The sing-song tune haunted my eardrums, making my inner cat poof up at whatever danger might be lurking.
Hesitantly, I looked over my shoulder. Before I could register the presence of a woman standing on the step behind me, she snapped in my face.
“Death awaits!”
I fucking ran.
Chapter
Seventeen
Tipping back the kitchen chair to balance on its two back legs, one arm hooked over the backrest. My free hand rolled a coin I had picked up over my knuckles, walking it to the pinky and back to the thumb idly. It was a particularly shiny bit of metal I had found peeking out from under the fridge that had caught my attention.
“Are you going to at least pretend that you don’t live in a pigsty?” I asked with clear hypocrisy, my boots propped up on the edge of the kitchen table.
Bale grunted. “This is your place too, jackass.”
Technically, he wasn’t wrong. I had been living here for as long as he had been. Though the Faust homestead would always be home to me. After tragedy struck all those years ago, when Bale and I suffered our current fates, I couldn’t bring myself to go back there.
The property ultimately went to the Polk family bydefault. They maintained it for years until the last of their kin left for greener pastures. Or they had attempted to. Supposedly, there had been some sort of freak hot air balloon accident.
“I may live here, but the mess is all yours.” I shrugged before I flipped the coin up in the air, watching it rotate in a pewter blur before it landed tails side up in the center of my palm.
Dropping the front two legs of the chair onto the floor, I withdrew my boots from the table and abruptly stood.
“She should be here by now; it’s noon.” I gave another pointed look to the wooden wall clock with a brass pendulum swinging methodically with each passing second.
Bale either didn’t hear me over the pounding of the rolling pin crushing a bagful of cornflakes or pretended not to give a fuck.
Walking over to the front door, I opened it up to look out over the cornfields and the dirt road that ran along its border and into town.
The piece of land this little cottage was situated on was a patch of land that conveniently had been marked as unincorporated by vote of the Town Council, leaving it as both outside Falston’s jurisdiction and unclaimed by any other bordering township.
The fields in front of the house were the furthest points from the town center, leaving us isolated from the typical buzz of the town’s everyday bustle.
For a moment, I wondered if Harlow had gotten lost. It was a ridiculous thought, given how few roads there were in this town, but a worry that nagged me, nonetheless.
Just as I considered taking flight in my crow form to track her down, I saw the familiar flash of raven hair coming down the road. The wind whipped it across her face as she hurriedly walked towards me, glancing behind her like she expected someone to be there.
Something was off.
I cut the distance between us in a few long strides, my hands planted themselves onto her shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” There was no askingifsomething was wrong, only demanding whatever it was that had rattled her. I already knew from the tension in her body, the otherworldly connection between us, that she was spooked by something or someone.
Her fingers pulled a few strands of hair away from her face as she shook her head, a forced smile on her face.
“Everything’s fine,” she said breathlessly, winded from her briskly paced walk.
What the hell was it with girls always saying they are fine when they clearly aren’t?
I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and tucked her in against my side, only to then press a kiss to her temple. My eyes darted around to survey our surroundings, but there was no movement other than the sway of the corn stalks succumbing to the strength of the breeze.
Granting her a brief reprieve from discussing whathad gotten her riled up, I guided her towards the door. “Let’s go inside, Bale just started making his specialty.”
Once inside, I closed the door and watched as she took in the sight of our humble abode.
My jackets were hung up neatly on hooks by the door; Bale’s were tossed over the back of the recliner. The side table next to the worn leather sofa told a tale of two very different lifestyles. In the designated tray lay my wallet, keys, and phone in a neat line. Bale’s personal effects lay in a pile next to it, the keys half hanging off the edge, ready to disappear between the arm of the sofa and the side of the table.
