Beneath The Crescent Moon {TMT #3}

Chapter 13

"I did." Mik put his glass down and impatiently drummed his fingers on the counter.

After another minute of strained silence, Micaiah spoke out of the blue once more.

"Look, I'm sorry," he blurted out before he cleared his throat, sounding the tiniest bit uncomfortable. Not to mention, his apology had naturally caught me off guard, so like any other person, I asked him to repeat himself.

Maybe I hadn't heard correctly.

"I said I'm sorry."

No. There it was again. Sorry.

I straightened up. Confused.

"Sorry?"

"Grown deaf on me, Kid?"

"Well...uh." I too began to clear my throat, the area getting itchy for a different reason.

"Hmm, didn't picture you to be mute. Guess I have to apologize often."

I frowned, my discomfort evaporating. He's getting it too easy.

"What are you sorry for?" I asked after I'd recovered, pushing his buttons a little bit. Even though Mik appeared only a little uncomfortable, it made him look less of a grumpy experienced man and more of a man not any older than I.

If that made any sense.

Micaiah, however, didn't take the bait. "I'm not going to give you the satisfaction of seeing me this vulnerable again so use the time you have wisely."

I scowled. "I see you're not even remotely done being a cad."

"I told you, I'm only continually a jerk to people I couldn't care less about."

"That's reassuring."

Another chuckle escaped him and once again, I felt that foreign-familiar tug in my chest. It was like I'd heard a laugh like that before, somewhere distant, an unreachable memory of sorts.

I knew without a doubt that no one had ever genuinely laughed in my presence lest to mock me, save for Ellie. Cleo wasn't a laugher, so, by all means, I'd rule him out. For the third time or so, I chose the time to really examine Micaiah.

The white streaks in his hair made him look somewhat ancient, yet his black beady eyes made him appear just in his late twenties.

When he leaned forward to grab a bottle off the counter and pour himself a glass, I watched him more closely even then.

There had to be something else. Something else he definitely knew about that I didn't. And according to the way he kept on clenching his fist and staring off into space with a longing look in his eyes, I suspected that it had something to do with his obsessed hunt for the last Night Witch.

Or in other words, my mother.

"You and Cleo aren't the only Witch Hunters, are you?" This question had popped up in my head before, so I was glad that I'd remember to ask before I never got to sate my curiosity. "I remember Cleo threatening you with them."

"That's none of your business."

"It is if we're going to work together," I retorted.

"No it's not," he shot back. "Ignorant of my past life will not affect you in any way."

"What's so-"

"Enough." He cut me off rudely, slamming his glass on the counter and turning to glare at me.

Yet even as he did, I had an inkling that his anger wasn't necessarily directed at me. So I returned his gaze with much defiance, refusing to give him the advantage of knowing that his look intimidated me.