Chapter 15

”I’ll refrain from delving deeply into this subject, as it’s not the primary focus; however, separate studies suggest animals possess auras, albeit on a more modest scale than humans. These soul-shades convey a sense of purity distinct from that found in humanity.”

-Excerpt from the personal journal of Dr. Claude Foster, Director of Faeology at Mesmeric Labs

FANTASIA

There are two bedrooms.

But only one bed.

Archer forgot to mention that part. He and Godric left in a rush, before they could give me a tour, so I decided to explore on my own.

“What the actual fuck,” I say as I stare into the only fully furnished room in the house.

I inhale, breathing in the musky, masculine undertones. Unlike the bright, generic aesthetic the rest of the house has, it’s dark and homey in here. The walls are a deep teal color, matching the accents woven into the earthy-brown area rug. Thick drapes are pulled over the windows, letting a small amount of light seep into the room.

The large bed rests on a wooden frame in the center of the space—perfectly made up to match the rest of the room’s earthy accents.

My attention turns to the furniture across from the bed—an armoire and dresser made of some sort of unfinished wood. Both appear old and worn, albeit sturdy.

The top of the dresser is an organized chaos of various objects and photos.

Stepping forward, I reach for one of the frames closest to me.

Two people are in the photo, but my gaze lingers on a younger, softer-looking Archer. He can’t be any older than fourteen. His dark blond hair is the same as it is now, falling messily onto his forehead, but missing are the tattoos, scruff, and muscles. Instead of a penetrating stare, he wears a wide, toothy smile.

An ache builds in my chest. What happened to turn this soft, happy boy into such a menacing man? What inspired him to join the Nightcrawlers?

Beside him stands a taller, broader boy with a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, as if he’s avoiding the camera. But I recognize his rich coloring and scowl—Godric.

My eyes widen as surprise flashes through me. They’re just boys here. No skull tattoos mark the backs of their hands, identifying them as Nightcrawlers. Apparently, they were friends before joining the gang.

And the mystery of Archer deepens.

There are a couple of photos of an even younger Archer with a brunette woman, who I’m assuming is his mother based on how she’s holding his hand in one photo and carrying him in another.

My eyes bounce around the other photos, finally catching on what appears to be the most recent one. In it, Archer is tall, broad, filling out with muscles. He has a light dusting of hair on his chin. He still has that happy twinkle in his eye. Despite being the most recent photo, it’s still clearly more than a few years old, considering Archer doesn’t have any ink in it yet. He looks to be maybe eighteen or nineteen at most.

There’s a pretty, doe-eyed girl at his side—around his age maybe—with a matching grin and shaggy, light-brown hair. His arm rests around her shoulders, and on her other side stands a smirking Godric.

There’s another photo of Archer with the same girl, and in this one, she’s sticking her tongue out at him as he gazes adoringly at her.

My stomach twists. Who is she? Who is she to Archer? Envy gnaws on my insides. Whether it’s a romantic relationship or friendship, whatever is between them seems so beautiful and loving.

I put the photo of them back where I found it, careful not to disturb his other keepsakes. Guilt heats my cheeks. I’m snooping through his things. Asshole or not, Archer deserves his privacy.

I might not like the guy very much, but he did open up his house to me. I can respect that.

The top drawer of the dresser catches my eye, and I pause, realizing I didn’t bring anything with me.

My work jeans are crusty with beer, and my shirt is damp with sweat. It’s been a long day. My throat still aches from not getting proper sleep.

I could use a shower and a change of clothes. Considering I don’t know when Archer will be back, or when I’ll get to pick up my own stuff, I figure I might as well make myself comfortable.

Pulling open the drawer all the way, I chuckle at how damn neat the man is. It’s an underwear drawer, and all of his garments are folded, stacked, and color coded. Not wanting to be any more invasive than I already have been, I snag the first pair of boxer briefs from the stack and shut the drawer.

Striding to his closet, I flick on the light and quickly snatch the first hanging T-shirt I see, without spending too much time being nosey.

I make my way to his attached bathroom, sighing in relief at the sight of soap and a towel on the long bathroom counter, placed between two sinks.

After a long, much too hot shower—Archer can clearly afford the utility bills—I dress in his stolen boxers and black tee. The name “Ataraxy” is written across the front, and the material is well-worn, making it comfortable.

Unsure of what to do with my dirty garments, I pull my tube of lipstick and phone out of my back pants pocket, then fold my clothes in a neat stack—out of respect for Archer’s tidiness—and place them on the floor out of the way.

Shaking out his towel, I hang it up to dry.

Then, I curl up in his bed—exhausted and starving—and fall into the best nap I’ve had in ages.

A door slams somewhere down below, rousing me from my sleep. Sitting up and rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I slip out of bed and step into the hallway.

“Archer?” I call out.

It’s eerily dark. Night has settled over the city. A sliver of moonlight peers through the hallway skylight. I glance up at the sky, surprised to see a smattering of stars.

It’s always too bright to see them in the PD.

When Archer doesn’t respond, I slowly creep down the stairs and peek my head into the kitchen. The smell of something delicious wafts toward my nose, and I start salivating.

Mustering up all my bravado, I flick on the kitchen light, expecting to see Archer—hell, maybe even Godric.

But only a lone brown paper takeout bag sits on the island counter. An excited Scathe sits wagging his tail on the floor beside it.

“Hey, good boy!” I bend down to scratch his neck and ears. “Where’s your daddy, huh?”

A piece of paper on the counter beside the bag catches my eye. Standing, I stride over to it, snatch it up, and skim the words:

Tasia,

I didn’t want to wake you. This soup and tea should help your throat. Please continue to rest and make yourself at home. The bag on the floor is also yours. I hope I got the right supplies.

Be back soon,

Archer.

P.S. The chicken is for Scathe.

My stomach flutters, and my lips stretch into a smile. Not only did he notice I wasn’t feeling well, but he cared enough to send me something to help. I don’t remember the last time anyone went out of their way to make me feel better.

My eyes linger curiously on the cloth bag sitting beside the island. I hadn’t noticed it at first. Giddy excitement bubbles up.

“Your daddy is secretly a good guy, huh?” I ask the dog, my smile still firmly in place. “He can be an asshole, but I think he’s a secret softie.”

The Phantom is definitely nothing more than a persona. Each day that I see more and more of the real Archer, the better I understand his soul-shade.

“You better not tell him I said that,” I tease Scathe.

He whines, which I interpret as a sign of agreement.

I hum to myself as I pull out the items in the bag —a container of soup, a cup of tea, two salads, and a plate of chicken and rice. Everything’s in sealed, unmarked beige containers. Biodegradable by the looks of it.

Opening the soup, I take a big inhale, and my mouth waters. It smells divine—some sort of veggie-and-herb medley. Scathe whines loudly, pawing at my leg.

“Oh, you’re hungry?” I ask him in a soft voice.

He sits back and releases a single yelp.

Holding up the chicken plate, I ask, “Is this supposed to be for you?”

Panting with excitement, he does a little tapping dance with his front paws and spins around in circles.

The chicken appears to be unseasoned. It’s cut into small bites and rests on a bed of white rice with some plain, steamed broccoli and carrots on the side.

“Enjoy,” I tell him as I set the plate on the floor.

Scathe licks my hand, then turns his attention to the meal, devouring the food with gusto. I follow suit, drinking my tea and slurping my soup without hesitation.

Once I’m full, I turn my attention back to the cloth bag, eager to see what Archer dropped off. Probably clothes or something.

When I open the velcro closure and peer inside, I choke on my spit. “What the hell?”

My eyes widen as I pull out the items.

A twenty-four pack of colored pencils. A box of crayons. Two good-sized sketch pads—the exact textured, heavyweight paper I prefer to use. Blending tools in different sizes and shapes: tortillons and color shapers and kneaded rubber.

And a pack of a hundred high-quality oil pastels in a heavy wooden box.

A feeling unlike anything I’ve ever experienced zips through me. Gratitude. Awe. Surrender.

Clutching the heavy box of pastels to my chest, I squeal and bounce on my feet like an excited child. Scathe keeps me company as I set up on the floor and dive right in.

Gods dammit. Archer is really living up that gold soul-shade of his. That might be worse than him being a savage, selfish gangster, because his goodness gives me a sense of hope I haven’t had in a long time. And with hope comes the ability to get hurt.

Something tells me that Archer Acciai is way out of my league.