Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
I took a deep breath and stepped into the room to find…
Nothing.
No glowing eyes. No shadows. I didn’t even feel him watching me.
I slipped into bed, the sheets cool and smooth against my bare legs, and turned out the lamp on the bedside table.
Whatever happened next… I was ready.
14
DANNI
I waited, but sleep didn’t come.
The sheets were cool and crisp and smelled faintly of lavender—Grandma’s favorite scent. That scent had always meant safety when I was little. It went along with her warm arms, the handmade quilt she tucked around me, and the soft hum of her voice. Tonight, though, the smell made my heart ache. I pulled the quilt up to my chin and breathed in again, searching for comfort.
Underneath the lavender was something else. That scent again—fur and cedar, earthy and wild. It teased at the edge of my memory like a halfremembered song. My fingers tightened on the quilt as I whispered into the dim room.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
Nothing. Only the cottage settling—the creak of old wood, the sigh of the wind at the window. No golden eyes in the darkness. No deep, rumbling voice.
I let out a long breath and turned onto my side, curling into myself. My arms wrapped tight around my middle as if I could hold myself together. I wished there was someone to keep me warm.
Craig, I thought automatically. I miss Craig.
But the thought didn’t ring true. I had loved my husband, yes, but the longing that hollowed out my chest went deeper than that. It was older, from before Craig—before everything.
I closed my eyes, and in the dark behind my eyelids I began to imagine something strange…warm, furry arms holding me. Fur that was soft and rough at the same time, like velvet over muscle…a big chest and a deep heartbeat under my cheek. That scent of fur and cedar filling my nose as I rubbed my face against the broad chest and drifted off to sleep…
The memory tea must have started to work, because my dreams weren’t the usual fragmented nightmares of hospital rooms and overdue bills. They were sharper, brighter—like little windows opening in my mind. They were also incredibly vivid, maybe because they weren’t really dreams but memories…
I was back in my first-grade classroom, only seven years old. The smell of chalk dust and pencil shavings floated in the air. The metal legs of desks screeched against the linoleum as kids moved around before the bell. My crayons—my prized new box of sixtyfour with the builtin sharpener—lay on top of my desk. I had been saving them for freedraw time. The waxy smell was sweet and comforting.
Then I saw a flash of red from the corner of my eye. Marcy Reynolds was suddenly there in her red jumper, grinning as she grabbed my box and darted off, pigtails bouncing.
“Give them back!” I shouted, my voice high and angry.
She laughed and made a sneering face.
“Make me, crybaby! They’re mine now. All your crayons are mine.”
Little me felt helpless and furious. Adult me, floating inside the dream, thought,
God, I remember how I felt. So powerless. So angry.
My small fists clenched under the desk. I wanted—no, needed—those crayons back. My Grandma had bought them for me and given them to me as a present because I was her special girl. It wasn’t fair that Marcy Reynolds could just steal them like that!
I thought about telling the teacher…but even as a child I knew that was no good. Marcy was one of the popular girls—a teacher’s pet. Mrs. Simpkins, my first-grade teacher, always believed her over anyone else. I would only get myself in trouble if I asked her to get my crayons back for me. I had to get them myself. But how? How—I had to have them. I needed them!
And then…there they were. Just like that. One moment the top of my desk was empty, the next my box of crayons sat there, every stick sharpened to a perfect point, like a rainbow army lined up for me. The scent of warm wax rose up stronger, almost dizzying.
Marcy stopped midlaugh. Her freckled face went pale as she looked down at her empty hands.
“Hey! How…how did you do that?” she whispered, backing away.
I reached out with trembling fingers, adult and child layered together and touched the smooth cardboard and the bright wax.
Did I do this? Adult me wondered. And if so, how?
Child me only stuck out her tongue at Marcy.
“They’re my crayons—don’t touch them again!”
The scene shifted like a page turning. I was a year older and gaptoothed. The tooth fairy had visited me the night before and I had a missing front tooth and a dollar in my piggy bank to prove it. I was back at school, but outside this time.
The playground smelled of asphalt baking in the sun and the peanutbutter and jelly sandwich I’d had for lunch and spilled on my shirt. Tommy McCree was teasing me, singing about how I looked like a jackolantern with my missing tooth. His laugh was mean and high, and he was pointing at me.