Clearer in the Night

by Rebecca Croteau

  I force myself to smile, as if he isn’t holding my heart in his teeth. “Get gone if you’re going,” I say. “Don’t be a tease.” He chooses now, of all times, to listen to me.

  I go home, and I clean myself up, and I pick up the things that must have been knocked over when he fought my mother and my sister. And then the police are at the door, telling me about a tragedy, and awkwardly patting me while I cry. They offer to call someone, and I tell them that there is no one to call. They determine, in time, that Wes and Sophie killed themselves in some kind of strange suicide pact, and Mom had gotten caught in the crossfire somehow. With no witnesses, it was impossible to know what happened. Eli kept his word. There was never any hint that I’d been in the woods that night.

  When my mother and sister were buried—in the plot that she’d been meant to occupy for a decade, and the one next to my dad’s empty spot—I walk back to the dead house and try to be still. I had tried to reach out to Shan already. What she did made sense in a certain way, and there were too many years of friendship between us to just give up. Or so I thought. But she isn’t returning my calls. So I rattle around for a few weeks, trying to clean up, throw out trash, and figure out exactly how bad Mom’s finances are. It’s looking like the life insurance will get me caught up on the house payments, so I might actually be able to sell it, instead of having it repossessed. The idea of finding a new place to live leaves me nauseated.

  I’m stronger. I’m faster. I’m more graceful that I was, before. I don’t trip over my feet or knock things over with my elbows. I still pick up stray thoughts from people, but I don’t get buried under mental noise anymore. I’ve never in my life felt emptier. I want to go dancing. I want to go dancing like I imagine that Mom used to want a drink. I want it with every shard of me, but I know now. What I get from those nights doesn’t make me human.

  The night of the full moon, a month after I lost everything, the craving is so bad that I think I might claw my skin off just to get at the itch. I fade around the house, not settling, not pausing. I get in the car—Mom’s, now, what’s the point in driving my old beater?—and I pretend I’m just going to the store for coffee and cookies, even though I’ve done my hair, put on makeup, found my heels.

  But instead of turning towards downtown, I turn left and drive away from my life. I could go to the waterfall, but there was never anything there for me except for escape and illusion. Every other sanctuary I’ve had has been burned to the ground. And then I think of one place where I might get some rest.

  Driving in the dark, it’s easy to find my way back. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. Sophie used to say that, when we were kids. All the time, when we were kids. I was sure of it.

  I park the car, throw my heels in the back seat, spend a moment being grateful that I squeezed myself into jeans, not a miniskirt, and I start walking through the rows of corn, my toes digging into the soft, rich earth. It was the last gasp of summer, and comfortably cool was about to fade to bitterly cold. Maybe I’d be gone by then. There wasn’t anything left for me here.

  The little cottage still squats on the shore of the lake, and the door swings open at my touch. I squint in the moonlight; I can see that the layout has changed from when I was last here, but—wait, is that a lamp? I run my hand up the wall by the doorway and flip a light switch. With the easy reliability of modern electricity, the light bulb flickers on. The antique appliances are gone, replaced by an oven and a range and a regular fridge. “No electricity my ass,” I whisper, the sound loud in the silence. There’s a desk in the corner, set up and just waiting for a computer. On it, dead center, is my eBook. Like someone had very carefully left it where I’d find it. Like they’d known I was coming. I picked it up and powered it on. For a moment, I fantasize that he would have loaded some sort of message or letter for me onto it, but no. It’s still on the same book he’d been reading to me a lifetime ago.

  I push open the door to the bedroom. This room hasn’t changed; the same low bed, the same soft flannel sheets. I crawl between the sheets and pull the blankets over my head. He’s been here recently. I can still smell him on the pillow. I close my eyes. Maybe I’ll wake up and see him above me. Maybe I’ll have a night without dreams.

  It isn’t Eli standing over me when I wake. His once-upon-a-time grandmother stands there, hands on her hips. I jump, shoving myself out of the tangle of blankets. “I’m sorry,” I say. “He’s not—I didn’t—”

  She smirks. “He’s been gone for a week. On to his next assignment. I’ve been getting this place ready for the next person who might need it. Hadn’t gotten to the bedroom yet, lucky for you. Now, come on, I have a job for you.”

  How can I feel so naked when I’m wearing all my clothes? I follow Mrs. Dennis out into the kitchen. She points at a small table, where a mound of potatoes are staring at me. She hands me a peeler, and I get to work while she busies herself at the range. I smell cooking meat.

  I peel half a dozen potatoes before I dare to ask. “What are we doing?”

  She shoots me a look like I’m a total idiot. “Making shepherd’s pie, dear. What does it look like we’re doing?”

  “How did he find me? In the woods? How did he know where to go?”

  She glances at me, then shrugs. “He woke up as soon as your feet hit the floor. He just wanted to know what your intentions were before he interrupted you. He wasn’t ever going to let you face that by yourself. How much did he tell you about our little group?”

  “Not a ton. Band of supernatural big bad killers. Mystical magical on and on.”

  She laughed. “He does have a flair for the dramatic. It’s simple. When you’ve brushed up against the dark side of the mirror—”

  “You see more clearly. Eli said.”

  “It’s nice to know he listened at least once. You’ll always know them for who they are, from here on out. Werewolves, vampires, the possessed, the fae; none of them can hide from you. And your other talents make you even more of a potential help.”

  “Eli has been through more than just his grandmother dying, hasn’t he?”

  “That’s his story to tell,” she says, crisp as an October apple. “You can ask him about it, but you won’t hear a word about it from me, so stop hinting like you know more than you do.”

  “Will I see him again?”

  “That is entirely up to you.”

  I think of the selfish, naive girl that I was two months ago, when I didn’t even know that there were real monsters in the world. I think of how it felt when I understood, when I saved myself. To help others learn to protect themselves—to save someone, here and there. It wouldn’t replace what I’d lost, but it was better than going back to that empty house. “Okay,” I say, trying it out to see how it fit. “Let’s save the world.”

  She gives a snort that I never would have heard from a church lady. “First, shepherd’s pie,” she says. “Then, salvation.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Rebecca, Ree to her friends, lives with her family in the wilds of New England. She is owned by two cats, and enjoys discovering the various ways that one can enjoy string. She is fueled by coffee, and strong autumn breezes.