The town’s air smelled of rust, sour milk, and old fear.
The pair stood before us, their silhouettes carved by the sickly glow of the lamplight. The woman’s smile stayed fixed, but the man’s eyes were cold—too alert. Ethan didn’t move. His hand went slowly to his pocket, the deliberate gesture of someone who’s lied often enough to master the art of calm.
“Of course,” he said evenly. “We have identification. I’ll show you.”
I barely breathed. Every nerve in my body screamed that something was wrong—that if he made one wrong move, they’d strike. Then I felt it.
A vibration deep inside me, like the pulse of an ancient drum echoing through my bones.
A voice.
“Nellie.”
I froze.
It wasn’t sound. It was thought. Ethan’s thought—inside my mind.
When I raise my hand, take them down.
“Etha
