My God.
She laughed. “I think Octavia knew what the rest of us didn’t.”
“Which was?”
“She was never in any real danger.”
I watched the kids, Mads probably drawing another bird, as his cousin tried to act just like him with her purple marker.
“Have they caught the boat?” Rika asked me.
“The weather’s too bad.” I kissed her head, my hand resting on her stomach. “They’ll need to wait until morning.”
I wondered if there was anyone on it, or if the three men had manned it all on their own.
For all I cared, I hoped they never found it. That boat was cursed.
“Has he talked about it?” Rika asked.
Who?
But then I realized, she was still eyeing Mads.
I sighed. “I doubt he will.”
Kai might’ve freaked out, but I wasn’t sure it registered with his son. Mads’s sense of empathy wasn’t like others.
At least that I’d seen.
I gazed out at the scene, gold and red paper scattered all over the floor, while flames flickered on the tree, the red ribbons hanging down and looking so beautiful against the snowfall still coming down outside.
Tomorrow there’d be food and sledding, and maybe some football in the snow, because if there was anything we knew now, it was that every moment with each other was exactly where we belonged.
Treats covered the dining table as a fire burned in the fireplace, and Emmy started a record. I smiled, tightening my hold on Rika and hoping we never had to go through again what we went through tonight.
And if we did, please let it be years from now. My heart still hadn’t slowed.
Athos tried to catch a peek at Mads’s drawing, but he just turned away as she ruffled the hair on his head. I watched her walk over and climb up onto the windowsill across the room, sipping her punch while she watched everyone.
My heart fluttered, and I almost choked on the words.
“I watched you watching us from that window so many years ago.” I pointed to where Athos now sat, remembering that Devil’s Night so long ago. “Trying to not feel you there, but needing you to stay.”
She leaned her head against my body.
“We were right about here when I sent you in blindfolded,” I pointed out.
“Pushed me, you mean.”
I chuckled. I was such a dick.
I was still a dick, but she loved me anyway.
She clasped my arms, hugging me back. “I wanted to feel everything, as long as I could feel it with you,” she told me. “All these years later, that hasn’t changed.”
Not even an inch.
The music played and the children laughed, most of them completely unaware of what had happened tonight, although Rika had filled Athos in.
We created our life here.
One life. One chance.
“No one stops us,” she whispered. “No one owns us.”
I held her tight. “And we’re not changing.”
I rubbed my ears, the friction filling my eardrums and making the noise of the party fade and seem farther away than it was. Over and over again, I drowned out the chatter, the dishes being cleared downstairs, the doors opening and closing….
I liked noise. Rain and birds and wind. I just didn’t like other peoples’ noise. It made the room feel small. Too small. I couldn’t think.
After presents and treats, I’d slipped into the upstairs bathroom, closed the door, and stood there for a couple minutes—maybe more—rubbing my ears as I closed my eyes. I hated that I did it.
I hated that it helped.
I hated that I had to hide to do it.
Because I hated the way Ivar looked at me years ago when he caught me doing it.
I could read the room by now. I knew I was never going to be him, and I knew what parts of me to keep quiet.
Sitting on the edge of the tub and holding my head in my hands, I listened to my breathing in my ears, hearing my pulse, and eventually felt everything slow. My heart. My breathing.
My thoughts.
I drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled, feeling the steadiness and calm return.
Finally, I rose from my seat and turned to face the mirror, straightening my hair on both sides, and pushing the quarter of an inch growth behind my ears. I’d have my dad take me for a trim tomorrow. We usually went every other Saturday, but I didn’t want to wait.
Pumping some soap into my palm, I washed my hands again, dried them, and then brushed my fingers down my clean black suit and straightened my tie, the habit of feeling my clothes making me feel secure. Like armor.
I exited the bathroom and turned off the light, heading to the boys’ room we all shared when we stayed over at St. Killian’s.
But heels hit the floor behind me, and I heard my mom’s voice. “I have pajamas.”
I glanced over my shoulder, stopping and taking in her dress. I loved it when my mom dressed up. It was pretty.
“I’m okay,” I told her.
She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t you want to sleep in something more comfortable?”
“I am comfortable.”
I’d showered when we’d returned and changed into a fresh suit.
I started walking again, but I heard her step toward me. “Mads, I—”
I jerked my head. “No, don’t come,” I told her, turning to face her. “I want to be alone.”
“I want to sit with you tonight,” she told me.
My stomach knotted. That was the last thing I needed. I knew she was just trying to do what she thought parents should do, or she assumed I needed something that I didn’t know I needed—like a talk or a hug or something—but parents made everything worse. I didn’t need help.
“I’m okay,” I said again.
Her eyes crinkled with worry, and I knew no matter what I did or said, she’d worry anyway.
I gritted my teeth and forced my feet to move over to her, diving in for a quick hug—patting her back twice—because I knew it would make her feel better. “I’m okay,” I repeated.
Turning around, I headed down the hall, exhaling when I rounded the corner and she hadn’t called me back or followed me.
Veering to the right, toward the boys’ room, I saw my uncle swing around the corner of the hallway ahead and stop, meeting my eyes.
I stopped too.
Something weird crossed his black eyes, like a mixture of amusement and interest, and I braced myself as he walked for me.
I liked my uncle Damon. He didn’t try to talk to me all the time.
Usually.
I watched, my spine stiffening as he leaned down to get in my face, the stench of cigarettes filling my nostrils.
“I know what you did,” he whispered, keeping the words between us.
I stared at him.
“If my child is ever in danger, don’t hesitate to do it again,” he told me. “Understand?”
I remained silent.
But I knew what he was talking about.
I didn’t understand most people. They acted like most decisions in life were a choice. Was I not supposed to do anything when those men came tonight?
That was why I’d kept my mouth shut. My parents would’ve freaked out if they’d lost us, and they still would’ve freaked out if they’d known how I’d stopped it. They would’ve just confused me. I didn’t know what they wanted.
But Uncle Damon wouldn’t make me respond to a question he’d already faced the answer to.
And he didn’t seem upset.
“You got any bad feelings about what happened tonight?” he asked me.
I dropped my eyes.
The lie would make my parents worry. The truth would make them worry more.
“Yeah, didn’t think so.” He smirked. “If you ever do, you come see me. Got it?”
It took a moment, but I nodded.
He dove in and left a peck on my cheek before rising again and continuing on his way.
Stuffing the cloth back into my pants, I walked into the dark bedroom. Ivarsen and II were on the other side of the room in single beds, and Gunnar was in the bed next to mine, his covers down around his feet.
Dag and Fane were up in their nook in the attic, while the girls were next door.
But as I walked to my bed, I spotted a lump under the covers. I moved closer, seeing long, black hair fanned out across my pillow.
Octavia.
I stopped, smelling her from here. Her mom bought her her own shampoo that seemed to seep into everything she owned—and everything I owned when she was close.
I wasn’t old enough to remember Jett being born, but when Octavia came, it was the first time I remembered a baby being around. Perfect and fragile and already loved by everyone, no matter who it would be when it grew up.
I was like that once too. Before people knew me.
I tightened my fists, seeing the bruise on her arm.
Everyone else forced me to come here or go there and to be a part of things. Octavia always left what she was doing or who she was with and came to me instead. It was nice.
She stirred, drawing in a breath and turning onto her back.
I pulled the pillow out from under her, her head plopping onto the bed as I set the pillow to the side. “You’re in my bed.”
I crashed down next to her and propped my head up on the pillow against the headboard.
Reaching into my breast pocket, I pulled out a couple of squares of sketch paper and started folding.
She nestled close, tucking her head on my arm.
“Are you scared?” I asked her, not looking away from my origami.
“I was a little before.” Her small voice, so tiny, made something hurt in my chest.
My hand slowed for a moment, and I swallowed. She was pulled away from me, taken out of the house, and out to the ocean in a snowstorm tonight.
But maybe it wasn’t them who scared her.
She saw everything.
Everything.
“Why were you scared?” I asked, but I didn’t breathe as I waited for the answer.
She shifted, looking up at me. “Weren’t you?”
I said nothing, simply continued folding the dove as her warmth filtered through the arm of my jacket.
A little.
I cleared my throat. “Don’t be afraid. It’ll never happen again.”
“How do you know?”
I finished the bird, holding it up against the shadow of the snowfall on the ceiling.
“Because next time, I’ll be bigger,” I said.
Turning to her, I set the bird under her chin, seeing her smile peek out, and pulled the covers up, tucking her in.
“They’ll find Pithom,” I told her. “Don’t worry.”
She nuzzled in again, closing her eyes. “They won’t find it.”
“Why not?”
“It’s what I wished for on the basil leaf,” she explained. “A ghost ship.”
A ghost ship. I kept my mouth shut, not wanting to burst her bubble.
Pithom was a yacht with a tracking system. It wouldn’t stay lost for long.
“I’m going to find it someday,” she declared.
Yeah, okay.
I gazed down at her, her black lashes draping over her pale skin, and I almost wished it could happen for her. Her imagination was full of wonderous things, and I didn’t have any imagination at all. I didn’t want her to be like me.
The adventures in her head sounded like a different world.
I lifted my hand to move away the lock of hair on her cheek, but I stopped, putting my arm back down.
I forced down the lump in my throat as I stared at her. “Can I come?” I whispered.
“There’s nothing you love at sea, landlubber,” she teased with her eyes still closed. “No birds.”
I turned away. There are some birds.
I didn’t ever really want to go anywhere or see the world. I liked being home, anywhere I didn’t have to face people or meet new people.
But if she was going…
“Can I come?” I asked again.
She nodded, yawning. “Mm-hmm. But I’m captain.”
I bit back my smile, watching her drift off to sleep.
Ship or no ship, she was the captain of everybody, and she knew it.
Standing up, I pulled the covers tighter over her, tucking them under the mattress to keep them in place.
Rising up, I looked down at Octavia, the origami dove still tucked under her chin. The purple bruise on her arm from one of the men’s hands stood out, dark and visible, even in the dim moonlight coming through the window.
I flexed my jaw, tightening my tie and smoothing back my hair again.
Do you have any bad feelings about tonight? he’d asked.
I had bad feelings all the time. When music was too loud. When my mother’s dogs got hair on my bed. When Marina made a dish differently that I relied on her always making it the way I liked.
I watched Octavia sleep.
I had bad feelings when things were taken away from me.
Not about other things.
I brought up my hand, inspecting the dirt under my nail.
Using my thumb, I picked it out, noticing it was red.
I exhaled, my heart thumping in my chest.
Taking out my handkerchief, I wiped off my hand and walked to the window, reaching into my breast pocket and pulling out the basil leaf from earlier.
I hadn’t burned it.
Slipping it between my lips and into my mouth, I chewed the leaf and swallowed it, the tickle down my throat reaching my stomach as the pungent taste coated my tongue.
I turned to sit in the chair, content to sleep there for the night and keep an eye out, but something glinted above me, and I looked up.
A key hung from the lock on the window, a small scroll of paper tucked in the chain.
I looked around the room, wondering who it belonged to.
Reaching up, I unhooked the chain from the lock, holding the skeleton key in my hand and pulling the paper out of the link.
Unrolling it, I read black handwriting. “The chords of the heart need to be touched to be played.”
I narrowed my eyes, reading it again. I wasn’t sure what it was telling me. Maybe it wasn’t even meant for me.
I inspected the rusty old key and the keychain, what looked like a thurible hanging off the end.
I paused. Thuribles were used to spread incense at Mass. The cathedral in the village had a huge one.
My face fell. That was a clue. Thoughts and theories swarmed my brain.
I looked over my shoulder at Octavia, knowing how she would love an adventure. A hunt. This key went to something. Maybe a treasure?
“The chords of the heart need to be touched to be played,” I recited again, trying to figure out what it meant.
Then it hit me. No one is immune to emotion when those chords are pulled.
No one.
I closed my eyes, feeling the blood under my nails as I wrapped my cold fingers around the key.
One night soon.
While everyone was asleep.
We’ll find out what the key unlocks, Octavia. We’ll own the night.
THE END
Thank you for reading Fire Night! I hope you enjoyed seeing the crew celebrate something other than Devil’s Night, and I hope you have a wonderful holiday season.
Next up, we have Tryst Six Venom, Motel, and the kick-off to the Hellbent series.
And maybe a couple little surprises, too. Get ready for 2021!
And just in case you missed the news of another stand-alone I released earlier this year, please feel free to turn the page to read a sample of Credence.
Also available on Kindle Unlimited.
Tiernan
It’s strange. The tire swing in the yard is the only thi
ng that makes it look like a kid lives here. There were never any drawings in the house. None on the fridge or walls. No children’s books on the shelves. No shoes by the front door or floaties in the pool.
It’s a couple’s home. Not a family’s.
I stare out the window, watching the tire sway back and forth in the breeze as it hangs from the oak, and absently rub the red ribbon in my hair between my fingers, feeling the comfort of the smooth surface.
He always had time to push her on the swing, didn’t he? He had time for her.
And she for him.
Walkie talkies shoot off beeps and white noise somewhere behind me while footfalls hit the stairs and doors slam above me. The police and paramedics are busy upstairs, but they’ll want to talk to me soon, I’m sure.
I swallow, but I don’t blink.
I’d thought the tire swing was for me when he installed it ten years ago. I was allowed to play on it, but my mother was the one who really loved it. I used to watch them out my bedroom window late at night, my father pushing her and the magic of their play and laughter making me want to be in the middle of it. But I knew as soon as they saw me the magic would change. It would disappear.
So, I stayed at my window and only ever watched.
Like I still do.
I bite the corner of my mouth, watching a green leaf flutter past the swing and land inside the tire where my mother sat countless times. The image of her white nightgown and light hair flowing through the night as she swung on it is still so vivid, because the last time was only yesterday.
A throat clears behind me, and I finally blink, dropping my eyes.
“Did they say anything to you?” Mirai asks me with tears in her voice.
I don’t turn around, but after a moment, I give a slow shake of my head.
“When did you last speak to them?”
I can’t answer that. I’m not sure.
Behind me, I feel her approach, but she stops several feet back as the clank of the first ambulance gurney jostles and creaks down the stairs and is carried from the house.
I tip my chin up, steeling myself at the distant commotion outside as the paramedics open the front door. The calls and questions, the horns honking as more people arrive, beyond the gates, where the media can no doubt see the body being wheeled out.
Fire Night Page 8
