Page 32 of When Death Whispers

I do not need to take her now. I do not even need to touch her.

Buthe—he is soft, mortal, breakable. And it has been so, so long since I reminded this world what it means to be afraid.

My essence stretches across the tile and metal, slipping into the cracks between shadows. I gather in the far corner of the ceiling, the light above me flickering just enough to make the humans doubt their eyes.

I do not throw with hands. I do notneedhands.

The shadows hurl the utensil for me.

A dough scraper whistles through the air toward the soft flesh of the human’s throat.

But she moves faster. A blur of instinct and defiance. She lunges into him, knocking him aside as the metal buries itself in the wall behind them with a violentthunk. The sound echoes in my ears like a scream.

I missed.

Missed.

My fury curdles into something colder, meaner. Her fear is back now—thick, real,raw.And yet not enough. Not when it’s tangled in concern for him.

She guards him.

Likehematters.

My rage howls through the corners of the bakery. They won’t hear it, not with their ears. But their bones will. Their blood will.

The human will sleep light tonight. If he sleeps at all.

And as for her?

She will learn.

All things die. Even those who run toward the light.

13

My head’s pounding.

Not like a normal headache—but something deeper, like claws scraping behind my eyes, dragging down into my chest. I grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles aching as I sneak a glance at Parker in the passenger seat. She’s tucked into her hoodie, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the trees rushing past outside like they might open up and swallow us both.

The dome lights are all on again inside the cab, in an effort to keep shadows away, casting a glow that should feel comforting but instead makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.

Parker hasn’t said a word since we left the bakery. I don’t blame her. I can still hear the metallic thud of that dough scraper hitting the wall. Still feel the desperate way she yanked me out of its path. If she hadn’t?—

I don’t finish the thought.

She shouldn’t have to protect me. But that’s what’s happening. And I hate it.

The sky’s lightening by the time we pull into her driveway—those weird in-between hours where night hasn’t fully let go but morning hasn’t committed. The world’s in limbo. So are we.

The white streaks in my hair catch my attention in the rearview mirror, and I look away quickly, swallowing the lump in my throat. At first I told myself it’s just stress, but that lie is getting harder to hold.

Because normal people don’t usually see shadows moving in places they shouldn’t. Or feel like something’s watching them from the shadows. Or get a glimpse of something hovering on the stairs—a dark, shapeless figure with glowing orange eyes and smoke curling around it like a cape.

“You okay?” Parker’s voice cuts through the silence. She’s staring at me now, brows drawn together in concern. She thinks I don’t notice when she worries. But I do. I notice everything about her. From the little wrinkle she gets when she’s frowning, to the way she bites at her bottom lip, to the way she wrings her hands together and tries to hide it.

I see it all and I fucking hate it. Mostly because I have to hold myself back from doing everything I can to erase those tells, but also because I now know why she gets panic attacks.

“Yeah,” I lie, forcing a grin. “Just tired. It’s been a long night.”

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