Page 76 of Awry
Instead, I open the door to my old bedroom, cross to the bed, and climb under the covers, still clutching the note in my hand.
I ignore that the bed is made with fresh sheets, and that there’s an oncidium orchid on the bureau gently scenting the air.
My aunt’s last words to me tumble around in my head, following me into an exhausted sleep.
Seven
I waketo a bright moon outside, its light pouring through the bedroom windows and streaming across the bed.I’ve slept two, maybe two and a half hours given the position of the moon, and that’s not nearly long enough.Though apparently, it has stopped raining.
I roll out of bed, noting that my wrist and forearm is bare.Muta must be hunting down a meal.Otherwise, he’d never swap the warmth of me curled in a bed for the possibility of getting at all damp.Rats are plentiful on the property, and I hope that if any bunnies are slipping out of their burrows in between rainstorms this early in the season, they sense the danger long before Muta scents them.
And yes, I’m aware that bunnies shouldn’t be ranked above rats in any sort of ‘okay to kill’ category.It’s just that the larger the prey, the longer Muta takes to digest, which makes him all bloated and extra heavy.Either way, though, he’ll enjoy being on the property for a while.He doesn’t feel the need to stick with me quite as closely here.
Nothing can bring harm to the Conduit while this near to the intersection point.The universe will literally rise up to thwart any and all threats.So … it was utterly stupid of me to expect to find my Aunt’s body on the estate.
Because she would have been killed somewhere else entirely.
Did whomever she served cake and tea to lure her from the estate?
What was Ingrid scrying for before she too dropped dead?Did she lose contact with my aunt?Or get some sort of other warning through their bond?
And … where is my aunt’s third bond mate, Devlin?I would have to go to the forest cottage in the morning … I couldn’t just rely on the shifters to investigate.For a multitude of reasons.Technically, we aren’t even affiliated, and with no contract between us …
Shoving away thoughts of all the problems I couldn’t actually solve while lying in bed in the early-morning hours, I blink up at the ceiling for a while longer.Totally wide awake.I’m going to have to close the curtains to get back to sleep.
I manage to all but cocoon myself in the eiderdown duvet as I roll off the bed, dragging the long tail in my wake as I cross to and reach out to pull the heavy fabric curtains.Through the sash window, I have a moonlit view of the jutting craggy bluff, the raging ocean, and the still-well-lit beach house.But that’s not what makes me pause.
No.It’s the items arrayed on the deep dark-wood windowsill that have somehow stopped up my brain.A collection of seashells, ocean-smoothed quartz stones, and sea glass …
And in the far right corner of the sill sits an antique mason jar filled with what appears to be … handwritten notes?
I swear … I catch glimpses of my own handwriting on the tightly folded bits of paper, including the extensively practiced curlyZof my name.I don’t sign my name quite the same way now … but I also can’t actually remember the last time I did sign my name at all.I can’t remember the last time I jotted down a note to anyone.Well, a note from me specifically, not just passing on a hint of aknowingas I’d done for Doc.
My heart is suddenly thumping, my mind … straining …
I don’t … I don’t really remember …
Has someone else been using my room?
I glance around, realizing that even by moonlight, the room feels uninhabited, undisturbed … but also not wholly familiar to me.
I reach for the mason jar of notes and find myself stretching my fingers into an odd emptiness … that same unexplained feeling I stepped within when approaching Rath earlier.
My hand hovers only inches away from the jar.There’s nothing logical stopping me, but my fingers, then my lower arm start to tremble as though I’m holding something heavy.
I withdraw my hand.Panic starts to curl through me, through my nervous system.I can actually feel the slow creep of it, surrounding my heart, filling my belly.
What the fuck is going on?
Not enough sleep, I tell myself.Again.
But I can’t bring myself to step back, to step away.
If I angle my head just right, focusing where the moonlight illuminates the glass jar and its notes, I can see other writing … another signature?
No.
I tilt my head further.Not letters … symbols.Three triangles, two branched off the larger central symbol, which is topped with a small circle and a larger oval …
