Page 4 of Eclipse Born

“Need to use your phone,” I said to the clerk, not bothering to phrase it as a question.

The man behind the counter—young, nervous, working the graveyard shift to pay for college—hesitated, eyes darting to my bloodstained collar, to my too-intense gaze. “Store policy says?—”

“Emergency,” I interrupted. Not pleading. Stating fact.

Something in my expression must have convinced the clerk. Or perhaps it was simply the path of least resistance. The young man slid a cordless phone across the counter, then stepped back, maintaining distance.

“One call,” he said, voice higher than normal. “Make it quick.”

I fumbled through my tattered clothes, fingers shaking. I didn't expect to find anything, but the weight in my pocket stopped me cold, my phone. It shouldn't be here. I didn't remember keeping it, but when I pulled it out, the screen flickered to life, cracked but functional. My hands were so unsteady I almost dropped it.

It made no logical sense.How had my phone survived Hell? Why would it be in my pocket now?The questions formed and dissolved, unimportant compared to the opportunity it presented.

I stared at the screen. Missed calls. Messages. All old. The date confirmed what the newspaper had told me—six months gone. Six months of my life erased, or stretched into something unrecognizable in the pit.

I swallowed, throat dry. The decision was clear—call Sterling first. The older hunter was steadier, less likely to react with pure emotion. Would have more resources immediately at hand.

I swiped to Sterling's contact, hesitating. My thumb hovered over the call button. What if Sterling didn't answer? What if he did?

The clerk was watching me nervously, clearly regretting his generosity. I forced myself to focus, to complete this simple task that suddenly felt monumental.

I pressed the button. The phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times. My breathing was uneven, fingers gripping the device too tightly. Then—Sterling's voice, gruff and wary: “Who the hell is this?”

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. Static crackled between us. The simple act of speech temporarily beyond me in the face of this first real connection to my former life.

Finally, I forced out two words: “It's me.”

A beat of silence. Then—Sterling's sharp inhale. “No. No, that's not possible.” The line went dead.

I stared at the phone, a sick weight curling in my gut. I had expected disbelief. Had prepared for it. But the flat rejection still landed like a physical blow, reverberating through the empty spaces inside me.

The clerk was still watching me, hand definitely hovering near the alarm now. I pocketed my phone, nodded once in thanks, and left before the situation could escalate.

Outside, the sky was lightening to steel gray, the city stirring to reluctant wakefulness around me. I had no money, no resources beyond my own body, and now confirmation that my return would not be easily accepted.

2

FRACTURED HOMECOMING

CADE

The morning sun cast long shadows as I made my way through Sterling's neighborhood. The suburban streets were beginning to stir with people collecting newspapers, walking dogs, heading out for early commutes. Normal lives untouched by the supernatural horrors that formed the backdrop of my existence. I moved among them like a ghost, present but not belonging.

The mark on my chest pulsed slightly as I approached Sterling's street, responding to the protective wards hidden throughout the neighborhood. Old magic, layered over years by a paranoid man who'd survived this long by leaving nothing to chance. I felt the wards recognize me, catalog me, allow me passage but with reluctance, as if the magic itself sensed the wrongness within me.

Sterling's house stood apart from its neighbors, not physically, but in presence. Two stories of brick and siding that looked ordinary to civilian eyes, but I could see the subtle differences. Devil's traps worked into the concrete of the walkway. Sigils hidden in seemingly decorative trim. Ironreinforcing the doorframes and windowsills. A fortress disguised as a suburban home.

Light burned in the kitchen window despite the early hour. Sterling was awake, or had never gone to sleep.

I walked up the path to the front door. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if I were walking through water. Not physical resistance, but psychological, crossing the threshold between the limbo I'd inhabited since my return and whatever awaited within.

The porch steps creaked beneath my weight, intentional design, an early warning system. I stood before the door, listening. Movement inside ceased abruptly, then resumed with deliberate casualness. Sterling had heard me. Was probably already holding a weapon, moving to a defensive position with clear sightlines to the entrance.

I raised my hand and knocked, the sound sharp in the morning stillness.

Silence, then the soft shuffle of careful footsteps. The peephole darkened momentarily. More silence, weighted and tense. Then the unmistakable metallic slide of a shotgun being racked.

The door swung open, revealing Sterling in flannel and jeans, shotgun aimed center mass at my chest. The older hunter's face was carved from stone, eyes narrowed and assessing, no trace of welcome in his weathered features.

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