Perception (Apparition Investigations #1)

Case #1: Villanova Apartments: Part 12

Cyril remained quiet.

With my arms full of books, I took them back to their shelves.

Oliver continued. "What else did you feel?"

"Just angry," I said, but my voice didn't even sound that convincing to me.

Oliver hedged softly. "Scared?"

Sighing, I slid the last book home but kept my hand on it. I stared at the spine of it. Another something I saw everyday but hadn't really looked at—just like with the pocket watch. The pocket watch, that despite the storm, had stayed perfectly still on the fireplace mantle. "Yes."

"What went through your mind?" Oliver asked.

I grabbed the curtains and moved toward the window. It was easier to talk if I worked. "He was...he was just on top of me. His hands were around my wrists and it hurt. It felt like an Indian burn—you know, where someone twists your skin in opposite directions. And I was so angry that I'd invited him into my home. I felt so stupid. And then I hated how weak I felt, how easily he just seemed to—"

"Where are you going?" Oliver interrupted.

I turned then, looking into the empty room. But I still couldn't see them.

"I can't hear this," Cyril grumbled.

"Cyril—wait."

I stared into the empty room for a beat longer before turning back toward the windows. I'd just managed to get the curtains back up when Oliver's voice floated from near my shoulder. "Please continue."

I managed to turn my jump of surprise into a swooping motion as I bent to pick up another book and place it on the shelf. "Where's Cyril?"

"Your bedroom. He just needs a minute. What happened next? You felt angry?"

Nodding, I moved toward the Paris painting that had been on the mantle—now in the kitchen. Hefting it up, I answered. "Yes." Then it all came out in a rush, so much easier now that Cyril wasn't listening. "And terrified. I just kept thinking of how I couldn't do anything. I couldn't get him off me, I couldn't call for help. I'd just let him hurt you two like that." I shoved the painting back into its place.

"We're fine, Stella. We're fine."

Tears began to well in my eyes and I brushed them angrily away with the back of my hand. "And I just kept remembering how Rose had stormed in here yesterday, repeating his name as if it meant something when we had no clue what she was talking about. Noah Walker. Noah Walker."

It hit me. I looked down at my hands. "Noah Walker," I repeated, still staring.

Oliver caught my change in tone. "What is it?"

I flew into my bedroom, throwing the door open as I did.

"Stella, not—" Cyril started then stopped as I dashed straight to my bookshelf. "What is it?"

My eyes skimmed the shelves, looking for the familiar hefty, black bound book. When I found it, I snatched it and held it reverently in my hands.

Oliver read the title over my shoulder. "The Name of the Wind?"

"It's a story about a guy who can conjure the wind. Because he knows the name of it."