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“What the fuck is that?” the one named Lou asked.

Everyone stopped and listened as the static buzz intensified.

“Oh shit.” A man ran into the trees. “The fucking batteries are overloading.”

“What?”

“Are you serious?”

The noise intensified, crackling and humming.

“Oh no,” one of them said. “They’re gonna—”

The light flickered.

Then, a resounding pop filled the air.

Instant darkness. Night filled the clearing once more.

In a flash, I reached into the very depths of the well and gathered my nearly exhausted powers before exploding into a cloud of smoke, taking to the air, despite the agony of my wounds.

I was tapped, barely able to hold form long enough to get off the eyot before collapsing at the water’s edge in human form. Bleeding, I staggered to my feet, my chest on fire and face singed. With my strength dangerously depleted, I ran for the safety of the mansion, unable to heal, unable to change forms or call a mist to protect me, knowing only that the men on the island were stuck there and would need to swim or call for backup, which would hopefully give me time to get away.

20

Ensley

A crash woke me sometime in the predawn hours. I startled from sleep with a gasp, unsure where I was and if the sound I heard was part of a dream or reality. For a heartbeat, I was back on that winter-slick road, sleet falling, tangled in my seatbelt, pinned by an immovable object, and unable to get free.

“Dad?” My voice came out strangled and hoarse.

Only as my mind cleared and the room materialized did I realize the sheets were twisted around my legs. I wasn’t stuck. I was in bed. A dream. It was a rotten dream.

I glanced around, orienting myself.

I was at Mordecai’s.

He wasn’t beside me. Again.

What time was it?

As I scrambled to remember where I’d left my phone, a sound erupted from the first floor. Breaking glass, a thump, followed by a pained groan.

The hair on my nape rose.

Not a dream.

I flung the covers aside and jumped from bed, racing down the dark hallway in nothing but underwear.

“Mordecai!”

Maneuvering the stairs, clinging to the treacherous banister, I shouted his name again and again. No reply. A sweep of cold night air greeted me on the main level, and I instinctively aimed for the front door, finding it wide open, a slumped body partway over the threshold. A nearby accent table had toppled. The artifact it had once displayed lay shattered across the wooden floor, blocking my path.

Moaning, Mordecai worked his way to hands and knees before bracing against the wall in what seemed an effort to stand, but his legs wobbled and gave out. He went down in a clumsy heap.

With the door ajar and the purgatorial grey of predawn bleaching the sky, I caught a glimpse of his face: skin destroyed, blistered and raw, an open, weeping wound that looked angry and black in the colorless world.

“Jesus. Mordecai!”