by R.K. Ryals
~Peregrine Storke~
There are things in the darkness, scary things. I’d been afraid of the shadows since the first time my father turned the heavy locks on our front door, switched off the lights, and coaxed me into sitting in the middle of our living room. Mom had fought with him, her irritation driving her to bed early. Outside, children laughed, the sound of pounding feet on pavement as they ran from house to house begging for candy.
“Trick or treat!”
The yells were everywhere, but my father would always say, “Stay away from the door, Perri. The treat sounds nice, but it’s the trick you’ve got to be afraid of.”
Monsters … people who’d take me away and slice me into pieces.
The darkness terrified me.
In Awkward, I’d always been safe from the darkness. Until now.
It was still night when Foster shook me awake, his arms pinning me against him. We’d fallen asleep clasped in an embrace, my body falling over his. My face was against his chest, and I lifted my head, my eyes searching his gaze.
He wasn’t staring at me. He was staring at something beyond my shoulder; his jaw tense, his expression hard and cold.
“Don’t look,” he breathed.
Cold numbness swept me, every fear I’d ever had about the dark slamming into me. My body trembled, my hands shaking against his arms. If he noticed, he didn’t react.
Somewhere beyond us, Weasel stirred, his moans loud as he rolled over. There was silence followed by his sudden loud exclamation.
“Griddlesticks!” Herman breathed, his gasp joining Weasel’s.
“Go to Elspeth,” Foster called out, his voice low. Feet slid across the loft’s wooden floor, Weasel’s lumbering body heavy and loud despite his attempt to remain quiet.
“Oh!” a waking Nimble cried out, her grogginess making the exclamation sound worse, as if she’d woken up caught in a nightmare she had no hopes of escaping.
“Foster?” I whispered.
He swallowed hard, his arms tightening around me. “I’m going to roll over,” he told me. “I’m going to roll over and you’re going to get beneath me, you understand?”
There was something about his gaze, something terrifyingly calm and resolute. It wasn’t a new look for him. It was just the first time I’d seen it.
I nodded against his chest.
“One,” he counted. There was an eerie shriek in the darkness, the earsplitting yell drowning out everything about the night I’d ever thought was beautiful. Elspeth screamed. Foster ignored her. He shook me. “Two.” His eyes found mine. “Three!”
He rolled, his body heavy, his broad chest and back shielding me from whatever stood behind him.
There were sobs in the darkness.
My curiosity was making the fear worse.
“Foster?”
He stared down at me. “Trust me,” he hissed.
There was a low whir, the sound met by an oomph from Foster. He exhaled, his eyes widening, his hand going up to grip his shoulder. Between his fingers, blood seeped. I screamed, my hands pushing at him, my fingers frantic as they pressed against his shoulder.
He pushed me away. “Don’t,” he panted. “It’s not fatal.”
Foster fell to the side, his arms still tight around me, his body a shield. Despite all of his efforts, his movement left me exposed, my gaze meeting the glowing red eyes of a creature just beyond his shoulder.
There in front of the open window—the moon behind him—stood a man cloaked in black, his face covered in a heavy black cowl. The only thing visible was his eyes, two glowing red orbs against the darkness.
His arm lifted, a bow held steady in his grip. On his back, he carried a sheath of arrows. The earsplitting shriek from before filled the room, the sound following the creature as he turned, his feet carrying him toward the window. He stepped out of the casement, his body disappearing into the night. I didn’t look to see if he flew or fell. His shriek disappeared with him.
I shoved Foster off of me, my body rolling over his, my hands frantic as I pulled at his tunic. Popping the buttons loose, I shoved the shirt up his chest and over his shoulders. His skin was pale in the moonlight, the wound on his shoulder smothered in black. Protruding from his flesh was an arrow. It was a small arrow, a familiar one.
I choked on a sob. “Cupid.”
Foster watched me, his hands bunching his shirt before pressing it against the wound. “Cupid?” he asked me. “You drew a cupid in Awkward?”
I ignored him. “We’ve got to get the arrow out.”
I started to reach for the shaft.
He grabbed my arm, his hand wrapping around my wrist. “No, it has to be broken first. The head of it has to be broken off.”
I wasn’t strong enough, and we both knew it. My gaze sought out Weasel in the darkness. The troll lumbered toward us, the floor shaking as he settled next to Foster’s shoulder.
“Steady now,” Elspeth soothed. She knelt behind Foster, her hands gripping the sides of his head. His gaze stayed locked on mine. There was something wrong with his eyes.
Nimble landed on my shoulder, her small hand pressing against my cheek. “Perri,” she whispered, “those arrows were poisoned.”
My gaze dropped to hers, my chest burning. “I don’t understand.”
Her tiny lashes fell against her cheeks. “I’ve heard of cupid’s change,” she said. “When the darkness took him, he became the Reaper of Regret. He’s beautiful beneath his hood, perfect. Even so, he hides behind the cowl as if he were ashamed of his choice to turn.”
My breath came in spurts, my vision blurring. “The arrow, Nimble,” I prompted. “What does it do?”
Her sad, violet eyes found mine. “Regret,” she answered. “It’s full of regret. It’s most dangerous to those with a guilty conscience.”
Foster’s words from hours before ran through my head. I’ve killed people. His regrets were deeper than anyone in this room, and he’d taken the arrow for me.
“My God!”
My gaze found Foster’s face, my hands gripping his as Weasel broke the tip off of the arrow. Elspeth lifted Foster gently while Weasel shoved the shaft from his arm. Foster should have screamed, but he didn’t. His face was eerily blank, his pupils dilated. There was sorrow in his gaze, sorrow deeper than any I’d ever seen.
“Foster?” I whispered.
His gaze found mine, but there was nothing there. No recognition. Nothing except sorrow and guilt.
He sat up, his shirt falling from his wound. It began to bleed again, and I scurried to replace the tunic. He tried pushing me away, but Weasel held him as I wrapped his shoulder, tying the cloth tight around the hole left by the arrow.
“Foster?” I asked.
He pushed me away, his strength suddenly too much even for Weasel. Getting to his feet, he sauntered to the window, his gaze on the ground below. I knew what he was going to do even before he did it, and I screamed.
It was too late.
There was no warning. Nothing to prepare any of us for his sudden step into the night.
Chapter 22
“That awkward moment when you realize love doesn’t always come full of sweet joy, but tainted with regret.”