* Pic is of the snow fae
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He stood outside her window, watching her. She was sitting at her desk, staring at the screen, her chin resting in her palm.
How can I let her know I’m here without scaring the bejeebers out of her? Ah, man, this isn’t as easy as I thought.
He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling awkward.
The last damn thing I want to do is come across as a creepy stalker.
He waited another moment, and then left, his footsteps silent on the snow, covered by the grey woolen cape draped over his shoulder. A razor sharp blade resided in his upcycled Calvin Klein belt, and he narrowed his eyes on every detail as he scanned the scenery around him.
This eye thing is actually pretty cool.
He zoomed in on the bark of a tree a hundred metres away, noting the camouflaged moth that had unwisely hibernated outside. He stopped, and did a double take.
Is that what I think it is?
A snow fae flitted above the trees and zipped out of sight before he could gather his wits about him.
What.
The.
Hell.
I need some sleep. Desperately.
He snuck round the stone wall and climbed in through his bedroom window, and then froze. His hair prickled, and he had an odd feeling about this.
Something feels wrong.
He silently unsheathed his knife and concealed it in the folds of his cape.
I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I am f*cking ready for anything, suckers…
He slid along the wall, checked the lock on his bedroom door, and paused.
Not locked.
Hmmm.
He glanced at the window.
Leave open? Closed? Escape route or entry point for attackers?
He decided to leave it. He surveyed his room, scanning for signs of disturbance.
Nothing.
He slowly placed his ear against the wall, listening.
His senses were in over drive, and his own beating heart almost drowned out the small but regular vibrations of footsteps. Footsteps inside the house.
The fae, and now this? I hope to god it’s just Dad getting a glass of milk.
The footsteps slowed as they reached his door, and then stopped.
He stopped breathing, certain that if the creature was dangerous, he sure as hell didn’t want supersonic hearing to be the downfall of him.
“Son?”
Lykos slumped against the wall, almost panting with relief. Adenaline rushed through his veins, making his hands shake.
“Yeah, Dad?”
“Can I talk to you?”
“Sure.”
Lykos quickly threw his cape in the wardrobe, tossing up if he should ditch the knife or not, before tugging his shirt over his jeans to hide it.
Something still feels wrong.
He clenched his jaw, and swung open the door.
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Apollo's Muse
FantasíaWhen disturbing dreams haunt the mind of a fragile girl, she doesn't take into account the power of the mysterious boy next door. Her illness becomes a binding force for their friendship, and the fight for life slowly develops into a powerful aphrod...
