Intruder
The crash of a book hitting the floor jolts me back to reality like a physical blow.
The spell shatters. My breath hitches into a ragged sob as I realize what I have done.
My hands fly to my dress, fumbling to pull the bunched twisted fabric into place.
My heart slams against my ribs, a frantic trapped bird desperate to escape the cage of my chest.
What is wrong with me? Bile rises in my throat. That was madness. Total unadulterated disgrace.
The lock clicks. I bolt for the sofa, collapsing onto the cushions just as the door handle turns. I force my breath into shallow rhythmic pulses, tucking my shaking hands beneath my thighs to hide the tremors.
Cain enters. Everything about him is wrong.
His face is bloodless under the guttering candlelight, skin slicked with a sheen of cold sweat.
His jaw is clenched so tightly the muscle jumps in his cheek.
He moves with a stiff measured gait, as if every step requires a monumental exertion of will.
And there—a dark spreading stain ruins his sleeve, soaking into the fine fabric. Blood.
He doesn’t speak, just crosses the room, hand reaching out to grab my arm—
But his fingers never touch me.
A crack splits the air, like the snap of a whip. Cain stumbles backward, his hand jerking away as if I have branded him with red-hot iron. His eyes widen, a flicker of raw unrecognizable emotion surfacing in their depths.
He stares at me for a long suffocating moment. Then, with an abrupt shrug, he masks his reaction, features settling into cold indifference. He jerks his chin toward the door.
“Follow me.”
I obey. What else can I do?
Endless corridors stretch before us. Cain walks ahead, pace measured despite the blood dripping rhythmically from his sleeve. He doesn’t glance back.
At my door he finally turns. His eyes are flat, empty—the eyes of a man who has seen too much and now feels absolutely nothing.
“Tomorrow,” he says, “you will pay for your disobedience. Your training is just beginning.”
He steps back. The door slams, and the lock clicks home with a finality that rings in my skull.
I stand in the darkness, alone, my body still humming with the ghost of a touch. I’m still burning, still aching.
The portrait. The man. His eyes.
I cross to my bed and sit on the edge, staring at nothing. Who was he? I know only that he was a monster. A legend of cruelty.
I lie down, and stare at the ceiling. I think about the sharp set of his jaw. The way my body responded to a static image, the shame and heat warring in my chest. I press my thighs together, trying to crush the lingering electric ache, trying to forget.
A violent sound shatters the silence.
I shoot upright, heart hammering, scanning the gloom. The balcony doors swinging on their hinges, wide open, as if a gale has torn through the room. But there is no wind, only the cold invasive press of moonlight.
A bird, I tell myself, pulse racing. Just a bird.
Then I see it.
A shape clings to the railing. Large, dark wings wrapped tightly around a small body.
A bat.
I press back against the headboard, breath catching. The creature unfurls its wings. Against the white glow of the moon they stretch impossibly wide. Shadows drip from the edges like liquid smoke.
Then it is gone. Not flying… vanishing! Dissolving into the night like mist.
I lie back down, and I could swear—just for a heartbeat—that I see two luminous purple-blue eyes watching me from the curtains as they sway in the phantom breeze.
“Lucille,” a demonic lethal voice whispers from the dark.