Lovecraft

Chapter 6: The Devil at the Window

Kael moved like smoke.

One moment he was beside her, the next he was gone, swallowed by the darkness of the hallway. Mila sat frozen on the stool, her fingers wrapped around the cold glass of whiskey she hadn't touched. The tap came again. Louder this time. Insistent.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Not the window. The front door.

She let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. It was the door. Not the window. He was at the front door, not peering through the kitchen glass. The relief was so sharp it was almost painful.

But the voice. She'd heard the voice. It had come from inside the house? No. Outside. It had to be outside.

Kael reappeared in the kitchen doorway, silent as a ghost. He held a finger to his lips and jerked his head toward the hallway. Come.

She slid off the stool, her bare feet making no sound on the cold stone. He took her wrist, his grip firm but not painful, and pulled her into the shadows of the hallway. They stood together, her back against the wall, his body a shield in front of her. She could feel the heat of him through his thin shirt. Could smell the clean soap and the faint trace of whiskey on his breath.

The knocking came again. Three slow, deliberate raps.

Then silence.

A full minute passed. Then two. Kael didn't move. Neither did she. She could hear his heartbeat, steady and slow, or maybe that was her own, hammering so loud she was sure Volkov could hear it through the door.

Finally, footsteps. Receding. Growing fainter until they disappeared entirely.

Kael waited another long moment, then released her wrist. He moved to the front door, pressed his eye to the peephole, and scanned the street. When he turned back, his expression was grim.

"He's gone. For now."

Mila's legs gave out. She slid down the wall, landing in a heap on the floor, her whole body shaking. Kael watched her for a moment, then crouched in front of her.

"He's playing with us," he said quietly. "He wants you to know he's here. He wants you afraid."

"Congratulations to him," she whispered. "It's working."

Something flickered in his eyes. Not the hunger from before. Something softer. He reached out, and for a terrifying moment she thought he was going to touch her face. But he just took the whiskey glass from her trembling hand and set it aside.

"You can't sleep on the couch tonight."

The words hung between them.

"I'll take the floor," he added. "You take the bed."

She looked up at him, this strange, scarred man who had been hired to destroy her and was now offering her his bed. "Why?"

He stood, offering her his hand. She took it, and he pulled her to her feet with effortless strength.

"Because he's not done," Kael said. "And neither am I."