Page 8 of Hunted in the Shadows
Rolling his eyes, Cliff removed his shirt and tossed it into the bloodstained pile. He held his arms out, putting his tattooed torso on full display. “If you’re so desperate to see me naked, sweetheart, you could ask nicely.”
Looking pleased with herself, Sylvia proceeded to strip off her leggings. She stuffed her clothing into a mesh bag that would keep her items from getting lost within the rest of the laundry.
Heat might have normally risen to my cheeks, but instead, my face drained as I got a better look at her in the low light. Faint bruising caressed her ribs, waist, and thighs. I could already picture how the dark hues would spread and deepen, wrapping her skin until she couldn’t find a modicum of comfort.
But she was all smiles as she strode to the edge of the counter and crossed her arms, raising an expectant eyebrow at me. “Now, you.”
It took me half a second to stagger back into what she was talking about. I glanced at Cliff, then her—both half-naked. Determined to not be caught off-guard by her brashness for once, I held her stare as I peeled off my undershirt and jeans. She bit her lip to quell giggles, practically bouncing with delight. That little flit in her wings was her biggest tell, though, as if she was physically restraining herself from closing the space between us.
Her gaze followed my collection of scars. She no longer flinched at the sight—not even at the barbed whistler scar beneath my collarbone that had never let go of its sickly gray hue. She looked me up and down like I was someone worth staring at.
“Stop eye-fucking each other,” Cliff groused without looking up from his meticulous stain removal. “I’m, like, two feet away.”
Sylvia grinned with the promise that our eye-fucking would continue in privacy soon enough, but my smile was half-hearted. I couldn’t tell if she was putting on a brave face through the pain for my sake.
By the time the stains were out, she was buzzing eagerly by the washers. Cliff and I loaded up four of the machines, passing detergent between us. I couldn’t imagine how we all looked—three serial killers in their underwear doing laundry at 1 a.m.
I held up a bag of coins to Sylvia. “You sure you’re up for the responsibility?” I asked.
“Gimme!” She snatched a stack of quarters from the bag and carefully fed each of the machines. She peeked through the final slot as though she could unravel the inner mechanisms’ secrets if she squinted hard enough.
Before long, the otherwise quiet laundromat filled with the sounds of churning water and clattering machinery. Cliff and I snickered as Sylvia went from washer to washer, pressing her face against the glass to watch the spinning clothes with utter fascination.
“Laugh all you want,” she tossed over her shoulder. “It’s beautiful!”
When Cliff became distracted with his phone, I nudged Sylvia’s arm to get her attention. She gazed up at me with a hopeful, questioning smile—perhaps hoping I was about to request we start our nighttime fun early.
“Did you ever get a look at his tramp stamp?” I whispered, thumbing in his direction.
Her lips parted, eyes wide. She flew off in a blink.
Seconds later, Cliff’s cursing nearly drowned out Sylvia’s scream of delight: “It’s abutterfly!”
4
Sylvia
Returningwith Jon to the spectral plane two months ago had been a horrible, irrevocable mistake. Every minute we were entwined as equals made me more insatiable. Being here with him again now, in this liminal space where only we existed, only deepened that hunger.
I straddled his hips, ignited by the solid feel of him between my legs. The more I touched him, the more I needed. His large hands slid up from my waist, one knotting in my hair. He pulled, and a moan slipped from me.
“Jon,” I gasped.
I remembered when his name had been so ordinary on my lips. Now, it was sweet like sugar on my tongue: a blessing, a prayer, this monumental thing.
Jon arched up to catch my parted lips, kissing me like he needed me more than air. I readily returned the fervor, my wings giving an involuntary flutter at the brush of his tongue against mine.
These stolen moments were perfect and golden, quickly becoming a post-hunt tradition as lingering adrenaline fueled our passion.Addictionmight be a better word, but I didn’t care. Being together like this feltsofuckinggoodwith the spectral plane providing a private world for us alone. Our sanctuary.
It was hard to believe that this world once housed the Ancients who tormented and drained me. The transcendent landscape was peaceful now, though vast in a way I still couldn’t comprehend.The changing colors of the sky and ground—though distinguishing the two was difficult—created a mesmerizing backdrop.
As I’d spent more time in this place, I had made an effort to make sense of its secrets. The stolen pages of nomadic journals I'd smuggled out of Elysia provided such meager depth. In hundreds of years, only a handful of fairies had ventured to this place. There was no guidemap, no rules. This time, I alone was the pathfinder; I was the one to document my experiences in the spectral realm for generations to come.
If I ever managed to find a place to call home again, that is. Until then, my scrawled notations on blank parchment and annotations to the map Mother had given me rested solely with me.
At times, the plane teased me with images at the edge of my vision—dreams or memories. Sometimes familiar glimpses of willow fronds or hummingbirds. Other times, unfamiliar human structures and flames, like Jon’s mind was slowly leaving traces here, too. But whenever I tried to get a better look or point Jon’s attention to focus on them, the visions dissolved.
Jon’s hands returned to my waist, plucking at the waistband of my leggings. The gentle pressure grounded me, though it lacked tangible warmth in this place. I sat back, arrested by my own happiness that glowed like a kernel of sunlight in my chest.
