Page 1 of Firefly

Prologue

1941

I died. I’m dead . The thought ran through his mind again, though he hadn’t dared utter the words aloud. But those were the words he wanted to tell her, to make her understand he hadn’t left by choice, that he never would have left her.

When she looked at him with such fear, such blind terror, he knew a part of her must already understand.

He took a step toward her, but she flung out her hand, a gust of wind knocking him back.

“Don’t come near me!”

“Rebecca, I know what you must think, but it’s not…”

Her eyes darted to the two small boys behind him.

“Come here, boys. Quickly.” The quiver in her voice was slight, but he recognized it for what it was, knew it as he knew his own soul, and something fractured inside him at the condemnation in her words.

He had been reunited with the woman he loved, even if only by chance, and she had found him wanting.

When she left, taking the boys with her (never turning her back on him), all that remained were his doubts. He turned, fleeing into the night. He didn’t care where he went or why—to stay and face the truth would be far worse.

Chapter 1

Simon

1942

Simon ducked behind a branch, cursing as his father leaned out his bedroom window, peering into the night.

Humans couldn’t see the way his eyes glowed in the dark, but Simon never stopped fearing one would see what he truly was—a monster.

Since he’d died and come back in this new form, he’d only been to see his father once. He had intended to lie, to tell his father he was still alive in hopes of assuaging some of his grief, but when he’d gone to his family home, it had been empty.

It took two months of searching to learn his father was living in Elizabeth City, working for the coast guard, and another three months to work up the courage to seek him out.

Now, he wondered if it was too late.

At first, Simon had been reported as a deserter until a body turned up and was identified by Alexander, his former employer—current employer, even if he was no longer paid.

It wasn’t Simon’s body. His body had been buried in one of the unmarked graves on the estate. It was just another of Alexander’s hapless victims, and no one would question the wealthiest man in town when he said the body that washed ashore—bloated and disfigured—was Simon Carey’s.

His father ducked his head, slid the window closed, and drew the curtains.

Simon jumped down from his perch, dusting his pants free of residual leaves or tree bark, and ran his fingers through his hair. He hadn’t cut it since his death; hadn’t needed to. The new transformation had somehow frozen him in time.

Would his father notice he hadn’t aged?

He raised a hand to the door, curling his fingers into a fist when the sound of laughter froze him in place. It was a woman’s laugh, high and tinkling, and his father’s chuckle followed shortly after.

He leaned closer, listening. Music played softly, and the woman giggled again.

Moving beside the kitchen window, he darted a look inside. His father was dancing. With a woman.

Simon leaned against the wall of his father’s temporary housing, taking deep breaths. His father was dancing and… laughing. He’d never thought his father would do any of those things again after his mother died, and certainly not after the death of his only son.

He risked another peek through the window. They were swaying in unison, her head resting on his shoulder. Something in Simon’s chest swelled.

He slouched against the wall, a smile forming on his lips as their soft voices filled some of the hollow space inside him. His father was happy. Who was he to take that away from him?

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