Page 33 of Laced in Longing

The thought of the central library downtown tugs at me. It’s open until 9 PM on Mondays…I could grab the metro, be there in twenty minutes, and lose myself in books with actual pages.

My lips purse. The idea tempts me enough that I actually stand, calculating how quickly I’d need to change to make it worthwhile. Then the darkening sky catches my attention as snow begins to fall once more. There’s also the minor annoyance that is six flights of stairs I’d need to descend and then climb again on my return.

No. Too much effort for too little reward. The isolation of my apartment fits my mood better anyway.

I sink back onto the bed, tapping the screen to re-wake the e-reader. Scrolling through my unread downloads, I select a fantasy novel with a promising description. Something about sorcerers and lost heirs. Escapism at its most effective.

The first page appears, and I drift into another world. Fucking finally.

* * *

A sound jolts me from sleep. My eyes snap open, heart pounding as I orient myself. The room is dark except for the soft glow of my e-reader, now in sleep mode beside me. I must have dozed off while reading.

I fumble for my phone, squinting at the harsh brightness of the screen. 1:07 AM.

There it is again—the sound. A soft click, like metal against metal, coming from somewhere in my apartment. My body stiffens, blood pulsing so hard I feel it in my eardrums.

Someone’s here.

The realization should send me scrambling for a weapon or diving for my phone to call the police. Instead, a strange calm sinks through me, cooling my panic to a manageable simmer.

Is it him?

The thought sends an electric current through my limbs. This could be my chance to get answers. To confront whatever—whoever—has been haunting me.

I ease myself from the bed, wincing when the frame creaks beneath my shifting weight. The cold floor tickles my feet as I creep toward the kitchen, and I swallow so hard I’m sure anyone within ten feet could hear it.

Pressing my back against the counter, the sharp edges digging painfully, I peer around the space. Nothing. The refrigerator hums a quiet tune. The faucet drips with its usual erratic rhythm. The door to the hallway remains closed, all three locks engaged.

Taking a deep breath that does little to steady me, I turn my head toward the area I just left and its large window overlooking the city.

A strangled scream tears from my throat before I can stop it.

He stands at the window, his back to me, tall and imposing in that long black coat that belongs to another century. His stance is relaxed, almost contemplative, as he gazes out at the Montréal skyline glittering beneath a clouded night sky.

At my panic, he spins, and though I can’t see his face through that ever-present white fabric, I know he’s looking directly at me. I feel his gaze as if it were a lingering touch, dragging across my skin in a way that makes the hair on my arms stand on end.

I’m frozen in the kitchen, one hand gripping the air so tightly my knuckles ache, the other pressed against my chest as if I could physically hold my heart inside my ribs. My breath comes in short, shallow bursts that make my head light.

We stare at each other across the compact space, neither moving. I’m caught in some strange suspension between fear and fascination, my body unable to decide which impulse to follow. Fight, flight, freeze? None of those?

Is this anticipation or excitement? Or just plain fear of the unknown entity standing in my apartment at one in the morning?

Time stretches between us, elastic and uncertain.

Then he speaks.

“Maven.”

Just my name, but the sound of it in his voice sends a violent shiver down my spine. His voice is exactly as I imagined it in my dreams—deep and resonant, like stones tumbling down a mountain slope. It seems to come from everywhere and nowhere, filling the space between us with its velvet darkness.

My skin prickles, a cold sweat breaking out just behind my ears and at the nape of my neck. I swallow hard, throat suddenly dry as desert sand.

“Who are you?” I manage, the words scraping past my lips. “What are you doing in my apartment in the middle of the night?”

He takes a single step toward me, and that’s enough for me to press myself harder against the counter, ready to melt into the laminate.

“You know who I am,” he remarks, and there’s something almost gentle in his tone, a careful handling of syllables like he’s speaking to a frightened animal. “I’ve been visiting you and your dreams for weeks now.”