Page 146 of Where the Snakes Sleep

He groans, and even in the dark, I can feel the exasperated amusement radiate off him. “I think so. You wish to eat at this hour? You are insatiable.”

“That’s what you get for putting up with me. I hope you’re happy.”

At 11:17, a soft electronic chirp drifts up from below.

I’m in the kitchen, licking pastry crumbs off my fingers. Camille freezes as he puts away dishes in the cupboards.

“What was that?” I ask.

“Stay here,” he orders, suddenly serious.

“Absolutely not.”

“Fine. Come with me.”

Camille takes his phone from the counter and opens the security application while walking toward the hall. I follow close enough to see the screen over his arm.

One exterior camera appears to be frozen.

The image shows the western side of the property, trees silvered under moonlight, a timestamp locked at 23:16:42.

Camille swipes to a different camera—it’s working. Goes to another—working. Then the driveway cam—frozen at 23:16:39.

“Wi-fi glitch?” I ask, starting to get scared.

“No.”

“Power issue?”

“No.”

His terse answers unsettle me.

“Camille. Is… is someone out there?”

“Go upstairs.”

My heart pounds. “You said—”

“That was before I saw this.” His phone’s glow is harsh on his face. A metallic scrape sounds outside. We both freeze.

Camille looks toward the dark hall leading deeper into the estate.

“We need to move.”

Somewhere beyond the walls, another security sensor gives one soft electronic chirp.

Then the entire house goes dark.

The darkness is absolute for less than a second before Camille moves.

One moment his hand is wrapped around mine, warm and tight enough that I can feel his pulse against my palm, and the next he is pulling me through the hallway with an urgency that sends my bare feet skidding slightly against the floorboards. I barely manage to keep up, disoriented by how thoroughly the estate has vanished around us now that the lights are gone, every familiar doorway reduced to an indistinct black shape relieved only by the weak glow of Camille’s phone.

“Camille—”

“Quiet.” There is no room for argument in his voice.

He moves quickly but not blindly, navigating his own house through memory while his phone throws a narrow cone of bluish light ahead of us. I hear another sound outside—loud enough that every muscle along Camille’s back tightens beneath his shirt.