Wet and dripping, I slide on my long velvet robe and meet Santos in the living room before he's made it too far. I keep back. Light streams through the open front door, turning my walls a rich, deep amber, a color I've never seen them. The golden edges of my books glint. Ivory keys of my piano glow. The deep violet of my robe gleams. How beautiful it all looks in the light.
"Get out!" I demand. My eyes flash. I step toward Santos, wanting to tear him to pieces.
He reaches for his Taser and I freeze. I'm torn between fight or flight, but either way is hopeless. There's nowhere to go and I cannot kill a deputy and leave his car, lights flashing outside, undiscovered until nightfall. An image of men surrounding my house, breaking down doors, assaults me. It will never happen because no matter what Santos does, I will not kill him.
I'm doomed.
The door opens wider and I shrink back. It's Professor Hardcastle, haloed in light. His eyes are a dark blue, wide with surprise. He steps inside and stops when he sees Santos, hand on his Taser. "Atticus, what in God's name are you doing?"
Santos catches himself and lowers his hand, yet remains tense as a viper ready to strike.
"Shut the door," I demand.
Hardcastle complies, then fumbles for a light switch in the darkness. A chandelier lights high above us, bathing the room in antique light. Crystals twirl and tinkle from currents swirling through my once peaceful home.
The men look around and Santos narrows his eyes suspiciously. A grand piano graces the living room, which is lined in tall bookcases from floor to ceiling with a slender ladder placed before one. Heavy embroidered drapes cover the windows. Persian carpets adorn the glossed oak floors. Before an enormous fireplace sits an umber velvet couch along with two vermillion wingback chairs. William Hardcastle looks momentarily dazed.
Other than contractors, no one has been inside my home. Beneath me, my legs tremble, and with all my strength I try to steady myself.
"What in God's name is going on, Atticus? Why are you accosting Miss Bell in her own home? You're terrifying her."
"She ran. She refused to pull over," he says, a restrained fury in his voice. He looks wild inside my living room, as if a feral dog has sneaked inside.
"I can't," I say. "I have XP."
"I know all about your fantasy ailment. It doesn't cause one to burst into flames. It's against the law to evade an officer."
"That's hardly reason to Tase someone," Hardcastle says in a tone of aristocratic authority. He steps between Santos and me, his tall body forming a human shield and reminding me of Papa. My head comes to the lower blades of his shoulders and I long to rest my forehead against his back, place my hands upon the soft wool of his coat and collapse into his strength.
"What are your reasons for detaining her?"
"I have questions. There was another attack in the woods. She carried a man twice her size up a steep mountain. Not dragged him, but carried him." Hardcastle glances over his shoulder at me, perplexed.
"I helped the boy walk up with me. He lost consciousness near the top and Dana and I carried him the rest of the way."
Santos' eyes blaze. "You're lying. There was only one pair of tracks, not two."
I shake my head in denial.
"What reason would she possibly have for lying?" Hardcastle asks.
"Because there's something about her that's not right. She's not normal."
My heart sinks. Santos has discovered my secret, even if he doesn't know it yet.
"Exactly why I find her so appealing and hardly grounds to chase someone down in your squad car. You must take a breath, man."
"Remember Afghanistan," Santos says.
Hardcastle quickly shakes his head. "I'm trying to forget."
"You need to remember." It's an order, not a request, but beneath the words I hear an undercurrent of fear.
"What in the world can that possibly have to do with Miss Bell?"
"Jadallah."
Hardcastle drags in a breath as if struggling for patience. "Jadallah was an insurgent. Anne Bell is a paramedic. I hardly see the connection."
"He wasn't normal either. Remember how he died?"
"How can you compare him to her! Have you gone completely mad?" Hardcastle's voice shakes the chandelier. The crystals clatter above us like breaking glass.
"Don't be fooled by the look of her, William. Don't let your attraction blind you."
Hardcastle falls momentarily speechless. Even in the dim light, I see a blush crawl up the back of his neck. Santos' words surprise me. Attraction is not a state I normally inspire in men, at least I certainly didn't before, and since my turning I have allowed no man close enough for the impulse to kindle. Especially not Night Walkers. Our males are the most dangerous creatures on earth.
Is it possible Professor Hardcastle could feel such a thing?
The darkness has changed me.
"You've said quite enough," Hardcastle says. "Ten years of combat is more than any man should endure. It's clearly taken its toll."
A hurt look sweeps Santos' face. "If you suggest this is PTSfuckingD our friendship is done."
Hardcastle starts. "I said nothing of the kind, but it wounds me you'd so easily relinquish our friendship after everything we've endured."
"This isn't easy for me. But, she's lying, Will. I know it. I survived ten years of war because I listen to my gut and when I don't, people die. My friends die. She claims to be born in Boston but there are no records there of her birth or education."
Hardcastle looks at me, uncertainly. Turning to Santos, he says, "We've all done things we'd rather forget. If Miss Bell wishes to conceal something from her past, I am sure there's a valid reason. That doesn't make her a criminal."
I want to reach out and touch him. Place my hand on his back and steady myself.
"Why do you trust her?" Santos asks. "Because she looks young and innocent? Because of the uniform? After all we've seen, how can you believe in that?"
"You have your instincts, and I have mine. I understand you have questions, but this is neither the time nor the manner in which to ask them. As your friend, I'm asking you to leave. You can discuss these things with Miss Bell at a later date when you've both had an opportunity to compose yourselves. Surely you have an investigation to conduct before all the evidence erodes. Miss Bell is not going anywhere."
How I wish it were true. My home cradles me in beauty and comfort and I don't want to leave it. I've always felt safe here in my fairy tale Victorian and this curiously eccentric town sheltered by forest and mountain, insulated by a community of free and radical thinkers. Keep Asheville Weird posters proclaim, no doubt a reason I've been so easily tolerated. Dreadlocked artists and grateful patients have lured me into a false sense of security.
Yet in one single night, I have been tragically exposed. A soldier, an officer of the law, threatens me in my home, while no doubt Dr. Webb, at this very moment, stands over my patient, scrutinizing the evidence of my disobedience.
Maybe the anarchists are right; authority is the greatest danger of all.
Santos glares at me. So much anger swirls through him, I can hardly see his soul.
"Stop scaring her, Atticus," Hardcastle says softly. "It has never been your way to intentionally frighten a woman."
Without a word, Santos turns and walks out, leaving the door gaping open behind him. Seconds later, I hear him drive away. Professor Hardcastle walks to the door, removing the hide-a-key I clearly didn't hide well enough from the lock. He gently shuts the door and sets the key on a delicately carved end table.
"I apologize, Miss Bell—"
"Call me Anne. I think we're over formalities now." I collapse into a chair by the cold fireplace and pull my knees tight to my chest. My hair is wet and my robe is damp. It occurs to me I'm no longer wearing my glasses. Did my eyes shine in the dark? Is that why Santos reached for his weapon?
Suddenly I feel naked and acutely aware that I am entirely alone with William. With one hand, I pull my robe closed at my neck, and wrap the other around my knees, curling up like a little girl. I can't seem to stop shaking and hug myself for support.
"What are you doing here?" I ask.
"I live nearby. I was taking Woody for his outrageously early morning walk when I witnessed your vehicle fly by like a bat out of hell with Santos not far behind. Needless to say, I sensed something amiss." He looks at Woody, who has been standing beneath the piano this entire time. "What I would give for that dog to sleep past sunrise."
"Why does Santos hate me? What happened in Afghanistan?"
William takes a deep breath. "For that, we will need a fire. It's freezing in here. May I kindle a flame and make us a cup of tea? Woody appears a bit frozen. If I let him catch cold, my mother will haunt me from the grave with a ferocity to rival Catherine Earnshaw's."
He looks down at me, waiting for my response at his mention of the Wuthering Heights heroine. There is color in his face and his eyes are bright. A ring of midnight blue, so dark it's almost black, encircles their irises, imparting an intensity that makes me feel exposed beneath his gaze ... and yet strangely safe.
He has protected me.
Against all my better judgment, I say yes.