Echo of Moths

four | tempest

_______________________________
four
tempest | a violent, raging storm
_______________________________

"WHAT A LOVELY NAME." Eileen's warm smile widens, this time to an expression more genuine. "Caila. It's lovely."

I shake my head. It is my name, but an incorrect pronunciation—an easy mistake when reading rather than having my name spoken. Still, it's foreign to hear my name spoken with a hard "C," no matter how often it happens.

Both Eileen and Locke's brows knit together, and deep lines crease their foreheads. They are like twins from alternate times. The man clearly takes after his mother more than his father—from her kind eyes and compassion to the dimples in her cheeks.

I scribble quickly on my white board, Sye-lah.

"Caila," says Locke, the soft syllables a lullaby from his tongue.

Heat rises to my cheeks. I've never thought much of my name, but the way he says it with such grace and a voice like the most expensive silk, makes it sound so... beautiful. Elegant. Like it doesn't belong to me yet is all I could ever desire.

Eileen squeezes my knee. "Even lovelier. Welcome to our home, Caila."

A white flash assaults the room with a crack of thunder that rattles the open windows. Eileen's hand jolts back, and she clutches her chest with a breathless laugh.

"Someone should teach that storm some manners," she jokes.

Locke casts a sideways glance to Sylas, whose twitching eyes raise to the ceiling. "Dad was trying to shoot manners into it earlier."

Unease settles in my bones. If only his statement was true. It wasn't that storm that Sylas tried pumping full of lead—and judging by the way his lazy eye keeps drifting toward me with disdain, I have a feeling it won't be his final attempt.

As if sensing my discomfort, Eileen changes the subject. "Do you remember anything that happened?"

I go rigid. White dust rains from the chalk I choke between my fingers. It is silent, and then plinking, but I realize when I turn my head that the storm has begun. Rain batters the side of the house. Darkness blankets the clearing, casting long shadows across the living room as natural light gives way to dim floor lamps.

Papers rustle on the nearby bookshelf, and the petals on the coffee table's fresh yellow rose rip away to swirl around its cylindrical vase.

Eileen gets to her feet. "It's getting dark. We need to seal the house."

With a curt nod, Locke makes his way to the window by the stairwell. His mother races to the large, open panes off the foyer. They work in tandem to shut the house, and before I know it, the young man's footsteps thump hurriedly to the second floor.

Eileen patters to the window overlooking the stairs. As she adjusts the blinds, turning them out rather than in as Locke has done, she smiles over her shoulder.

"You can't be too careful with these woods," she says. "Never know what's lurking about here." Her smile flickers, as if she only just realized she's talking to someone who understands what horrors this land holds. "You'll be safe here. We take every measure to protect ourselves... and you'll learn, too."

The naivety of her words is amusing. I return the kind expression, however. Whatever it takes for Eileen to continue believing she has any control over Wailerun's malice.

At least, as the blinds close fully, Eileen's distracted gaze never registers the looming silhouette that stalks past the glass.

A distant howl shudders the air with a lethal promise. Eileen winces as if it's the wind hissing through the trees, spiraling the uppermost branches in quickening circles. Rotation is not what she should be most concerned about.