Hello Darkness

Chapter Fifteen

I curl into my chair, wrapping myself in one of Nana's homemade quilts. I watch Alma and Breccan, a smile splitting my lips. They make everything feel complete. Breccan gathers the mint and gold plates, handing them off to Alma who runs her thin fingers under the stream of water from the faucet.

They banned me from the kitchen because of some stupid birthday rule we made up because Alma can't help herself from cleaning. Instead, I pull my computer onto my lap, content with the evening. Maybe it's the wine, but for the first night in the past week, I'm happy. Completely and utterly happy.

I search my files for the documents I need to send to Eve, and a new email alert flashes at the bottom of my screen.

In that one second, all the happiness comes crashing down. Like a bomb explodes and sends my world back into a panic. Even the world sways around me.

Don't forget your present from me, the subject from an anonymous email reads. My fingers curl and reflexively pull away from the keyboard. I force my hand forward to click. The email pops open with an attachment.

The body of the email reads: Remember these?

I click the attachment, and my breath catches in my throat. It was a picture from earlier in the parking lot. Someone had been watching, and I hadn't even noticed.

I lean against the car staring at Talum's black dress shoes. His eyes fixed on me—hands in his pockets.

My heart stutters—it might stop and never start again.

There is no chance those were there. I would have seen them. My eyes follow the curve of the membranous leather wings folded elegantly behind Talum's back. They drape to his knees and crest high above his shoulders.

My eyes flick from the screen to where Alma and Breccan chat quietly in the kitchen. I want to show them. But what would they say?

Edited. They would say it has to be edited. I gulp. But whoever did this—they knew. They knew about my dreams and what I thought I saw that night.

Impulsively, I click reply. Who is this? Send.

The room is hazy, and I focus on the screen. I can't look away, waiting for the response. I refresh my inbox.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Ding.

An unread email pops up and I click it. An old friend.

Only three people in this world know about those wings and all of them are in this very room. There could only be one other—I can hardly think of it. The fourth would have been in the room with me that night, and that someone would have owned those wings. My pulse thrums heavy in my ears. But that would be confirming that my nightmares were much more than that.

"Everything okay, Charley?" Alma's voice nearly makes me scream, but judging by the wrinkle in her brow this isn't the first time she said my name.

"Yeah. Pop-up," I lie. "You know... the kind with the scary face."

For the remainder of my time with you, I'll always tell you what's real. But you must believe it yourself first. Talum's words from nearly that moment repeated. Fake—this is a fake picture. This stranger isn't going to take my sanity from me.

Maybe I told more people than I realized when I was young, and he must get some sick pleasure from his jokes, but he isn't going to win. He needs more than one player for his game and I'm not playing. If I don't react, he'll get bored, or at least, I hope. I don't take another look at the photo before I click "delete."

"Well, what do you say?" Alma asks.

My stomach stirs. "I'm sorry—what were you talking about?"

She giggles, placing the pan in the sink. "We're short for the blood drive next weekend. Since you helped last year, my boss wanted me to ask if you'd help again." She pauses and looks at the floor. "That is, if you're feeling up to it."

"Yeah, of course." Slips from my mouth before I even contemplate the blood, still too distracted by what I saw. My stomach flips, but I don't change my answer.

I should probably tell Breccan, but he would keep putting himself in danger against a monster they couldn't begin to understand, one that might not even be human.

The haze looms over the remainder of the night, until I pull the quilt over my head and fall into swirling dreams of black winged creatures and red corvettes. Sometimes the two mingle into a monster hunting nightmare. He swoops down and lands on the hood smashing the beautiful, cherry paint. Then Talum's face sneers at me. Fangs protruding before he flies back into the night sky, cloaked in darkness.

I wake to the sun bleeding through the window the next morning. I turn my head and jump. Talum isn't doing anything unusual, but I find my eyes searching for any remanence of wings. He sits on the sofa, left ankle laying across his right knee, newspaper in hand. On the front page, a smiling girl with light hair causes goosebumps to travel up my arms and tingle down my back—Melissa.

I tear my eyes away from hers, so full of life. Talum dressed down, still in black but at least it was a tee-shirt and jeans. And no wings. I feel silly for even considering it. "When did you get here?"

"Same time as usual." Talum shifts setting down the paper, giving me a slight smile.

"I just didn't hear you come in." How could I let a stranger influence my thoughts about Talum? He invaded my mind and made this person, sworn to protect me, become a monster. "Thank you for the card. That was very sweet of you."

"How was it? Your birthday—I mean." He cocks his head to the side, studying me. Like he can sense something is off. Or, I'm reading too much into things.

"It was nice. Normal. You guys should have come."

"I don't think I would have made it very normal. You made that pretty clear," he smirks.

I look away, cheeks warming, and count the tiny pink buttercup flowers on one of the quilt squares. Seven. "Maybe it's time that I accept that my life will never be normal. I should stop pretending it ever was."

"Why be normal, when you can be you?"

I scoff and look away. No one ever encouraged me to be myself. "You have no idea what being me entails."

"Then tell me." There isn't anything prying in his eyes, just a desire to understand the outburst yesterday. A way to tell me he is trying and there to listen. It's a weird feeling, having someone ask me about my story without some hidden agenda.

I think about it—about telling him everything. But to lay myself out there so raw and exposed—I'm not ready. Plus, who is he? A detective, not my therapist. "Maybe another day."