Page 90 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

There is a crack in me. A shattering.

I’m not sure if he can hear it or the chains rattling, dragging against my rib cage. That slender creature is creeping from the depths of my soul, mouth watering, teeth snapping.

I’ve become nothing but an oblivion. There is no beginning or end. I am simply a living, decaying corpse. Lifting my eyes, I stare into the brown irises in front of me.

They widen slightly as I move.

I lick my canine teeth. My revenge sits on a platter just in front of me, and I spare not a second longer to dig my teeth into the ripe flesh of retribution.

Suddenly, the world spins and turns until I leave it painted in a beautiful shade of vermillion.

AFTERMATH

TWENTY-FIVE

Thatcher

“I guarantee Lyra has food, unlike you losers,” Rook declares, slinging the back door to my car open before I’ve even put it in park. “Next time you want a distraction, ask Alistair for it.”

“Get the fuck over it, you child,” Alistair groans, tired of Rook’s complaining. “We can’t help everything was closed on the way here.”

Rook takes off, walking towards the cabin, Alistair close behind him as he slides out of the passenger seat.

“Miss the quiet yet?” I ask the person in my back seat, who still hasn’t made a move for the door.

“I never minded the noise,” he says lowly. “As long as it’s not in my head.”

Silas Hawthorne looks…good. Skin lively, eyes a little less dead, body strong.

I’ve known him for years, seen him alter and grow. I’ve witnessed many versions of him, but this is the best he’s looked in years. Healthy. The excruciating image of him the days after we found Rosemary’s body had been burned into the back of my eyelids for months.

It’s nice to know that he could come back from it, no matter how much of him he had to leave behind in order to do it.

“Are you alright?” I find myself inquiring. “I know you’ll say yes in front of Rook regardless of how you actually are, so I thought I should ask.”

He takes a second, staring out the windshield. I’ve always found that my conversations with Silas have been long ones due to the prolonged moments of quiet that exist in them.

We’re very different, him and I.

I will say unkind, false things to distract people in order to avoid questions I don’t want to answer, but him? He’s brutally honest. I’ve never heard him lie. He takes his time, making sure that when he speaks, it’s exactly what he means.

There is no reading between the lines or mistaken words. If he says it, it’s what he means. End of story.

I’ve always been jealous of that.

“I’m taking it day by day. The medication is great, but I have bad moments. I’m glad to be home, seeing my family, but I still feel like a burden some days. There is a constant ebb; I’m just figuring out how to ride it out.”

I nod. “So today, then. How are you today?”

“Today is good.” He gives me a tiny smirk, just enough for me to see.

I think I’m one of the few people he does that to.

A man of few words always.

When we were younger, it was his house I visited the most. I craved the silence he provided me. We didn’t need to talk; we just sorta existed in each other’s company, aware of the demons that haunted us but not speaking about it.

I’d missed Silas’s brand of quiet. It’s always been my favorite.

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