22. An Eerie Name #2
The house itself is modest. Three small bedrooms. A bathroom. The large kitchen I rebuilt piece by piece—the cabinetry salvaged from homes no longer occupied, painted and repainted over the years to suit my moods.
The storerooms are stocked with what was left behind when the original owners fled—and what I’ve added since: scavenged tools, preserved food, weapons, and other relics salvaged from ruined cities.
The fallout shelter and underground cellar serve a great many purposes.
Not just a reinforced isolated space, but a place I can go to shut out the world and work uninterrupted.
A refuge where I research, study, and prepare for whatever acts of God might come next.
Because, should there come a day when I have to spend years in the dark again, this is at least one of my own choosing.
The Horseman might view it all differently, especially once he steps inside and sees the multicolored furniture and scattered knickknacks filling the space.
Maybe in his eyes it’ll be a wealth of clutter, merely meaningless objects overrunning the space.
But to me, each piece is a reminder of the places I’ve been and the people lost to devastation and time.
Everything here holds a history, and the legacy of those past lives persists in small ways, in this place, and through me.
So his perception shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t negate the fact that it took years to make this place livable.
Longer still to make it mine.
As I stand here now, letting Orán see it—letting him see me in this way—I feel the weight of this decision. It sits like a jagged stone twisting in the pit of my stomach.
Because safety can be an illusion. And comfort… can be a weapon.
Whether he knows it or not, he’s looking at something I hold sacred.
I take the lead, guiding Enoch toward the stable before swinging down from the saddle. My boots hit the packed earth with a familiar thud, and I keep a steady hand on the reins as I walk him into the barn, which smells of horse, hay, and old wood.
I hear Orán dismount with practiced ease, and he follows me inside a moment later.
“Take your pick of the stalls. As you can see, there are plenty available.”
He guides Nexus to the stall next to Enoch’s, ignoring the two other stalls across the small aisle.
I tie Enoch off. Murmuring to him, I loosen the girth and lift the saddle free. His coat is damp with sweat beneath my palms, muscles twitching. I rub him down with a cloth, slow and thorough, brushing away the grime before checking his legs and hooves for cracks or stones.
Only then do I offer Orán a quiet nod toward my supplies.
“Help yourself,” I say, gesturing to the shelf along the wall. Brushes, cloths, a small tin of salve—well used, yet carefully kept.
“Thank you.” His gaze darts around, and his mouth kicks up in a half grin. “This is a nice place. Quiet. Peaceful.”
Shrugging, I tell him the truth. “It’s home.”
He accepts without comment, retrieving what he needs and tending to his own mount with the same deliberate care. The soft sounds of brushing and shifting hooves fill the space between us. The horses relax under our attention, heads lowering, breaths evening out.
Occasionally, I’ll watch him work, taking note of his strong hands that can also be gentle. When he borrows the salve, he uses it sparingly, before returning it to its place.
I’m a bit taken aback by how rare this is. A man in my space who doesn’t seek to take, to demand, to test my defenses. He doesn’t fit the categories I’ve learned to guard against. He takes up space, yes—but with the same measured restraint he brings to everything else.
He’s also naturally quiet, and I find myself easing into that silence with him.
The realization is somewhat concerning, but it’s there all the same.
Once Enoch has been provided food and water, I step back and wait for Orán to do the same.
“I don’t know about you,” I say while leaning against the wood railing, “but I’m dying to clean up and rest.” He reaches to set the brush aside, but I lift a hand. “Take your time. There’s no rush. When you’re done, come inside. I’ll leave soap and towels on the table.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“There’s a lake that way.” I point at the north.
“Through the trees about fifty yards. It’s where I bathe and do laundry.
There’s a line out back to hang and dry clothes.
Seeing that this might be the only clothes you have, you’re welcome to check the spare room.
There might be something left from the previous owner that fits. ”
I glance pointedly at his human form, his clothing in no better shape than mine—caked with blood, dirt, sweat, and days of hard travel.
He smirks. “Doubt it. But I’ll look.”
I leave him then, retreating into the house to collect myself.
In my room, I strip quickly, dropping my cloak and ruined clothes in a heap. I kick them into a corner to deal with later, then wrap a towel around myself and gather what I’ll need—soap, water, and another towel. I set the extra one on the table for him.
Food comes next.
Crackers. Jerky. Simple things.
Eating may not be something the Horsemen do, but it’s an old custom I approve of, so I offer what I have readily available.
As I spend the next few minutes eating my fill, I run through the plan again—every angle, every risk.
Still turning it over in my mind, I step back through the front doorway carrying a bag full of supplies to wash up and—walk straight into a wall.
Or not a wall so much as a body of firm muscle that refuses to yield.
Limbs tangle. Skin brushes skin. An awkward, breath-stealing dance follows—one misstep after another—until we manage to pull ourselves apart.
“Sorry, I—uh—didn’t see you there,” I say as heat blooms in places I’d rather not acknowledge.
“No… don’t apologize. It was my fault.”
He lifts his hand as if to steady me, but it veers away at the last second. He ends up cupping the back of his neck and shifting in place as his guarded gaze drags down my frame.
It pauses for longer than my liking midway, as if frozen in place where my hand is currently clutching the towel.
A brief flash burns behind his irises, there and gone in the time it takes for him to lift his chin.
I tilt my head, studying him more closely now—cataloging the tells as they surface. His left hand flexes. Tension gathers in his shoulders. His pupils dilate, swallowing color as our stares war with each other.
Not wholly human, I remind myself. But not unaffected either.
Believing this is my opening, I commit to it.
By sight, be drawn. By want, be bound. Come to me—forget yourself.
The words settle into a mantra as I stare guilelessly up at him.
The sigil on my arm warms as the magic stirs beneath my skin. It’s a rush of sparks threading through cell and vein alike—pulling a breathless laugh from me as it weaves its heady spell between us.
I adjust my towel, letting it slip a fraction. “I guess I was in a bit of a hurry to wash. Will you be joining me at the lake?”
He nods, a bit too mechanically. “Yes. Uh… mm. Lead the way. I’ll follow.”
“Don’t forget your towel.” I gesture behind me to the kitchen table. “There’s food too if you’re hungry.”
He hesitates just a fraction too long. “Thank you. I’ll eat after washing.”
I pull on my boots and make my way into the forest.
He stays close. Close enough not to be a coincidence, his presence at my back is tangible and charged. The tattoo at the nape of my neck reacts, echoing the sensation.
Or perhaps urging me to proceed with caution.
The problem is, I never know which.
And honestly, it doesn’t matter. This is a window of opportunity I won’t leave to chance. It’s the first time I’ve had the upper hand since the trap, and I’m not likely to get another.
So I don’t rush. I don’t let my inexperience show. I bury the doubt before it can take root, force the rising tide of nerves to submit to this course of action, and make my walk to the lake one of leisure.
At the shore, I drop the bag and slip off my boots, leaving them in the dirt before dipping my toes in. A test to confirm the water is as it should be this time of year—inviting rather than biting.
It is, and I thank Heaven for this small mercy. I draw in a steadying breath and toss aside my towel with more confidence than I feel. As I wade in, I extend my arms and let the water do its bidding, enveloping and welcoming me like an old friend.
Orán clears his throat behind me.
I hear the shift of movement, and half turn to see his cloak on the ground. One boot has already been discarded. He’s in the process of working the other free while simultaneously reaching behind him to grip the collar of his shirt and pull it over his head.
Both are discarded a moment later without thought.
My gaze travels over the symbols that I’d previously seen only hints of. Black in color and Celtic in nature, made by what appears to be artistic and steady hands.
They disappear beneath his leather, and I find myself all too interested to know how far down they go and the meaning held in each one.
Will the rest of him be a living work of art like what I see here?
Needing the water to cleanse me of such thoughts, I close my eyes and sink beneath the surface.
This isn’t about your pleasure. It’s about calling on his. Don’t let the magic corrupt your thoughts as well.
Underwater, I let the plan unfold.
Seduce. Beguile. Bed.
Draw him in enough to bring down his guard. Ease him into trust… or into exhaustion. Then—and only then—when captive becomes captor, might I set new terms of our arrangement.
Don’t rush. Use the words. Push faith and belief into the ones you’ve chosen, and summon the power within to do their bidding.