Page 6 of Starlight

He wondered what the man would think of the solstice celebration. Monsters could bring their human mates—that kind of thing wasn’t forbidden. But revealing yourself to a human was dangerous.

He’d done it once, and it hadn’t been planned.

When he had hunted down his sister’s killers, there’d been a kid in the car. Well, more of a teenager. While one of the men had been thrown from the car—the accident wasn’t entirely his fault, as it was their reaction to seeing him—Akai had made sure the other thief suffered the same fate. When he returned to the car, the kid had crawled halfway out, and it was clear he was in a bad way. Akai had done the only reasonable thing, and that was call emergency. He didn’t want an innocent boy to die.

Akai wasn’t a killer.

But the men who had hunted down his sister and stolen months of hard work from their workshop… They had deserved to die. Human laws didn’t care about monsters, and monsters didn’t care about human laws.

So he’d simply reported his sister’s death and showed the footage of the men and announced that the problem had been dealt with. He was sure Boone had monitored the news to make sure there were no unexpected sightings. But Akai had been careful, and the kid, if he remembered him—if he survived—had never said a word.

He settled in his favorite tree. Over the years, he’d turned his perch into something closer to a nest. From there, he could see the cabin and the sunrise. Tonight, the moon was dancing with the clouds, and the breeze ruffled the gray fur on his body. He stretched and set down his backpack and snack pouch. It was a good night for hunting.

CHAPTER THREE

Cole stood on the deck staring out into the night, hot chocolate in hand, hoping for an inspiration or a plan or an answer to a prayer he hadn’t yet thought of. He didn’t know what he was looking for, only that he wanted something.

Which wasn’t particularly helpful.

He even had a notebook that he left there, where he’d try to write out his thoughts and feelings. One of the therapists he’d seen after the accident had suggested that. The pages of his journal were a place where he could rant and admit all his darkest thoughts. The things he would never say out loud.

It was also the only place where he let himself think about the night of the accident. Oh, he’d talked about the accident until it felt like he told the story by rote. But in all those retellings, he left out one crucial element: he hadn’t called emergency. And he hadn’t been alone, bleeding on the side of the road.

Even though he’d passed out, he had a memory of…of a monster holding his hand and talking. Maybe he had been alone and made it up while he was unconscious.

But he looked up what he remembered, and the description fitted the local legend of the Mothman. Big red eyes, wings, and a herald of death, much like a banshee. He’d read everything there was on the monster, which wasn’t a whole lot. There was also something similar called the Owlman in England. But every sighting was also accompanied by a laundry list of reasons it wasn’t a monster. An oversized owl or some other bird, the witnesses were drunk, or the light was bad.

He was also an unreliable witness, given that he’d been busy dying.

He gripped the tin cup a little tighter.

He needed to stop thinking about the past and start thinking about the future. Otherwise, he’d wake up, and another seven years would’ve passed, and by that point, there would be no way to winch himself out of the rut he was in. He’d fallen into the rut that was expected, and it had been easy because he hadn’t needed to think. Two years ago, he’d needed to think.

He leaned against the side of his cabin.

His.

A beautiful distraction from reality. An escape.

Proof that he could do something on his own. That he could make a plan and follow through. It has taken a year longer than expected and planned for, but he hadn’t quit. And even though physio and construction work had made him physically strong again, hiking had also helped because it had given him the confidence to venture out on his own.

Now he needed to start taking bigger steps.

He needed a direction.

The only map he had was to a place he could no longer reach. His entire life, there had only been two paths: football or the family construction business.

He needed a third.

He drank his cooling hot chocolate, hoping it would guarantee a good night’s sleep. Usually, the first night he slept well, like his body had been aching for the wilderness, but for whatever reason, he hadn’t been able to settle tonight, so he’d gotten up for a hot drink and some journaling.

His gaze scanned the darkness.

Not for the first time, it felt as though he wasn’t alone out here. Something was in the woods. There were plenty of stories about bears and wolves and monsters. Some places had old lore that said you shouldn’t answer any voices that called out.

But whatever was lurking amongst the trees had never felt malicious.

When he’d still been camping in the tent, he’d called out one particularly low night that if he was going to be eaten, whatever was out there should just fucking hurry up and do it. Sometimes he imagined it was another guy who lived in the woods; depending on his mood, the guy was either checking in or checking him out.