Page 17 of Stutter

Damon.

The second my flight lands and I’m in an Uber on my way to the two-story colonial brick house I purchased for my little blackbird, it’s pitch black. There is no moon and if there were, its glow would be completely irrelevant due to the thick clouds burdening the sky with yet another promise of a wintery storm. Paris was lovely as always, seeing my parents together again filled me with too many positive emotions to articulate but the one that stood out the most was elated. Truth be told, I want to take Raven away from here again come winter break to warmer weather.

I was able to catch a few highlighted reels of the Yellow Jackets on the RMUs YouTube channel, catching the best (Jonas’ touchdowns) and worst parts of the game. Snow blankets either side of the road, glittering in the light of the car’s high beams as we come to the bridge of the frozen strip of lake that separates Rayne-Moore from Salem where my Amourette and her lover await my arrival. If she’s asleep, I hope to wake her in the best way possible. If she’s not I want to put her to sleep. Being away from her is agonizing. How Maverick can do so willingly… confuses me.

Maverick must be a masochist because I saw the longing in his eyes, the vitriol in seeing how we could stand to be near her unless that hatred was toward himself. There was too muchemotion and not enough being said but with a man like Maverick, he will have his breaking point and need to reach out to her. It didn’t take a psychiatrist to see that.

You just don’t fall in love with someone and not feel tied to them when something of this magnitude is the string that could bind you and make you stronger or break you.

And Maverick now knew not just hers but mine and partially Jonas’ secrets. He didn’t run away. Not exactly. Did he leave Paris? Yes. But I knew the turmoil in his mind was but a tub wheel, gathering information and distributing it to the proper places in his brain, compartmentalizing it all, probably. He left Paris to think of everything and yet the most important pieces needed to come from her. He would need Raven’s truth so he could make his final decision.

To stay with us… or turn us in.

It was why I had dragged him to Paris.

We were supposed to have spoken about everything. Raven just wanted us there as back up. In case things escalated or she had a fit.

The car lurches, smallthunksunder the tires as they rotate a little slower, making the drive longer but I don’t mind. I rather get home in one piece to her than never get home at all.

I keep my eyes on the abyss, the black water below us as city lights on the bank twinkle in the distance, little orbs reminding me of the holidays approaching and my mind goes back to Maverick. The night he begged me to tell him Raven’s story.

It’s something that irks me, the way he dismissed the mention of his mother so quickly when I brought her up.

I know too much about Maverick. I have to. I have to know who my little bird surrounds herself with. Who she was falling in love with, who was tormenting her if not me.

Jonas asked me how I knew about cameras; because of her. Because I taught myself how to be more inconspicuous when it came to them. How to manipulate them to meet my needs. To figure out hers.

It’s how I know she needs Maverick. He brought out something in her while bringing it out himself. They’re two stars destined to collide.

She trusted him enough to hand him a copy of the ledger. Her research. Her name... but he’s right. Hedoesn’tknow her story. He doesn’t know what happened to her that night exactly.

Now I need him to reach that breaking point quickly. I need to know if we need to run. Where she goes I go. Prison. Lorne Wood. Mikonos. Fuck it. If she told me she wanted to find a way to go to a magical university full of witches and warlocks I’d find a way.

Round and round my thoughts go, spinning like the tires of this car that mildly smells of Mediterranean food and something sickly sweet. My thoughts race to my little bird and back to Maverick and his mother. Charlotte De Luca – formally Harrington. How I found out his mother is a wife to a former dirty Senator of New York, currently residing in Brooklyn was easy. Just a search of a birth certificate, a marriage license, a divorce license, and anewmarriage license, along with his father’s Death Certificate and obituary, then a few other things easily accessible thanks to this little internet device we all have at our fingertips.

But alas, it’s not my story to tell, and I don’t know the entire thing, just pieces of it. When he decides to share it, I doubt it’ll be with me, it’ll be with her, the one who needs it to be able to understand him the most. If he ever chooses to share with me later… I’ll charge him for the hour.

The Uber comes to a halt in front of my house where I spot a dim lilac glow in the upstairs bedroom, my (our) bedroom, letting me know she’s in there waiting for me. Another lamp by the window in the living room is on because she never wants me to come home in total darkness. It’s little things like that that make me feel loved. The trunk to the Honda unlatches with a thickthunkas I unstrap myself and get out, thanking the driver. After grabbing my luggage, closing the trunk, and walking up the few steps that lead to the front door, I’m almost sad this home is temporary.

Although coming home knowing my little bird is safe in my cage, fills me with satisfaction. It will never matter where we reside because my home is her. I turn the key and open the door, stepping through the threshold and into the foyer, pulling my luggage along behind me and into the dimly lit living room where I immediately hear whispers.

Feminine.

I don’t see her anywhere. I push my suitcase against the wall and let my tired eyes look around. Nothing. No one’s there. But the voice is a hoarse whisper. I keep searching until I see a silhouette in the dark hallway move. The flimsy, cream-silk night slip she wears for me hugging her dangerous curves and I go into a lustful protective rage at the sight of my specter.

“Amourette?”

She doesn’t answer but keeps whispering. I turn on the other lamp on the end table to see her better. I close in on her, fully ready to wake her out of her sleepwalking episode. She’s gazing up at a corner on the ceiling, facing the wall. Her hands are moving at a snail’s pace, trying to convey the words she’s speaking by signing but they’re no match for her rapidly moving mouth.

Before I wake her, I take her in my arms, tilting my head to her lips so I can hear her better.

“Shadowwasthereshadowwasthereshadowwasthereshadow… saw. Shadow…saw. Shadow was there. Raven bled for shadow. Shadow saw Raven. Raven made him sad.” She says and a single tear falls, hands still attempting their weak ASL.

My heart bleeds at the sight of it and I decide she needs to wake up. I take her hands in mine, my stomach dropping at the feel of her freezing skin. The house itself is warm, but in the recesses of her mind it’s a different story, and the subconscious is a treacherous thing. “Raven, my love, let’s go to bed.”

“Shadow saw.” She whispers to me clearly, her voice raspy and beautiful. Haunting.

“I know.” I’m inclined to believe her shadow is a manifestation of her own hallucinations but the last time I doubted her, her haven was sent up in flames. I won’t be makingthat mistake again. I should be thrilled she’s saying complete (albeit broken) sentences without stuttering, but what she’s saying sends chills down my spine. There’s only one name left on her kill list.

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