Chapter 3
chapter
three
Malcolm
The address Jones gave me leads me down a winding, tree-lined road that gets narrower the farther I go.
The GPS on my phone gave up about five miles back, leaving me to follow the gravel path until the forest swallows the sunlight.
The air feels heavy—too still, like the woods are holding their breath.
Then I see it.
A mansion looms ahead, half hidden by the fog and towering oaks.
It looks like something out of a Gothic novel—massive and brooding, all black gables and stone arches, with pointed towers that stab at the sky.
Ivy crawls up the facade like green veins.
The porch is wide, its columns carved with symbols that shimmer faintly when I move closer.
The house doesn’t look abandoned, but it doesn’t look alive either.
I kill the engine and step out of the car, gravel crunching beneath my boots. The place feels… aware. Watching.
I walk up the steps and knock. The heavy door swings open almost immediately, like whoever’s inside was expecting me.
The guy standing there looks… normalish. Tall, broad-shouldered, messy dark hair, but his eyes—holy hell—his eyes glow green. Like the green you see in bioluminescence. When he shifts in the doorway, the light gleams off his skin, giving it a lavender sheen.
I blink. “Uh… your eyes are glowing.”
He shrugs, deadpan. “Yeah. They do that. Can I help you?”
“Yeah.” My throat goes tight. “I’m looking for my wife.”
He raises a brow. “Only wife here is mine, so maybe you’ve got the wrong house.” He starts to close the door.
“Wait.” I plant my hand on the frame. “I hired a guy—Jones. He told me to come here. Said my wife might be here. Her name’s Joy.”
That makes him pause. Then his expression softens. “Okay. She’s not here,” he says, tilting his head toward the mansion behind him. “But she’s on the property. Come on in.”
“On the property?” I repeat, stepping inside cautiously. “What is this—some kind of commune?”
He laughs, deep and easy. “No, man. Just my house. But I’ve got a couple of guest cottages out back. Folks stay sometimes. It’s safer that way.”
Safer. Not comforting.
As we walk through the mansion, I can’t help but look around. Everything gleams—dark wood, antique chandeliers, art that looks older than civilization. And yet there’s warmth here too. A woman’s touch.
“You’re new to all this,” the guy says, glancing back at me.
“This?” I ask. “You mean the whole supernatural-monster-secret-society thing? Yeah, you could say that. Yesterday, I thought the weirdest part of my life was losing my wife. Now apparently she’s… different. So, tell me—am I allowed to ask what you are, or is that rude?”
He chuckles. “No, not rude. I’m a zombie. For lack of a better word.”
I stop walking. “A zombie. Like brains and shambling and—”
He grins. “Not that kind. Think more… reanimated but fully functional. Less horror movie, more detective sidekick television show. Admittedly, brains are still on the menu, but only bovine.”
“Right. Got it.” I rub the back of my neck. “So, you and your wife—do you… have any problems with all this? The other-being thing?”
He glances toward a framed photo on the wall—him and a dark-haired woman, smiling like they’ve cracked the secret to forever. “No problems,” he says. “I knew she was the one the moment I smelled her. Sounds weird, I know. But my senses are different now. Stronger.”
“Smelled her?” I echo.
He laughs again. “Yeah. Don’t knock it till you’ve died and tried it.”
We step out through the back door onto a cobblestone path that winds through the woods. The air smells of pine and rain. Far ahead, sunlight catches on the roof of a small cottage.
“Joy’s there,” he says.
My pulse kicks up.
Before we reach the cottage, movement catches my eye. A woman steps out of the cabin, her skin glinting like wet glass, hair flowing as if she’s currently in water. She’s pretty—and not quite human. She looks right at me.
“Amelia?” I ask, recognizing my wife’s best friend. Joy really is here.
“I knew you’d come,” she says softly. “I’ve been telling her to contact you. She still loves you. She’s just afraid you’ll reject her.”
“I’m not going to reject her.”
“Don’t let her push you away. I’m going for my swim.” She’s already walking toward the lake, shimmering scales flashing under the light.
“I’m guessing some kind of mermaid?”
“Siren, technically,” Atticus says.
We reach the cottage door. My hands shake, but I shove them in my pockets. Atticus knocks once.
The door cracks open. “Yes?” The voice is familiar.
My heart pounds, and relief washes over me.
“Joy,” Atticus says gently. “Your husband is here.”
There’s a sharp inhale, then panic. “What? No. He can’t see me like this.”
“Babydoll?” My voice cracks, and I step closer. “I love you. No matter what. I don’t care if you have horns, fangs, or a tail. You’re my wife. And I’m tired of living without you.”
There’s silence. Then, soft footsteps retreat inside.
Finally, her voice, shaky but resolute: “You can come in. We can talk.”
Inside, the lights are off. It’s so dark I can barely see, but I hear her moving, the rustle of fabric, the flutter of something delicate.
“You’re not gonna like what you see,” she says quietly. “My changes aren’t pretty like Amelia’s… mine are just weird.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”
A pause. Then, with a flick, the lights come on.
And I see her.
My breath catches. Her hair is still the same rich brown I used to twine my fingers through, but her eyes are wider now, luminous.
From her back unfurl massive, soft wings—bronze and gold and cream, shimmering like they’re dusted with starlight.
Antennae curve delicately from her hairline.
She looks fragile and powerful all at once.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “You have wings.”
Her shoulders hunch, shame flooding her expression. “I told you—”
“They’re beautiful,” I interrupt. My throat tightens. “You’re beautiful.”
Joy blinks, stunned. “You really think so?”
I take a step closer. “I don’t just think so. I know so. You’re still you, Babydoll. Always you.”
Her wings tremble, like maybe they’re trembling for both of us. And when she finally lets me hold her, the world stops spinning.