When Wings Burn

13 | HARPER

When I wake, the world is dreary and disillusioned. My mind is estranged from the lack of sleep, but my mother is up and walking, and her condition relieves me like water.

"Much better," she says, a tired version of her usual cheeriness when I ask.

And so the day proceeds normally. I take a shower and wash my hair. I sit by my window as I brush through the strands, still consumed with the fading figure from the other night. Who were you, I wonder.

At midday I make lunch from root vegetables and grain bread. Mum eats a little and talks about the way the sun dips and swerves and remains inconsistent at this time of year. I listen to her, but really I'm just looking out the window wondering about the man I saw in the darkness of the night.

After lunch, Mum goes off to rest. I beeline for the history books in the old parlor and take all seven of them upstairs. They're large and heavy with ancient but edited knowledge, so I take two trips. When the second load has been placed with the others, I set myself up on the bedroom floor, surrounded by open information, and start to read. They say little about supernatural beings – nothing I haven't heard before, regulated by government supervision – but I'm desperate for information. I'm still there antagonizing over the words when I meet him.

I don't know how long he stood there, silent in my bedroom doorway, watching while I pandered through page after page. I'm busy reading about the settlement of our land, sprawled out between the other books when I glance up.

And there he is. The man of my dreams; solid, silent and so strangely different.

I know him immediately. I've been thinking about that composure since I first saw the man. I don't even think to cry out when I see the stranger so close, and maybe it's because part of me expected to come across him again.

I'm motionless for a moment and I know full well how I look. I will look the same as I do in the nightmares, eyes wide with confusion, lips pursed, unable to scream. I feel nauseating air pushing its way up my throat and I swallow it down slowly, eyes still watching his. I consider calling my mother, but I'm terrified this will be the thing that pushes her over the edge.

He doesn't make any motion to approach me further, so I push myself up – further back – and sit on my knees, ready to get up fast, should it be required.

Still he doesn't speak. He's all dark hair and tanned skin, a figure constructed of sharp lines and precision. There is a look of gentle curiosity on his face. I hadn't expected someone exuding so much power to be gentle. His eyes are deep and certain. He takes an unobtrusive step into the room, pushing the door silently closed. He's here. He's in my room. The door clicks quietly shut. I've never been so aware of my open window behind me. If I jump out, I can slide down the veranda roof and to the ground easily. I've done it before. But then what?

"I'm sorry to intrude," he interrupts, his voice carefully toned. He gets down on both knees, still far enough away from me not to be threatening. He sits awkwardly, uncomfortable but less threatening. I could run from him like this. It's as if he knows the intimidation his body brings. He crosses large hands in his lap, and his posture relaxes a little.

"I'm Tate," he says, still watching me with deep eyes. "Tate Hawk."

I find myself wondering if this scenario is strange for him also. His left hand has veins springing around like crazy beneath the skin. Not even he can control this humane nervousness.

"Tate."

It's the first thing I've said to him, and like a sudden rainstorm, he smiles. Inwardly, a gush of pent up air heaves its way through my body. His teeth are aligned exactly, the sides sharper than my own.

A moment passes, and then, "do you have a name?"

He's laughing at me. The dark eyes crinkle up, his mouth shaped into a half smile. I'm still watching those teeth. Those sharp, perfect teeth.

"Harper," I say quickly, detracting my gaze. "Just Harper."

He nods in response and leans back a little. His eyes dart around my room as if calculating something.

"Harper," he repeats as I did for him. "Just Harper."

And his voice moves like rushing water, melodious, but beautiful all the same. I've never heard a sound so intoxicating. The accent is from nowhere near this place. Bitten, sharp, but smoothed over with something like honey. I don't know how he says my name and it sounds like a song and a story all in one. And suddenly I am part of the musical.