Moonfall | Book Two

CHAPTER 1

This time, he would catch her.

If he wished for this torment to end, there was no other choice.

She was the cause of his misery, and he had no doubt she would be the end of it, too.

And how desperately he wanted — needed  — it to end.

As it was deep into nightfall, the once forbidden northern territory known as the Woodlands was illuminated only by the light of the half-moon. As winter was close to its end, the snow on the ground was scarce. The only sound to be heard inside the wooded area was the crunch of his own footsteps and his steady breathing, as there were no creatures left to stir.

None other than him. And her.

The Woodlands was not a roaming ground for him nor his kind, and, therefore, should have been unfamiliar and difficult to navigate. Yet every twist and turn, every bend around every corner, and every tree from its crown down to its trunk, he remembered. The path towards her was always certain, remembering it an easy feat for someone who had dreamed the same dream for countless nights.

So, he knew when he passed by a certain tree with four names he did not recognize carved into its trunk, he was minutes away from a clearing in the woods. Just as he knew when those minutes ticked by and he arrived at the edge of that clearing, a familiar cabin would await his arrival. And when he broke free from the shelter of the woods and headed towards the cabin, he knew just how many steps he would take before he was forced to a halt.

Forty-one.

So, when he took that forty-first step, he anticipated what would come next. Something that chilled him to his core every time he heard it.

The whisper of his name.

Michael.

Because it came from behind, he turned — as he always did — but the whisper evolved into an echo of his name, bouncing off the barren trees encircling the perimeter of the cabin. As it circled, he did, too, until he faced the cabin once more.

Michael.

Again, the whisper of his name emerged from behind, but that time when he turned, the hooded figure he sought out each and every time stood at the edge of the clearing. She was far enough to be cloaked by the darkness of the woods, and would have been were it not for the blood red cloak she was wearing.

Odd, he thought. The cloak had always been black. But there was no time to dwell on such things.

Forty-one feet apart was too great of a distance to make out her face, but it did not matter. It never mattered. Her presence inside of this damned dream meant one thing, and one thing only: the hunt was on.

Usually at this point, she would slip back into the darkness of the woods, and he would break out into a run and chase after her. It would take seven seconds for him to make it into the woods. Three for him to scan the area and realize she was nowhere to be found amongst the cluster of trees. One for him to stop running and realize he was the mouse, and she, the cat. But he was determined to have the events of this reoccurring dream turn out differently. This time, he would be the predator, and she, the prey.

It took far too long for him to realize his mistake, but he had. Every time he had dreamed this dream, the mistake he always made was not the act of chasing after her, but the desperation he allowed to consume his thoughts and propel him towards a desolate destination. By holding onto it so tightly, it allowed control to slip through his clutches. If he wanted to find her — to end her and this dream — he had to stop being controlled, to, instead, be in control.