Haunted Rayne

12 | Bonds in the Dark

Detention was strange that evening. Mr. Matthews was nowhere to be found, and instead, Mr. Davenport, the twelfth-grade History teacher, sat in the executive chair.

"Hang tight," he said, pushing his round, hipster glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Doctor Shaw should be here any minute." Mr. Davenport was somewhere in his late-twenties, early-thirties, and beneath a navy blue three-piece suit, it was evident he was athletically-inclined as well. There was something within the intensity of his stare as he studied the class over the crest of his newspaper, something that effused a strong Indiana Jones vibe; those hazel eyes were bottomless, holding a monument of secrets he could've spent an entire weekend digging up in ancient, forgotten temples. Rayne wondered if this was the History teacher Bianca's friend was hooking up with.

Speaking of improprieties, Rayne couldn't shake the nagging thought that Mr. Matthews' absence tonight might somehow be her fault. He had been upset with her for grabbing his hand during lunch, and now, she felt a little weird about it. To make matters worse, Lucas seemed to be avoiding her as well. His outfit today was notably more refined: a textured cream knit shirt, with delicately woven vertical stripes that whispered of understated elegance. The fabric embraced the curves of his shoulders and biceps with a refined touch, complementing his beige trousers. She found herself admiring him, though he remained unusually reserved, not engaging in conversation—no matter how hard she tried for his attention.

It wasn't until Cole threw a possessive arm around her shoulder that a strong sense of understanding finally clicked into place: Lucas was afraid of Cole.

After the vision she'd had that morning, Rayne was a bit, too.

Her mind reeled with unanswered questions—about the shadow people, the blue-eyed man, and now, Cole—but the attendants at Maria J. Westwood were harder to fool than the ones at Aurora Hospital, and now, she'd been taking her medication consistently. They made her drowsy, clouded her mind just as the fog began to lift! Even now, she was too lethargic to move away from Cole's dominating embrace.

He leaned into her, close enough to whisper. "Hey, I tried to find you at lunch. Where'd you go?"

Rayne scratched her neck. "I, uh . . . had some things to take care of."

"Well, what're you doing after this? Wanna grab dinner in the Dining Hall?"

"I have a few phone calls to make. Thanks, though."

"How 'bout after?"

Lucas glanced their way just as Cole tightened his hold around her. Rayne closed her eyes, seeing the fire and the crying toddler once more. This time, the exclamation mark punctuating the end of the vision was the loud thunk! as Cole punched the steering wheel. When she opened her eyes, the innocence of Cole's smile should have felt warm; instead, it felt hot, as if the fire from her vision burned brightly at her back.

"Cole," she began slowly, still too fatigued to inch further away, "have you . . . ever hurt someone?"

"Have you?" he quipped, but his grin proved he didn't understand the severity of her query. Leaning in, his whisper hit her skin, more unwelcome than the whispering of shadows. "Misery loves company. Maybe that's why I like being around you. We both do what we want and say what we mean. We've only got this one life, after all . . . might as well live it a little mean. A little selfishly."

She shook her head. "No, Cole. I don't mean 'have you ever hurt someone in your usual asshat sort of way'." Something in her tone caused him to pull back. "I mean, have you ever hurt someone? Badly . . . Badly enough to . . ."

The silent "kill them" hanging off the end of her sentence rang loudly in the air.

Cole paused, and the look in those green eyes seemed limitless. Perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps Cole Bradford's selfish philosophy towards life knew no bounds—a hoggish doctrine that granted even the cruelest of acts to be permissible.