Page 6 of Pareidolia

“There’s something down there,” he says, his words more a gasp than anything.

I frown.

“There are a lot of things down there… that doesn’t give you permission to barge in when the tower is occupied.” I know I’m not doing a good job of pretending to be normal, but I was halfway through blissing out on the memory of my first murder. This asshole barging in with wide eyes, being afraid of wolves or bears or something, is not my problem. “Get out.”

Yeah, I’m doing a really bad job pretending.

“No,” he answers, his brows shooting up. “Didn’t you hear me? There’s something down there. It attacked my friends. I’m not going back out there.”

I can see it as it happens, the way he straightens his shoulders and stands to his full height. The way he looks me up and down—I’m six feet and lean muscled, but he’s bigger. He’s got the look of a person who’s thrown his weight around most of his life. His eyes flick across the blue tips of my hair, to the baggy shirt I’m wearing that covers my build.

I can see it when he decides that he’s not going to listen to anything I say, as though he’s weighed and measured the perceived danger outside with the danger standing in front of him.

It’s almost not fair, because he doesn’t understand that nothing out there is as big a monster as what’s standing in front of him.

“Think about what you’re doing,” I say, my voice level and calm. My fingers are still gripping the banister behind me.

What’s the chance that the same thing would work twice? When Rory Daniels had fallen to the ground and disappeared, I’d pushed him. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to get the same kind of upper hand on the asshole in front of me without a little help from momentum.

“I know what I’m doing.” His eyes are wild as he starts forward, and I realize two things at the same time.

First, he’s going to make this incredibly easy on me, because there’s nothing careful about the way he’s moving.

Second, he’s going to die, and I’ll never even know his name.

“You know,” the intruder starts with a honeyed voice, at least trying to cajole me into cooperating. “We can just keep each other company up here. Doesn’t that sound better than the alternative?”

By the way he says alternative, it’s obvious he thinks the only other option is that he forces things to go his way.

But there’s only one way he’s going at this point, even if he doesn’t know it yet. I lean back, my fingers testing the railing behind me. It has give to it—enough that if a grown man crashed into it, it just might break. I’ll have to repair it later if I’m going to stay here, but…

“The only alternative is you getting the fuck out of my fire tower.” My voice is calm, and I arch a brow as I speak, clearly taunting him to do whatever impulsive thing his irrational fear is pushing him to.

It’s strange. His eyes are still so wide that I can see white all around his irises, like a dog ready to bite, and his pupils are pinpricks of black. The sheen of sweat on his forehead doesn’t match the cool air biting my skin and the thin jacket he’s wearing.

As he steps closer, the soft breeze brings the acrid scent of sweat—not from running.

From fear. It’s sour and desperate.

“Hard way, then.” His eyes narrow. “We’ll still go inside together. It’s up to you how much you like what happens once we’re there.”

I blow out a breath, a mixture of irritation and a desire to frustrate him further. Why do the biggest assholes always resort to threats of assault when they don’t get their way? I have to assume it has something to do with the nearly irrational way he’s processing his emotions.

I can’t understand fear, but I’m taking this opportunity to drink down his micro-expressions to use for later.

“If you think you’re big enough to do something, go ahead and try it. I already warned you.” When he still doesn’t move toward me fast enough, I start forward. “Maybe I should just call the sheriff and have him escort you down.”

That does it. His body tenses. “I’m not going back down there.” The snarl of his words is near animal, and he charges at me like he plans to push me over the railing instead of following through with his threats. He’s so caught up in his terror that it’s easy to grab his wrist as he comes at me and shove him back. The banister cracks, the full force of his body causing the dilapidated wood to split…

I can see it then—his eyes widening even further, the terror that steals all the color from his face. He scrambles, grabbing my sleeve, though I’ve already wrapped my arm around the solid post holding the roof of the fire tower up. He teeters on the edge, clutching at me desperately.

“Please,” he gasps. “That thing… you didn’t see it.” His fingers are gripping my wrist, and I wonder if he can feel the way my pulse is finally speeding up—not from fear, but from excitement. “It’s got eyes on its wings.”

“Wait, what?” But it’s too late. In the time it takes me to process the whimper, his sweaty hands lose their grasp, and he falls.

CHAPTER 3

ASPEN