THE LUNA THEY BURIED

Chapter 5: Don’t Follow Me

The damp sea air tasted like salt and cold iron as I stepped out the front door of the bookstore cafe

I had barely flipped the brass latch when I saw him.

Lucien Blackthorne was leaning against the rusted iron railing across the narrow street, his dark wool coat drawn tight against the coastal breeze. He wasn't trying to hide. He stood in broad daylight, a tall, silent figure watching the front entrance with relentless focus.

A wave of frustration and sheer exhaustion boiled up inside my chest. After a morning of hearing whispers through walls and an ancient voice echoing inside my own head, his presence was the absolute last straw.

I marched straight across the damp cobblestones, stopping two feet in front of him.

"Why do you keep appearing?" I demanded, my voice tight and sharp. "Do you have a tracker on me, or are you just incapable of taking a hint?"

Lucien didn't flinch. His pale grey eyes held mine, cool and unreadable. "Because you're in danger, Elara."

"From who?" I shot back, taking an aggressive step closer. "From you?"

The question hung heavy in the air between us.

Lucien didn't answer quickly enough. A shadow of something complex and deeply troubled crossed his sharp features before his usual icy composure slammed back into place. That split-second hesitation sent a cold chill straight down my spine.

"I am trying to keep you alive," he said, his low baritone dropping an octave.

"I didn't ask you to," I said, crossing my arms tight against my jacket. "I don't know who you are, I don't know why you know my name, and I certainly didn't ask for some brooding stranger to start playing bodyguard. Leave me alone, Lucien. Don't follow me."

Silence stretched between us, punctuated only by the ocean crashing against the wooden piers three blocks away.

For a moment, I thought he would argue. I thought he would use that heavy, commanding tone that made everyone else jump. But instead, he took a slow, deliberate breath, his broad shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch as he stepped back.

"If that is what you want," he said quietly. "I will step back."

I blinked, momentarily thrown off by his sudden compliance.

"But if anything strange happens," Lucien added, reaching into his coat and extending a small paper card toward me, "if you see anyone watching you, or if you feel something you can't explain... call me."

I looked at the card, then back at his face. "I won't."

"Take it anyway," he insisted softly.

"No," I said, turning sharply on my heel to walk away.

My boot caught on the edge of a slick, rain-soaked curb. My balance snapped, and my weight pitched sideways toward the wet asphalt.

Before I could fall, a hand shot out and gripped my forearm.

Lucien's fingers closed around my wrist, pulling me upright in a single, fluid motion.

The second his bare skin touched mine, a violent shockwave flared through my chest. It wasn't the warm pull from the night before; it was an electric explosion that shattered my vision.

The boardwalk vanished. The grey daylight dissolved into blinding, roaring heat.

I was looking through someone else's eyes.

Towering orange flames licked at the sky, devouring the grand timber beams of a massive stone manor. Thick black smoke choked the air, heavy with the terrifying smell of ash, blood, and burning pine. Somewhere nearby, a child was screaming, a high, frantic, heartbroken cry that cut straight through the roar of the inferno.

“Save her!” a woman's voice screamed through the fire. “Don't let them turn her into what they fear!”

Then the memory snapped like a severed wire.

I gasped, stumbling backward as the street came rushing back. My knees buckled, and I slammed my hands against the side of a parked truck to keep from collapsing onto the pavement. My heart was hammering against my ribs so violently I thought it would burst. A sharp, hot pain flared behind my eyes, and a single drop of blood trickled from my left nostril.

Across from me, Lucien looked as if he had been struck by lightning.

His grey eyes were wide, the pupils blown dark with sheer disbelief. His hands were trembling at his sides, his chest heaving as he stared at me.

He recognized that memory. He knew the burning house. He knew where it was.

And suddenly, I was certain of one thing.

Whatever happened in that place, Lucien knew more about it than he was telling me.

"How..." Lucien rasped, his voice barely a whisper above the wind. "How do you have that memory?"

"Stay away from me!" I choked out, wiping the crimson from my upper lip with the back of my jacket sleeve.

I didn't wait for his answer. Terror, pure and unadulterated, drove my legs as I sprinted down the street, my boots pounding against the wet pavement until my lungs burned. I didn't look back to see if he was following. I just ran.

I didn't stop until I reached the cedar-shingled house at the edge of the tree line.

I threw open the front porch door without knocking, bursting into the living room, gasping for air.

Marianne was standing near the kitchen counter, setting down an armful of dried herbs. The moment she turned and saw my face drenched in cold sweat, pale as ash, with dried blood smudged beneath my nose, she dropped what she was holding.

She didn't ask what happened. She didn't ask why I was breathing like a hunted animal.

She simply stared at the terror in my eyes, her own face draining of all color.

Marianne covered her mouth with a trembling hand, her voice coming out as a horrified whisper:

"He's found you."