Page 16 of Avidian
I turn back toward the forest and stare out at the endless stretch of trees. Beautiful as this place is, it feels like the kind of beauty that hides something darker beneath the surface.
“Do you want to fill me in on what happened back there? Can you really talk to dead people like my father claims?” Malachi asks.
I step onto the path that runs along the edge of the forest, the snow crunching under my boots as I keep my eyes forward. I know he’ll fall in line beside me.
I glance at him briefly. “Do you remember the accident I told you about?”
He nods, uncharacteristically serious. “The one where you lost your family.”
I swallow hard, pushing the memory back down before it can surface. I don’t let myself linger on that day—not for more than a second. “When I woke up in the hospital, that’s when I saw my first ghost. My gift… It’s changed over the years, but sometimes I can talk to the dead.”
He doesn’t interrupt, his footsteps keeping pace with mine as I continue, “If it’s someone who passed a long time ago, it’s usually easier to communicate with them. They’ve had time to settle into the spirit world. But cases like this?” I shake my head. “When they’ve died recently—and violently—it’s different. Difficult. Sometimes they haven’t fully crossed over or haven’t accepted what happened to them. That makes everything…messy.”
I look down, admiring the snow beneath my feet, its pristine blanket so surreal. It sparkles like the world’s been dusted with starlight. I could look at it for hours if I weren’t in the middle of this nightmare.
“So what do you do with cases like this?” Malachi asks. “If you can’t talk to them, then what?”
I let out a long breath, watching it plume into the frosty air like smoke. “I have to try to decipher whatever images or words I’m able to get from them. And if that doesn’t work…” I don’t want to say it and admit where this might lead.
“If that doesn’t work, then what?” he presses.
“Then I’ll have to try other tactics,” I say quietly. “More draining ones.”
His footsteps halt behind me, and I pause too, turning enough to catch the look on his face. “Why do you let them treat you like this?” he asks. “Why do you let my father tell you what to do?”
I gape at him, the absurdity of his question hitting me like a slap. A bitter laugh escapes my throat. “I’m not sure how things are done wherever it is you came from,” I say, shaking my head, “but clearly you’ve been gone too long if you think I have any choice in the matter.
“This isn’t a life of options, Malachi. It’s survival. And that means playing by your father’s rules.” I turn and keep walking, not waiting for his response.
Behind me, I hear the crunch of his boots as he catches up, his silence speaking louder than anything he could say.
I circle the mansion, the path winding in and out of the frost-covered forest. It’s beautiful in a haunting way, but the cold seeps through my sweater, making my breath visible in the air. I pull my beanie lower over my ears and head back to the front steps. Then I hear the hum of an engine. A car pulls up the long driveway, and Orin steps out, his sharp gaze finding me immediately.
He closes the distance between us with purposeful strides.
“Who let you out?” he snaps, his hand grabbing my arm in a bruising grip. He yanks me hard toward the front steps, dragging me along like I’m nothing more than a troublesome pet.
I don’t fight him. I’ve learned better. Orin thrives on resistance—he lives for the chase and the punishment that comes after. He’s the most deranged of Marco’s family, and I know firsthand how much he enjoys inflicting pain. He carried out my punishments when I tried to escape, and it wasn’t duty—it was pleasure. Every bruise and scar came with his twisted laugh echoing in my ears.
“Hey! What are you doing?” Malachi’s voice cuts through the icy air. He rounds the corner of the house, his eyes narrowing as he sees Orin’s hand locked around my arm. He’d been keeping his distance like I’d asked, but now he looks furious, his eyes narrowing and his movements quick as he closes in.
Orin sneers, his grip tightening as he jerks me closer to him. “You were supposed to be watching the little bitch, not letting her wander around like this is a fucking vacation,” he growls at Malachi. His nails dig into my skin, and I wince as he turns back to me. “Do you even have anything useful to report yet?”
“Not yet, but I will.”
“Let go of her arm,” Malachi says, glaring.
He’s pissed—really pissed—and for some reason that makes the knot in my stomach twist tighter. I don’t need a savior, and I sure as hell don’t need him. He lied about who he was, showed up here thinking we could be friends, and now he’s playing the protective act? It’s infuriating.
“Oh shit, are you actually catching feelings for this little pest?” Orin laughs, his grin wicked and mocking. “Dad’s going to love this.” But he doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightens.
“I’m looking after her,” Malachi says, his voice razor-sharp now. “Now let go of her fucking arm.”
Orin’s smile falters, twisting into something darker. He wants the fight. It’s written all over his face, the way his stance shifts slightly, preparing for a physical clash.
“Stop,” I yell, “I don’t want you looking after me, and I don’t need you sticking up for me either. Go back to wherever you came from.”
Something soft flickers in Malachi’s eyes—something I don’t want to see. But it vanishes quickly.
