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RAVEN
Raven circled over the beach in wide, swooping movements. It was easy to spot the two dark figures far below. Rain and wind buffeted her, but she didn’t care. Wind, rain, heat, it all was the way of life. If anything, the gusts made things just a little more exciting.
When the first man stepped onto the beach, the other hesitated before following him.
They trudged across the wet sand a short distance before stopping near a careless pile of driftwood and sitting shoulder to shoulder on a battered tree trunk. That one had left the forest long ago; Raven knew it didn’t mind.
A few yards away from the men, two gray and white seagulls huddled against the sand, a safe distance from the waves. Their tail feathers fluttered as the wind gusted around them. A lone cormorant that had claimed a channel marker for its own spread its wings wide, as if that would dry them in this weather. If she could have, Raven would have rolled her eyes. Instead, she released her version of a scoff and kept her eye on the humans.
The wind died down for a moment and Raven let herself soar downward, landing on a log not far from where the men sat. She was curious by nature, but it wasn’t pure curiosity that brought her here today.
“She’s gone. I know she’s gone. I can feel it,” said one of the men as he stared, unseeing, out toward the crashing waves and the limitless horizon.
“You don’t know that,” replied the other one. He scooted close and put his arm around the first man’s shoulders.
Raven hopped closer, cocking her head to the side. As much as was possible for her, she felt something close to remorse. A certain pinch that meant sadness. Some secrets had to stay secret. There was an order that needed to be followed. A secret exposed too soon meant another could be passed by, unseen and unnoticed. The ancient ones had put things in motion and their secret was paramount, only just beginning to be revealed.
One didn’t trust humans to stay on task. They were easily distracted at the best of times. Still, the desire to communicate with the sad man niggled at her. He was so clearly in anguish. Grief was an emotion Raven understood. She wished she could tell him that nothing was his fault. The evil was deep and entrenched. It had gone too long without check and so the great ones had decided to act.
The sad man’s shoulders began to heave. Raven could see his spirit leaving his body. Not dying, no, not that, but a fading of his light, as if this tragedy was too much for him. She wanted to assure him he would get through this time, but he wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t hear her.
The storm strengthened and the clouds regained their momentum, again racing toward the shore where the two men huddled and Raven eavesdropped. Eventually, with a flap of her wings and a caw, she lifted off toward the shelter of the forest, letting the wind do most of the work for her.
Below her, the human settlement was quiet. This was not the time when humans were outside in abundance.
This was the secret season.
ONE
February, A Year Earlier - André
André’s evening reading was interrupted by a banging against his front door. The hammering was loud, purposeful, and, in André’s opinion, full of false promise. He briefly contemplated not answering. The reverberation alone told him who was on the other side.
He had a choice to make.
For fuck’s sake, the thundering knock hadn’t even startled him.
Damn.
Annoyed, he set his mystery novel—a British cozy he’d been half paying attention to while listening to the rain pound against the roof—face down on the arm of the couch and rose to his feet. Traitorous anticipation bloomed slowly, languorously, alongside the growing exasperation in the pit of his stomach, rising like the steam from a freshly brewed cup of tea.
“Dear, I know you’re in there. Answer the fucking door. It’s pissing down out here.”
Wasn’t forty-five too old for a booty call? Was it a booty call when the ass in question showed up unannounced and, well,uncalled?
André didn’t have time to answer any of that in the short distance between his couch and the front door. Reaching out, he flipped the lock open and then twisted the handle, his hand shaking slightly.
This would be the last time.
Seconds later, André was slammed back against the living room wall, his hands automatically slipping under Dante’s leather jacket and cotton t-shirt, his fingertips sliding against Dante’s chilled, damp, skin. Dante murmured something and then his mouth was on André’s, claiming him as he always did.
Always. But never forever.
Within minutes, they were mostly naked and stumbling into André’s bedroom. A trail of clothing was strewn behind them, much like Hansel and Gretel’s trail of breadcrumbs so they could find their way back out of the wicked forest.
André felt his personal forest was much more complicated than Hansel and Gretel’s, but he’d finally found a way out of it.
This was the last time they were doing this.
