him. I can't see a thing in the darkness—the only light guiding us being the dim fluorescent of an old flashlight, and the starry night itself.

He puts the flashlight down, shining a light on the rest of the basement—a spacious floor filled with shelves upon shelves, boxes atop boxes, shadows accompanied by shadows. Henry descends to the other side in search of any sort of light, searching the far side of the room as I search the front. I drag my fingers along the rows of porcelain dolls, around the dusty bounded books, albums, and albums of childhood pictures. Candles, candles, candles—we came here for candles.

A grandfather clock sits in the middle of the room, the big hand striking midnight. I wonder when the power will come back, how long the outage will last. I wonder what we'll do to pass the time, Henry and I. I wonder if Xanders is okay, knowing he won't be back until tomorrow. I wonder how long we'll have to hide, wonder if I have the patience to wait for karma to do what I'll gladly take over. I wonder so much in such little time that I don't realize I'm walking down a new aisle—this one with shelves stacked bottom to ceiling with board games. From candyland, to sorry, to monopoly, to—

To a familiar wooden board with the alphabet engraved across it in dark ink—the sun and the moon, a yes and a no, a greeting and a goodbye. The planchette pointing to the word played across it; welcome. The ouija board.

My finger stops directly atop it. In a cluster of dusty forgotten memories—this was the only one of the many in perfect condition. Almost as if it hadn't aged. I stare at the board, stare at it for so long that my mind begins to play tricks on me. I begin to mistake shadows for monsters. I begin to look over my shoulder. Begin to mistake the voices in my head for whispers in my ear.