My feet instinctively carry me to my favorite nighttime place in all of Mistwood Point—the cemetery. I don’t know what it is about this place that always draws me in. Maybe the silence, or the mystery in the old tombstones and ancient trees. The town is one of the oldest in the state. Younger, in fact, only to Windhaven. Some of the gravestones date all the way back to the early 1700s.
Slipping through the narrow opening on the haphazardly locked gate, I meander inside. No one will notice—they never do. Besides, I don’t deface the stones and always clean up after myself, unlike some of the miscreants who enter at night. I traverse quickly through the center of the round, circular drive that allows those who don’t really want to visit, but think they should, the space to slow down in a drive-by silent prayer to their lost loved ones.
As far as I know, I have no one here to visit. Most of my family comes from Windhaven. So I don’t feel pulled to visit anyone specific. I can just…be. No judgment. I’ve spent entire evenings, and more than a few early mornings, walking these graves. I love spending time hunting for the oldest one here as I dream up stories about their lives and how they died. Maybe it’s morbid, but I can’t seem to help it.
Without any real destination in mind, I slip beyond the ugly flattened headstones meant to make it easier for the caretaker to mow, to the space housing the older sites. The ones still vertical, albeit only just, with names and dates all but worn off with age.
The rising moonlight cascades through the trees, lighting my way deeper into the older part of the cemetery. The air is pungent with the scent of turning leaves and those decaying in the ground around me. I inhale it deeply but keep walking. When I feel I’ve gone far enough, I slow down and flit my gaze to the headstones, but not really taking them in.
Admiring one of the monolithic monuments, I reach for the small bottle of whisky hidden in the inner breast pocket of my coat and take a seat facing it. I keep it there so I don’t have to explain to my mother that yes, this twenty-year-old actually drinks on occasion. I know I’m not supposed to, but I have to at least live a little, right? Otherwise, I may as well just be one of these fine folks.
For whatever reason, I’ve always tried hard to avoid my mom’s judgment whenever possible. Yet, here I am, seriously thinking about directly defying her wishes. I must be outta my damn mind.
“Charlotte, what do you think I should do?” I ask the woman whose grave I sit upon. “Should I take a risk and go to the Windhaven Academy? Or should I just do the sensible thing and go to the university later?”
I take a swig, letting the liquid burn my insides on the way down. It has a kick. A burst of cinnamon, which is good because most booze is pretty disgusting. This one tastes more like liquid Hot Tamale candy.
A part of me wishes she could answer me. Give me the insights I’m seeking the way spirit guides are supposed to. Instead, I know better. Dead is dead. And when you’re gone, your body goes back to being part of the elements that brought you here in the first place.
Nearby, an owl hoots loudly, making me jump and spill some of the contents of my drink over my shirt.
“Dammit,” I spit, wiping furiously at the mess.
At the same time, my phone starts buzzing in my pocket; a sure sign my mom is wondering when I’ll be back. Ignoring it, I take another sip of the potent liquid, cursing myself for not asking my coworker to purchase a larger bottle.
“You look like you could use a friend,” a voice calls out of the darkness.
Again, I jump. This time downing the contents and sputtering them back out.
“Christ. What the f—” I say, dropping the bottle and clutching at my chest.
Stepping out into the moonlight, bright silvery-gray eyes watch me intensely. There’s a sparkle of mischief hidden in their depths, despite the calm demeanor of their owner. The guy can’t be much older than I am, but I’ve never seen him before. And in this town, everyone knows everyone.
“Hey, didn’t mean to freak you out. Just wasn’t expecting to find anyone else out here,” the guy says softly, holding his hands up. His jet-black hair and black leather jacket would almost blend into the darkness if the moonlight wasn’t refracting off them both.
“Yeah, that makes two of us,” I mutter, trying to catch my breath.
He grins, raising an eyebrow in a cocky, self-assured kinda way.
“Fair enough,” he chuckles. In two giant strides he bounds over to me, plopping down in the grass to my left. “So, wanna talk about it?” he asks.
“Talk about what?” I say, narrowing my eyes.
“Whatever has you drinking teeny-tiny bottles of…what is this?” He picks up the bottle. “Fireball whiskey. Nice choice.”
He lifts the bottle to his lips, downs the last drop, and hands it back to me.
I lower my eyebrows. “No offense, dude, but I’m not overly in the sharing mood right now,” I lament, hoping the double meaning presses itself upon him.
“Well, then, don’t share. I’ll share,” he grins, reaching inside his leather coat and pulling out a silver flask. Spinning the top open, he takes another sip and passes it to me.
I turn up my nose at first and eye it suspiciously. “What is it?”
“My own concoction. Not nearly as fancy as your drink of choice, but it will do in a pinch,” he says, a hint of confidence smoldering in his tone.
I contemplate for a moment whether or not it’s entirely within my
