I don’t know how I got back to my apartment. I was worse than a fucking zombie, more brainless than the walking dead without even hunger to motivate my shuffling steps. I got out of the elevator and stared at my surroundings as if I’d never seen the place before. Someone had come in and turned up the heat. At least, I thought someone had. The vents were blowing warm air, stirring my hair and drying my wide, unblinking eyes.
I’d been back in Seattle for only a few hours. But somehow it felt like years. As if I’d been watching from a distance, the scene with Tyler played over and over in my mind, and I searched for the right word, the perfect phrase I
He’d said those words to me.
Right before he left me.
What was I going to do without him? He’d been a constant presence in my life for so long. I took for granted the knowledge that he’d always be there for me, no matter what. I took three shuffling steps toward my kitchen when a long black scabbard caught my eye. Sitting atop my dining room table were a note, a stack of mail, and-my katana.
My chest loosened a little when I looked at the sword I thought I’d lost back in Spokane when Faolan had taken control of me. I loved that goddamned piece of metal, and seeing it there on my dining room table brought a fresh wave of tears to my eyes. I picked up the note, staring at the words that seemed nothing more than incoherent scribbles until my eyes finally made sense of them all and recognized Raif’s swirling script.
I caressed the scabbard, thinking of the shining blade encased within it as I crumpled Raif’s note and threw it somewhere toward my kitchen. He’d known Tyler was leaving. Shit, he’d more than likely talked to him before flying to England to meet me. I felt so lost. Directionless. Immobile. I didn’t know if I could even function without Tyler. I didn’t want to be alone. My hand brushed over the stack of mail Raif had left, the shiny surface of a postcard waking me from my stupor. I picked it up, the modern-day depiction of San Francisco covered with bright red curling letters of the city’s name. I tried to take a deep breath, my pulse racing out of control as I turned the card over to find a cheerful message from an anonymous sender, though the handwriting was unmistakable:
Jesus Christ.
Turning the postcard over in my hand, I looked for some clue as to what this was all about. I couldn’t explain the dark foreboding that cast its shadow on me as I stood staring at the simple laminated cardstock, but I knew trouble was headed my way.
“Come back to me, Ty.” I said, loud enough for the sound of my voice to bounce off the brick walls of my studio. “Soon.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Amanda Bonilla lives in rural Idaho with her husband and two kids. She’s a part-time pet wrangler and a full-time sun worshipper, and she goes out into the cold only when coerced. When she’s not writing, she’s either reading or talking about her favorite books.
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