Page 18 of When Death Whispers

“You can’t escape me, Human. Did you truly believe you could outrun Death?”

I freeze, the air in my lungs trapped, before I twist to face the figure, my heart pounding.

Panic surges through me as I lift my head, my stomach churning with dread. Standing at the bottom of the porch steps is a figure—a man cloaked entirely in shadows, impossibly tall, features obscured beneath swirling darkness. Two burning orange eyes pierce through the gloom, watching me with malevolent hunger.

No face. No solid form. Just shadow and darkness, like a nightmare brought to life.

I can’t breathe.

I know I’m going to die. Here. Now. On the porch I used to leave my muddy boots on after feeding the horses.

Parker told me to wait. She told me to stay until morning. And I didn’t listen.

Parker.

Goddammit. She’s been fighting this thing her whole life, hasn’t she? Alone. Surviving something that makes my knees buckle and my heart falter with fear. The way she moved earlier, dodging branches like she’d trained all her life for it...

Clenching my teeth, I force myself upright despite the heavy fog clouding my thoughts, planting my feet and facing the shadowy figure head-on. If I’m going down tonight, I won’t go down without a fight.

“Where’s your scythe, asshole?” I shout, faking bravado that I definitely don’t feel.

The shadow pauses at my words, tilting its head as if amused. An echoing chuckle reverberates around me, shaking my bones and sending icy tendrils of fear down my spine.

“I require no blade to tear your soul apart,”he rasps, voice dripping with cruel delight.“I shall drain your essence slowly, savoring every delicious drop until you are naught but a hollow shell. Perhaps not as intoxicating as my sweet Snow Pea, but satisfying nonetheless.”

He uses her nickname with so much familiarity, so much possessiveness, I can’t help but feel like an even bigger idiot for having called her that and not listening when she asked me to stop. If I survive tonight, I’m going to have to apologize. A lot.

Weakness floods my limbs suddenly, my knees threatening to give out. My head feels fuzzy, heavy, thoughts slipping from my grasp like sand. He's draining me, stealing my strength, my life force. Panic floods my veins.

I struggle to stay upright, stumbling backward, trying desperately to reach the door behind me. My vision blurs as darkness creeps into the edges of my sight. My heart pounds wildly, weakly, my breath shallow and uneven.

“Parker...” Her name slips from my lips—a desperate plea, a prayer, the only coherent thought left in my fading consciousness.

My legs buckle, and I collapse, slamming hard onto the wooden porch. The world around me shifts violently, suddenly flooded with brilliant white light. I hear an inhuman screech, echoing and furious, just before my vision fades entirely to black.

The last image burned into my fading mind is a vision of Parker’s stunning silvery-white hair, shimmering brightly in the darkness, her face illuminated with strength and defiance.

Then everything goes silent.

5

It’s barely morning,and the weight of last night still hangs heavy on my shoulders. I’m curled up on the couch, clutching a mug of coffee as if the warmth could chase away the lingering dread that seeped into my bones since the bakery went dark. The TV hums quietly in the background, but I’m not really watching. My mind won’t stop replaying every terrifying second of the last few hours.

A sharp knock at the door jolts me upright, hot coffee spilling over my fingers. I hiss in pain, quickly setting the mug down. My heart slams against my ribs, every nerve already braced for more horrors. Taking a steadying breath, I peek out the window and?—

It’s Hudson.

Fuck, fuck,fuck.

I stand frozen for a moment, absorbing the sight of him. He looks rough—clothes muddy and torn, dark circles beneath his eyes—and there’s something off about his hair. I blink, unsure if I’m imagining it or not, but no. It’s different. My stomach twists as I notice the faint streaks of white cutting through his usually perfect blond strands.

Shit.I’m so not ready to have this conversation.

Reluctantly, I open the door. “What are you doing here?” My voice comes out sharper than intended, but I’m too exhausted to fake politeness. I step aside, gesturing for him to come in mostly because he looks like he’s seconds away from collapsing.

He trudges inside without a word, slumping heavily onto the edge of my couch. He rubs a hand across his face, fingers pausing when they reach those new white streaks. His gaze lifts to mine, intense, questioning, daring me to say something.

I don’t. Not yet.

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