Page 11 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
“I’m fine,” I said sharply. “Let’s go.” I plugged the address into the navigation system. West London, Kensington. Expensive area.
The engine hummed to life, and we merged into traffic. Silence settled over the car, broken only by the wet, deliberate slurping sounds coming from the passenger seat. Each sip lasted longer than humanly necessary, the noise amplified in the confined space.
…bet this is driving him mental…
Ikept my expression neutral, eyes fixed on the road. The slurping grew louder, more theatrical, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
Thirty minutes of psychological warfare via coffee later, we pulled up outside a modern apartment complex. Floor-to-ceiling windows gleamed in the morning sun. A doorman stood at attention near the entrance. The building screamed money—worlds away from Rory’s slightly dodgy neighbourhood.
…of course he lives somewhere like this…
Rory’s thoughts, mixed with a tangle of inadequacy and bitter resignation, hit me like a punch to the gut. I fought back a sigh. Spending time with Rory was going to be difficult unless I could manage to block him better.
My ability had manifested when I was seven—my father’s “gift” passed down through three generations of Maxwell men. The first time it happened, I’d collapsed in the school playground, overwhelmed by thirty different voices screaming inside my skull.
Teachers called it a panic attack. My father knew better.
He’d taught me the basics of control, but it wasn’t enough. Dad had learnt to manage his telepathy through sheer necessity. First, as a child in Brixton, where his parents had settled after arriving from Kingston, Jamaica. Then later, as one of the few Black officers in the Met during the seventies and eighties, when reading hostile thoughts from colleagues was often more of a burden than blessing.
“You’ve got to be twice as good to get half the recognition,” he’d told me countless times. “And with this gift”—he’d tap his temple—“you’ve got to be even better than that. People fear what they don’t understand.”
Through my teenage years, I’d struggled to maintain relationships, friendships crumbling when I accidentally responded to unspoken thoughts. Dating was difficult—enjoying sex with someone when their every insecurity and judgement flooded your mind even more so.
University nearly broke me. Lecture halls became torture chambers of competing thoughts. I’d skip classes, hide in my room, anything toescape the noise. Between that and still processing Dad’s death—stabbed whilst responding to a domestic violence call when I was seventeen—my grades plummeted. Ma begged me to drop out, join the force through a different path.
But I was stubborn, determined to prove I could handle it. Determined to make him proud, to carry on what three generations of Maxwell men had started when my grandfather first stepped off that ship at Tilbury Docks.
It took years of discipline to build proper mental barriers. These days, I could usually filter out the background chatter of crowds, limit what leaked through to a sprinkle of surface thoughts only.
…bet he’s reading my mind right now…creepy bastard…
I gritted my teeth. Where most people’s thoughts were manageable—quiet streams I could dam up or redirect—Rory’s mind worked at maximum volume, all the time. His brain fired thoughts in every direction like a machine gun, each one coloured with vivid emotion that made them harder to ignore. Right then, his jealousy and self-loathing swirled together into a maelstrom of hurt.
It wasn’t fair. I’d spent decades mastering this curse, learning to function despite it. Then this irritating wolf shows up with his chaos-brain broadcasting on all frequencies—a thunderstorm of thought where others were gentle rain—and suddenly I’m that overwhelmed kid again, fighting for control.
…probably sitting there judging me…
I turned off the engine and caught my reflection in the wing mirror—the same tight curls Dad had worn, cropped close at the sides in a clean fade, though unlike him I was already showing threads of silver despite being only thirty-two years old.
“Before we go in—”
“I know, I know! I’ll behave, okay!” Rory yanked the door open, jumped out, then slammed it hard enough to rattle the windows.
“Going well so far, then,” I muttered to myself, watching him stalk toward the building entrance.
At least if I ended up murdering him, I’d have the resources to cover it up.
I caught up with Rory at the entrance, my longer strides easily matching his angry stomping. The doorman’s eyes tracked our approach, his expression shifting from professional neutrality to mild concern as he took in Rory’s aggressive body language.
I pulled out my badge, holding it up. “Detective Inspector Maxwell. We need to speak with one of your residents.”
The doorman’s gaze flickered between us, lingering on Rory’s chaotic hair, multiple ear piercings, and ripped jeans, before returning to my badge.
…odd pair…
“Of course, sir.” He stepped aside, swiping his key card to grant us access.
In the pristine hallway, the scent of fresh paint and money surrounded us. I cleared my throat. “So, Ezra Houston. Twenty-five. He’s not a shifter, correct?”
