Shiver

Chapter Two: Dirty Copper

Author's Note

Okay, so this is weird, and I'm not sure if this is conveying what I meant... sorry in advance.
Song above is like <<< a certain OTP for this book. (It's From Eden by Hozier)

IN ALASKA, danger is the lingering, creeping shadow that dwells behind every inhabitant. Fear becomes the devil on shoulders, whispering in goose-bumped skin empty promises of safety while nicking its teeth into pulsing necks- because danger is always near- too close.

For the first time in Rory's life, he feels it- he feels fear climbing into his skin, forcing the hairs on his arm to stand straight up- a defense mechanism built into the human body that would only do him good if he was an earlier, much more hairier human being. He knows this because he took Introduction to Anthropology as an extra curriculum- and really, who takes Introduction to Anthropology instead of Art?

The air in the Mavericks' home feels thick- stout with the stench of fermented alarm and caution. Rory feels like he can't breathe- but his lungs are filling to the brim with something that makes his feet feel light and his hands tremble around the base of the bat he held.

He brings his fingers to his lips- they're soft, buttered from the juice he was drinking in the kitchen minutes ago- but, underneath the pad of his finger, he swears he feels cracked skin, as if his body was mirroring the fear his mind was pushing around in turmoil.

"What is it?" Rowan whispers, and her voice is a new thing here- a squeaky clean, just washed and waxed sound that manages to politely make its presence known here. Here being the deepest retreats of Rory's mind- where he lets his sane, highly functional piece of brain take refuge and lets the primal, built-in instinct- that's not just adjacent from fire bad but neighbors, stacked together seamlessly- take over.

"Blood," Rory doesn't know how he found the capacity to speak- let alone gather enough composure to turn from the window and into the wide, hazel stare of his sister. "'S blood," he repeats, as if his throat was a broken record player and the record stuck on repeat was the worst album Rory's body had to offer.

When his voice slices the air with shaky breaths and tangents of who is it, what is it, why is it, the house was shaken by a knock- something viscously rapping its fist against the hard mahogany of the door.

Rory follows his gaze to his sister, whose eyes are wide and utterly mirroring the same emotion Rory was feeling: fear.

"Whatever the crap that was," Rowan's voice shakes as she takes a cautious step towards the door, her chest heaving as her monster of a blade hangs out in front of her, the worn handle trapped between the girl's trembling fists. "I'm going to kill it with my fucking cleaver," her tone is as strong and powerful as her shivering body will allow.

"I'm," her brother licks the corner of his lips, eyebrows knitting together as he thinks for a moment. "I'm going to open the door, Row, I'll-"

"No one is going anywhere near that door," she interrupts him, intercepting his statement with the this-is-final voice that only the Maverick women seemed to possess. "No one."

Rory swallows, the gulp echoing in the silence of the room as he stares almost longingly at the locked door- as if he's entranced by whatever lay behind it, curled in the snow and ice of the porch, as if it was waiting for a boy like Rory to pluck it from Alaska's cold fingers and into his greedy own.

"If anyone is going to check," Rowan's nose twitches- her eyes are watery, not out of hurt or fearfulness, but something in her body forced her to react like this. When adrenaline and anticipation leaked into her system, the waterworks began for vain reasons. "I'll check, I'm the oldest after all," her smile is feeble, but her cheeks are ruddy red- more color than the deadly pale skin Rory possessed at the moment.