Aquila; From The Darkness Book One

Many people deserve more than a simple thank you:

My husband, Andrew; for allowing me to lose myself for hours at a time.

My children, Evie and Harrison; for not burning the house down while my attention was elsewhere.

My sister, Lisa; for reading the first edits and encouraging me to continue in my folly.

My best friend and chief editor, Karen; whose excitement and support were unrivalled.

My cover artist S.A. Hunt who I recommend for his professionalism, quality and imagination.

Smashwords; thank you.

And finally, to all of the above, to baby-sitters, to family and friends who supported me through this; I love and appreciate you all.

And the angels which kept not their first estate,

but left their own habitation,

he hath reserved in everlasting chains under darkness

unto the judgment of the great day.

Jude 1:6

One

Early birds get up before the sun. So I guess that’s what I am, an early bird.

The sky is not quite dark, with slender veins of purple and gray, when I rise. I like the quiet the early morning brings. I like the fresh moist air and the dew covered grass. I like getting to the bathroom before my mother.

We share the small, bare space of a room; cracked magnolia wall tiles and stripped wood floor. There is no shower; just an old bathtub with a cutting of garden hosepipe and shower nozzle attached to the taps. I did it myself, for my own sanity. My mother considers showers a modern notion, designed for city folk whose lives are fast and stressful and the opposite of ours. I consider them a necessity.

Today I shower fast. The water is never what you’d call toasty but it doesn’t bother me; I barely feel it. I grab the last threadbare orange towel from the rack and head back to my bedroom, leaving a trail of watery footprints across the short landing.

My bedroom is also small; with a single bed and handmade quilt, passed down from my mother’s mother to me. It could be labelled quaint by a discerning optimist; with its unadorned honey walls and stained wooden floorboards – I’m undecided.

My only window looks out over the back of the property. The single glazed pane lets the southerly winds howl around the room like wolves; and turns my breath to ice in the winter. I have no curtains. I tore them down in anger when I was eight, after they’d been dancing eerily in the breeze for the entire night. I’m yet to fill the deep gouges in the plaster which are the only evidence left of their existence.

My furniture is sparse. A rickety pine bedside table houses a single low-energy lamp and my digital alarm clock. A built in wardrobe encompasses the back wall; there is nothing else. The patches of patterned fabric in my quilt provide the only blast of colour in my otherwise drab existence.

I dress in my standard sweater, one-size-too-big, and loose denim jeans. I don’t own an extensive wardrobe, I couldn’t accommodate one either. Jeans, sweaters, waterproofs – all in various shades of dark – are all I have or need.

Next stop breakfast. I make my way down the narrow wooden staircase, missing steps three and eight to avoid disturbing my mother with their creaks of protest.

A narrow passageway at the bottom of the staircase leads into the kitchen. The room is traditional, with low ceilings, exposed wooden beams and a flagstone floor. There’s an AGA in the corner which burns constantly, heating the house and the water tank. A large oak table in the centre of the room forms a dining area for us and work area for my mother. The kitchen’s always clean but very rarely tidy. Pots fill every nook and pans fill every cranny. The walls are a sunny yellow and the cabinets an avocado green. My mother likes to bring the outdoors in whenever she can, sometimes literally.

Our home is a rustic farmhouse – nestled at the foot of the Quantock hills – with ten acres of English farmland and surrounded by woodlands, forests and nature. It sits at the end of a long dirt track, peppered with stones, roots and holes. My mother’s aversion to all things modern dictates there will be no tarmac providing a smooth drive in the near future. It doesn’t really matter; I’d rather have other modern inventions at my disposal, like the internet.

We’re organic farmers. We grow and harvest all year-round. My mother bakes, pickles, stews and creates with every fruit and vegetable we produce. Once a week, we pack it all up in the back of her Land Rover and take it to the local farmer’s market. Her apple and blackberry pie is a prize winner; in the local flower show.

The farm keeps me perpetually busy. With a fruit orchard to the east and the vegetable allotment to the west, we grow with the seasons. We sell most of our produce to local shops and cafes and advertise a pick your own in local businesses and the free paper. My mother doesn’t believe in using the internet, as if it’s still a theory and not the most widely used form of media in the world. I tried to convince her we would get more business online, that more people would see we exist, she didn’t buy it. We are comfortable. We’ll never be rich.

I grab a dry bowl from the draining board and fill it with our homemade muesli. I never have milk and don’t bother with a spoon. I take my favourite perch in the kitchen window to watch the sunrise.

The walls of the farmhouse are thick, thick enough that I can sit sideways on the sill with my feet up and my back resting against the stone. My reflection in the glass is bright against the dark, early morning sky.

I have naturally pale skin and dark lashes. I never wear makeup; I don’t see the need. My mother insists I need more colour but Somerset isn’t exactly sun central so any kind of tan around here draws more attention than I want.

My eyes are Amber. An unusual colour which often turns unwanted heads in my direction. My raven black hair, darker than night, falls in a cascade of curls down my back. I leave it loose mostly, it’s impossible to tame on a good day.

I watch the world outside the window, as the first light of day brings a wash of colour to the panorama. The farm is a menagerie: chickens, ducks, pheasants, geese, quail, the list goes on. The rooster is parading in the yard, crowing with the dawn. I watch him strut, like a general, while the scruffy hens peck at the earth around his feet. I must have forgotten to shut them in last night; again.

My mother really has a thing for birds. Even the kitchen in which I’m sitting is homage to her greatest obsession: artwork, crockery, placemats and table skirts; anything with images or prints of birds she has to buy... the curtains around the window bear a print of cartoon ducks in wellies. The teapot by the AGA is the shape of a chicken. Sparrows fly around the rims of her most prized crockery set and an array of peacock feathers stick out of every vase we own. The living birds in her collection run free around the property – with hen houses, duck ponds and brush thickets scattered everywhere you look, for their convenience – not mine. It’s me that has to go around every evening shutting the little feathered fiends in so the fox doesn’t get them; when I remember. The dumb creatures get treats at Christmas, nursed in the house when they are sick, funerals when they die. It sounds crazy, maybe it is crazy, but like I said, she has a thing for birds.

I finish eating and rinse my bowl in the Belfast sink. A dishwasher is also something we don’t possess. The draining board is constantly piled high with clean washing-up but I’m never allowed to leave dirty crockery or utensils for later. ‘A clean house is a happy house!’ The ridiculous mantra flitters unbridled through my mind as I scrub; one of the many pearls of wisdom my mother acquired from her mother. Shame grand-mama didn’t see fit to leave us any actual pearls on her passing. I like the quilt though.

I begin to stack the crockery; heaven knows my mother will never do it.

You’re up early, my mother announces as she breezes into the room; still in her dressing gown and slippers with hair askew.

My mother is young, not quite in her forties. We look nothing alike; she is short, with a round face and normally straight ochre hair.

I smile. As always.

My response is more cheery than most mornings. It’s Saturday, my day off. The only day of the week that my mother lets me have completely to myself, therefore, my favourite day of the week.

I give up with the stacking; I’ll waste my whole day. I’m going round the course, I inform her. See you later.

Have fun! Her reply is muffled as I grab my car keys from the hook and head out of the back door.

My car’s by the wood shed. An old Ford Fiesta which my mother informs me used to be red. It’s now more of a mottled terracotta, with patches of brown rust and jagged metal. I jump in, inhaling the familiar cherry scent of my preferred air-freshener. My jacket is crumpled on the rather frayed back seat. I glance at the sky, there’s cloud but it looks like it’s going to be a nice day.

The engine starts on the second attempt. I haven’t driven since last Saturday; I’m lucky it started at all. I crank the window down so I can feel the crisp wind on my face, then I’m off. It’s a short drive, twenty minutes tops through narrow country lanes boarded by erratic hedgerow and overgrown cow-parsley. I could navigate this route with my eyes closed. The course is a regular haunt of mine. It’s owned by the Forestry Commission; a dirt track, in the middle of the forest, surrounded by a thick wall of tall pine trees that provide complete obscurity. It’s wide enough for a car, but people rarely drive it. It’s long, and winding, and eventually forms a large loop. Most people who use it go a little way then turn back; it would take normal people hours to walk around. But I’m not a normal person; I like to do a lap, sometimes I do two.

Mine’s the only car in the car park when I arrive; though it’s actually more of a lay-by – littered with brambles, weeds and holes which fill with water after rain.

I quickly swap my sweater for my jacket and jump out, not bothering to lock the car door. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if someone helped themselves to it. It’s older than my mother and been driven a lot harder too, especially since I passed my test. I often wonder what the insurance would buy me – I’d probably end up with something worse.

I stroll deep into the woods, far beyond the tree line and out of sight of the road, before stopping to stretch. I already feel more at home. I love to be outside. Walls leave me feeling claustrophobic. I crave open space, fresh air, rainfall.

The course is popular with horses as the ground is good for cantering, so I’m always extremely careful to check it’s safe. I use my senses – I can hear well, see well too; much better than an ordinary person. I nicknamed it my super-sight. We tested it a few years ago, my mother and I; kind of an experiment. We started by standing close, twenty yards apart, and then took steps backwards, getting farther and farther away. If I could hear her I had to do whatever she said. She spoke commands, silly things like hop on one leg, pretend to be a monkey, walk like an Egyptian. We were in hysterics; she actually had to cross her legs to keep from having a toilet related calamity. We got to the edges of the field before she couldn’t see me clearly anymore and I could still see her every freckle, hear every word. I can read signs that are too far away to be read. I can see expressions on faces that should just be silhouettes. But most impressively, I can see in the dark – not as clearly as daylight of course, but enough that I’m not hindered at night.

It’s the way I’ve always been; perhaps I even take it for granted. I have to be careful when I’m with others. Ensure I don’t mention things they can’t see, things they can’t hear.

Right now I don’t hear anything important, anything that would have me turning back to the car, like hooves, footsteps or voices.

I’m alone. So I flex my shoulder blades backwards then relax them forwards; the movement allows my jet black feathers to slip easily through the long slits in my jacket. My mother altered it for me especially.

I stretch my wings out like paper fans, feeling the instant relief it brings and sighing audibly. I feel like I’ve been released from binds when I can extend this secret part of me. I feel like the weight has been lifted from my weary limbs; I feel like I can breathe.

My wings are my biggest secret; my biggest horror and my biggest honour. Barely visible from the front when tucked against my back, I hide them well beneath my clothes. They are sharp, angular and intimidating; protruding from my shoulder blades, they rise abruptly towards their tips and then swoop down towards my hips. The longest feathers reach just above my waist, before they cut back up sharply. They are not gentle looking things; each well over a metre long when fully extended. They resemble the wings of a crow – or raven. They are not a normal accessory to possess.

Only my mother has seen me like this, exposed and vulnerable. She see’s splendour and elegance in them. She says I’m beautiful – unique – that I shouldn’t be ashamed. I find it hard to believe. I’m battered by various conflicting emotions every time I release them like this: the sense of release, nature, sincerity, unease, and shame... fear. I spend every second hiding what I am from the world because of the negative feelings; because of the fear.

Of course I don’t actually know what I am, not truly. My mother believes I’m an angel. I’m not so sure. I don’t feel angelic. I’m not inherently good. I’m not male like the angels in the bible. I’ve never seen another being like me. I have no idea.

I flex my wings once and then I’m off. I can run very fast, but I’m here to fly. My mother started this tradition. She brought me here every day; encouraged me to spread my wings. When I was a baby she carried me, as a toddler I ran and flapped like a headless chicken. As a young child, I eventually took off and my mother couldn’t catch me again. I flew above the trees, circled and swooped and ignored her frantic calls for hours. I only came down when I got hungry.

She didn’t make that mistake again. No, after that she always tied me to a rope like some hellish kite until I was old enough to understand the danger of being seen. Now I know. Now I’m careful.

I reminisce as I fly, recalling fragments of happy childhood moments here. A smile twitches at my lips as I glide, faster and faster; watching intrepidly as the ground shoots past below, like a film reel on fast-forward. My super-sight picks out tiny pebbles, cracks and insects on the earth and captures the collage of flora like a series of high definition photographs – their bright colours are a stark contrast to the earthy browns and greens of the landscape.

I’m always mesmerised by the sights as I fly. The ground is constantly changing yet always familiar – always the same. The seasons change the landscape; the weather affects the smells, sights and sounds. No day is exactly the same, but I know the terrain beneath me.

I do love this.

I do appreciate what I have; in general.

I love the feel of the wind rushing by, blowing my hair out in tendrils behind me. It’s impossible to really describe the feeling of the breeze through my feathers; it’s like a massage – the most incredible massage ever experienced, doubled.

The air is rich today, cooling my face and bringing the aromas I’m familiar with. The scents of local wild flowers like bluebells and foxglove are sweet; and underneath, the mossy scent of fern and heather create an earthy quality to the ever changing perfume.

This is freedom; swooping and soaring like a feathered rollercoaster, creating swirls of dust clouds from the downdraught I generate. I take pleasure in watching my angular shadow swoop across the ground like a spectre; but sneaking out at night, in the rain, is the best way to fly.

I do this at every available opportunity, the freedom breaking the monotony of daily life. Weekdays drag by, involving hours of weeding, raking and fixing clapped out machinery as best I can. My mother and I work hard with little reprieve. Saturdays are special. I map my past on them, plan my future around them. Most involve the course, and most involve Aaron.

I’m travelling fast. I automatically check behind me, like I’ve been doing for the last half hour, and the briefest flash of white grabs my attention. White that I’m positive wasn’t there when I flew past that spot. White that was staying downwind and gliding silently through the trees. What...?

My euphoria vanishes.

A hard rock settles in my gut, while an invisible vice constricts my throat. I can’t think, I can’t breathe, I just panic. Flee... my subconscious screams at me... get away!

So I fly, hard. My pulse drums in my ears like a marching band as I fly harder than ever before. I know I’m more than half way around the loop, so it makes sense to keep going, but really I‘m just surrendering to instinct. When it comes to fight or flight, I’m equipped for the latter. I need to get somewhere safe.

Nausea bubbles in my stomach, my muscles burn like naked flames but I don’t stop. I don’t slow my pace. I reach sight of the road again after what feels like hours, though it’s probably only minutes. I haven’t the courage to check if my pursuer has followed.

Instead I land on my feet, running, and pull my wings back into my jacket with a perfected shoulder roll. My keys are in my hand and I’m in the car without taking a breath. All I want to do is leave, run, flee. I know where I’m going. Not home; my mother will see my panic. No, I’m going somewhere I feel safe.

I drive like Mansell; my breath coming in sharp pants, my head feeling foggy in thick. I need to process what just happened but I struggle with the concept... my wits have shut up shop.

The sky is bright now; I pull the visor down to block the sun. I’m too stressed to appreciate the new colours the sunlight brings. The reservoir is signposted but I don’t need their instruction. I pull quickly into an empty space when I arrive, stalling my car to a sudden stop; my heart jumps with it.

My fists clench the steering wheel and my foot stays planted to the brake until I can calm myself enough to function. I count; one, two, three... I can’t stay here forever... come on.

I pry my hands from the wheel to yank up the hand-brake and pull the keys from the ignition, cutting the radio in the process. It’s the silence I notice, I hadn’t been listening to the music.

I scan the reservoir nervously, on high alert. There are a few people about: two men fishing on the bank, a mother and young child feeding bread to the ducks. No sign of anyone else... of winged men in plain sight. A cold shiver runs the length of my spine. Breathe...

It’s quiet and peaceful but not too secluded; I still feel vulnerable. It takes me a long time to stumble from the car and wander unsteadily across to the grass bank. I concentrate hard on taking a few deep breaths and my pulse begins to dim to a more ordinary tempo. The soft grass looks inviting and my legs are like jelly so I flop down inelegantly.

Landing on my bottom with a thud I lean back on my elbows. I scan the reservoir again, noticing nothing amiss, before spending a while simply gazing at the cold, clear water and watching the little fish dart around the weeds in the shallows. They are safe there; the fishermen are after something bigger. The more I watch the cool ripples on the water, the more relaxed I feel; the more clearly I can think.

My mind continues to come up blank as I try to reconcile what I glimpsed through the leaves. Maybe I imagined it? Or perhaps it was a large swan? A wayward carrier bag? No, no matter what I pretend I can’t explain the cobalt orbs my brain keeps distinguishing as eyes, human eyes.

I shake the images from my head when I get fed up with the ache they create. Hoping to distract myself I gaze at the landscape, forcing myself to notice the little details that are so often taken for granted.

The reservoir is pretty and sits in a natural valley, surrounded by fields and trees with grass banks on both sides and a little dusty foot path around the perimeter. With the road behind me the land looks almost untouched.

There’s a little gray stone bridge to my left, spanning the tributary which runs down from the Quantocks. A dam to the right keeps the water level stable throughout the year. Rolling hills rise up above the trees on the opposite shore. The patchwork of fields and hedges are all used as grassland, with grazing sheep and cows mooching around happily.

The reservoir isn’t wide, just short of two hundred metres, and about seventy feet deep. I know because I’ve been to the bottom. I love to swim – I love water. I’ve seen a plethora of rainbow, brown and golden trout swimming these waters, feeding on an abundance of insects and invertebrates

In fact all manner of wildlife makes this place their home. A swan pair breeds here every year. Canadian and Brent geese use it as a stop off while migrating, and over wintering wildfowl live here year round. In the summer an ice cream van parks up and stays all day. It’s June and the van has just started its season.

I feel better. Perhaps I did imagine it, overreact. The sun is warm and the sky relatively clear so I lie back and stare at the clouds, my mind still full of winged men despite my attempts otherwise. That can’t have been what I saw. The shapes move and morph above me, pretty soon they become a blur.

I’m vaguely aware I’m dreaming. The sky has turned orange and the trees are almost black. Purple clouds swirl like raspberry ripple in the liquid sky. As I watch, a red haired man soars across the open expanse above. In his strong arms he cradles a tiny bundle, wrapped in a woollen blanket. It’s small and unmoving, making no sound.

I try to shout to him, although I somehow know he won’t hear. I try to move, to follow, but I’m stuck. Something’s holding me down. I tug frantically at my legs, straining against invisible bonds; and then the shadows come. Crawling slowly, ink black ghosts creeping towards me across the dark jade grass, sliding over me like snakes. I get cold, deathly cold. It feels wrong, unnatural. I’m never cold. The world gets darker and darker. The sky bleeds its colour until I’m trapped in an abyss of nothingness. My night vision fails me and I am blind. The cold seeps into my bones and I know I will freeze to death, become nothing more than a statue of black ice. My heart beats rapidly, trying to warm me, but it’s to no avail – it’s futile. I could give in and accept this fate. After all, we all die eventually...

I wake with a start, sitting up too quickly so my head spins dizzily. My heart attempts to beat out of my chest, my breathing is frantic. My nightmare...

I realise instantly that there's a shadow over me and, for a brief second, I believe it could have been real. I gaze up. The sun is causing a human silhouette but my eyes adjust quickly. I know the dirty blond hair, cut into a scruffy mess, and bright gray eyes well.

Aaron.

I smile. Aaron. My best friend. Probably my only friend. I’m not exactly a social butterfly, for obvious reason. My heart rate slows gradually to a normal rhythm but the anxiety is slower to dissipate. My nightmare always has this effect.

Hey, thought I’d find you here. He grins. Went to your place but your mum said you were out spreading your wings. His grin turns to a warm smile. The smile’s for my mother and her constant and somewhat annoying bird analogies. He thinks it’s because she has that thing for birds. It’s really because of me of course. She’s desperate for me to confide in him, it’s not going to happen.

I’m not that predictable, I grumble. I’m not annoyed. My mood must be being affected by my dream, and my somewhat new and frightening experience at the course.

He just smiles at me indulgently, ignoring the sullen tone he’s probably heard many times before. We’ve been friends forever. Well, since he sat next to me on our first Sunday morning in the church hall. I was four, he was five. I thought he was marvellous, looked up to him straight away. He was funny, a jokester. We spent hours whispering and giggling and driving the reverend mad while she tried to teach us about the great flood or the crucifixion of Christ. My mother insists on church every Sunday morning; what with me being an angel and all. I go because of Aaron.

We’ve grown up together, shared every milestone. We know each other inside and out, almost. I don’t want to tell him, like my mother keeps suggesting. The thought of it brings me out in a cold sweat every time. He’s the only person I feel comfortable with, happy with even. I wouldn’t be able to stand it when he looks at me like I’m a freak, like he can’t stand me, like I’m alien.

Fancy a swim? he asks. He’s joking, he knows I never swim; never take my sweater off and never take off my boots to paddle. He asked me why once. I told him I have a crippling fear of water, that I have nightmares about drowning. I don’t of course – I actually love water, swimming is my favourite thing to do. I can swim well, incredibly well, due to my freaky feet. It’s probably why I can normally be found here. Figures.

I shake my head. No, I say derisively. But knock yourself out. I manage a genuine smile.

The water is freezing but I know he’ll see it as a challenge. He supplies his trademark lopsided grin, flashing the dimple on his left cheek. Quick as a flash, he kicks off his scruffy old boots and strips away his trousers and shirt.

My pupils dilate at once and I swallow reflexively. He’s quite the sight, in his white socks and boxers; anybody would appreciate the view. I do.

I watch him with tunnel vision. He’s changed in the last few years, physically, mentally. I notice it every time I see him. His voice is deeper, gravelly. His shoulders are broader, his muscles more defined. He’s grown a good foot above me – I used to be the tallest. He has a five o’clock shadow and a spattering of hair under his navel which descends below the waistband of his underwear. He’s definitely not five anymore, he’s becoming a man.

I’m aware our relationship is changing. I never used to notice these things about him. I have definite... feelings. I’m not the girl in the story who realises too late that her best friend was the man for her all along. I’ve been in love with him for years. It’s developed as we’ve grown – I’m past pretending we’re ‘just friends,’ but I’m not stupid either. There is no fairytale ending for us. We could never be. I don’t even know if he would want me in the same way. It’s why I won’t tell him my secret. My heart’s in too deep. He already has the power to shatter it. I’d rather not give him the ammunition too.

He turns and makes off towards the water in a kind of half run. "Don’t tell me you’re the kind of man to leave your socks on?!’ I shout impetuously. It physically hurts that I’ll never find out.

He spins to laugh at me, hopping around from foot to foot as he removes his socks and throws them over his shoulder. Then he takes a running leap into the shallows. His landing kicks up a swirl of mud and debris and the little fish vanish. I smirk, they had been safe there.

I lie back and watch him splash around like a fool for ten minutes; it’s quite a floor show. He does handstands and belly flops and disappears under the surface countless times. The fishermen don’t look impressed. You’re not meant to swim here, frightens off the fish.

I know what he’s doing and pretending not to be. He lost a gold chain here a few years ago and he’s been looking for it ever since. I have a tenner on him never finding it. He’s sure he will, that I’ll be paying up soon. I know I won’t. It’s in my bedroom, in a box on the top shelf of my wardrobe.

It only took me a few minutes to find that night. I’d come back after dark and floated around on the surface until my super-sight spotted it below me. I’ll give it back soon, and the tenner I owe him too, but not yet. Watching his frustration is too amusing; another reason why I don’t agree that I’m an angel.

He finally gives up and heads back towards the shore. He’s dripping wet as he makes his way up the bank. I quickly avert my eyes, he obviously didn’t think through his colour of underwear today. Oh what the hell, I shrug and turn back to watch him until he’s stood in front of me; I’m smiling like a friggin’ Cheshire cat.

Water cold today, I state rather than ask before tearing my eyes away to look at his face.

No more than normal. He ruffles his hair and sends spray into the air.

Maybe wear your black Calvin’s next time? I suggest; my face a picture of forced earnestness.

He frowns and then looks down at himself as realisation dawns. His white boxers are now noticeably close to transparent.

He’s not embarrassed. He has no reason to be I don’t think. He just laughs and grabs his clothes from beside me. I start to lean back again, still smiling and closing my eyes to feel the warmth on my eyelids, when something cold and wet slaps me in the face.

Urgh, I screech, sitting back upright instantly and flinging the offending item blindly to the side. It’s his boxers and he’s laughing like an ape. He has his jeans and shirt back on, obviously without underwear. I sigh.

Nice, thank you for that, I groan.

Not a problem. He’s still laughing. So, I’ve got some ideas for next month, wanna hear them?

Shoot, I reply. I could never be mad at Aaron.

It’s his eighteenth birthday in three weeks and he’s been trying to think of something to do for months. It’s been a long few months.

So I figured we’d use the back field. The grass is being cut tomorrow and it’ll be bailed just in time as long as it stays dry. Plus that means we’ll have something to sit on around the bonfire.

So we’re going with the bonfire? This was idea number three behind paintballing and clay pigeon shooting. Boys and guns, what can I say.

Yes and the festival thing. You know, get a few bands to play – maybe The Roasts...

My audible groan cut’s him off. The Roasts are his older brother’s awful grunge band, constantly out of key and screeching ridiculous lyrics. They are not my favourite.

And others, he continues. James’ boys are pretty good too.

They are actually better than the best but whatever.

We can camp out, boys one side, girls the other, he smiles.

Ha, I smirk. Like a field full of hormonal, pubescent teenagers lacking parental supervision are going to adhere to single sex living quarters.

He continues oblivious. And the piece de la resistance, a pig roast... with a vegetarian option of course, he tags on as an afterthought, raising one perfectly sculpted eyebrow at me. I roll my eyes.

It’s this mundane action which draws my attention to the white flash in the opposite tree line, perhaps half a mile away. My telescopic sight zeros in on the source immediately, causing my breathing to hitch and my heart rate to spike. I freeze. Aaron’s presence distracted me, and now I’m being watched... again.

Two

It is a man. His hair’s so blond it’s white, his eyes are as blue as sapphires, but it’s his wings that hold my focus.

I stare unblinking.

He has them out in the open, nothing hiding them! I don’t know what I should be feeling? Fear... yes that’s a given; but I’m so bewildered I can’t muster the appropriate level. Is he not concerned? Anyone could see him.

He’s obviously there watching me. It was him in the forest too, I’m sure of it now. He’s following me. That can’t be a good