Unease skitters down my spine, and my stomach tightens like a nest of rats have taken up residence. I tap my fingers against the steering wheel as I stare at the unassuming farmhouse with narrowed eyes.
Somewhere inside, Rebecca is doing…God knows what to my brothers. My fear continues to grow and grow until it replaces the blood in my veins. I’m practically choking on it.
Shutting down the car, I slide out and very gently close the driver’s side door. Somewhere in the distance, a dog begins to bark, his tinny voice sounding ominously loud in the eerie silence that has descended. It’s almost as if the world is holding its breath, waiting. The prickles racing up and down my skin intensify as I run across the street and duck behind an overgrown bush.
In the movies, you would see a curtain twitching or a shadowy silhouette gliding in front of a window. Instead, I see nothing. Absolutely nothing. My fear ratchets tenfold as I reach for the knife in my pocket. The weight is comforting, if I’m being completely honest, though I would’ve preferred my trusty bat. However, I know that Rebecca won’t hesitate to hurt my brothers if she sees me strolling inside with a weapon.
Fuck, how could she do this?
She was my best friend for centuries, through the good and the bad. Could this entire mess really be because of Desmond?
And…come to think of it…why hadn’t she used his memory loss to make a move on him? Unless she tried and he rejected her, which only escalated her rage to murderous proportions.
Question after question barrage me from all directions, but I shove them away to dissect at a later time.
Now, I need to save my brothers.
I’m praying that my mates will still be asleep. And if they wake up, they’ll assume I’ve gone on my morning run.
But if I’m not back in a few hours…
Like before, I snap the lid on those thoughts. There is no alternative. I will get out of here in one piece, my brothers in tow and Rebecca six feet under.
And then what?
Do I head home? Go to the Realm of the Gods and reclaim my kingdom?
The latter prospect fills me with unease. Is it selfish that I don’t want to go back to a place that’s laden with responsibility and pain?
The kingdoms in the Realm of the Gods aren’t like the kingdoms on Earth. I rule only a small handful of lesser gods and goddesses, and by rule, I mean I live in the tallest and grandest building. For the most part, every deity is self-governed. However, there are a select few—including the old me—who will never be satisfied with the power bestowed upon them. They demand more and more, until empires and armies are created.
So no, I don’t think anyone will miss me if I don’t return.
If I’m being completely honest with myself, I think the people will rejoice if they’re able to go back to the way things were before I became power-hungry.
I know I’m just making excuses. The truth is, I don’t want to return. At all. I don’t want to leave my family behind and the life I built here.
But I can’t focus on the future before I annihilate the present. The Grim Reaper will be making an appearance tonight, and I’ll be damned if it’s me he’s visiting.
Casting a glance in both directions and ensuring the street is empty, I find a section of the fence that has eroded away with time. I remember vividly crawling through the hole when I was in high school, barely big enough to fit my small body. Two years later, it’s still a tight squeeze, but it’s manageable. Loose wire claws at my hair, but I wipe it aside with a disgruntled, barely audible screech.
I move nimbly to my feet before darting towards the side of the house, hoping the shadows obscure me well enough that anyone inside wouldn’t be able to see me.
I don’t dare use the front door, and despite knowing the code to enter through the garage, I know that will make too much noise.
Instead, I tiptoe stealthily around the house towards the second-story window. It leads into my old bedroom, still decorated exactly as it was when I was a child. The garbage can is directly underneath, and I know from experience that I can pull myself up if I balance myself on top of the metal can.
It’s surprisingly easy to push open the window and pull myself through. My body rolls when it reaches the ground before I gracefully stand on the balls of my feet, still crouched.
My eyes pore over the room that was once intimately familiar to me. Where my bed held over a dozen different pillows, all various sizes and colors. Where my dresser had a crack in the corner from the one time I came home drunk and stumbled into it. Where there was a painting on the wall of a gorgeous, tranquil lake with a purple-flecked moon above. I made it when I was sixteen at one of those recreational art classes they always offer.
But I don’t see any of that.
Instead, the room is bereft of anything that was once mine. The bedspread is a monotone gray with two white, fluffy pillows. The dresser is a dull amber wood instead of the mahogany I’m familiar with. There are no paintings on the walls. It’s as if…
As if I’ve never lived here at all.
Panic unfurls in my gut at the implications of such a thing.
What if those memories have been nothing but a lie? What if I never really stayed in this bedroom with the purple walls and the contrasting black carpeting?
That panic is replaced by a harrowing pain at the realization that I moved out of this house after my dad died. If this house holds no memories of me…
Then my
