3. Adella

3

ADELLA

B reathless with an extreme stitch in my side I slam the door shut and drop to the floor. I rest my back against it while my head spins, both from what I witnessed and the exertion of having run the two miles to home. I’m in no kind of shape to be running. I regret so much right now, not least of all is my poor diet and exercise. Who knew that I’d be called on to run a freaking marathon.

What was that? What is happening?

Trembling I roll onto my knees then rise up far enough to peek out the window. I can’t see anything out there but that doesn’t mean anything. I couldn’t see what he was fighting either. It looked like he was fighting the dark or a shadow or something like that. Which is beyond terrifying. I drop back onto my butt and continue to rest against the door. He’s okay. He has to be. Right?

He’s back.

He said he’d come back. I had given up hope of it ever happening, but he’s here. Except he was hurt and he’s wielding a freaking sword against what? Some dark, shadow monster?

He’s bleeding. I can’t stay here, waiting, like some scared damsel.

Right. I huff another deep breath then push myself onto my feet. Obviously calling the police is not a bright idea. They’re just as likely to have me hauled off as they are to be of any help. I look around my small, one bedroom home. I’m not really setup for fighting… well anything. Then I remember it.

My dad had a gun in his belongings and I hadn’t known what to do with it. I’d shoved it into a closet, planning to sell it eventually, but I’d never gotten around to it. I walk down the hallway, trying to calm my heart and dig through the closet. The hat box is buried under three afghans and two blankets. Water damaged and partially crushed I pull it free of the tangles and carry it to my kitchen table.

Lifting the lid off I stare at the pistol. It’s blue steel gleams in the light. I haven’t shot a gun in a lot of years. My dad had insisted I know how to but that’s when I was barely a teenager. I haven’t kept up with the skill. Will a gun even work against whatever that darkness was?

I don’t know why but when I wrap my hand around the cold handle a feeling of confidence rises. I can do this. If nothing else it feels as if I’m moving forward. I’d much rather be doing something than nothing. I walk towards the door, intent on returning to Jax, but one hand on the door I pause.

Idiot. You can’t walk down the street carrying a gun. Especially on Halloween. Getting arrested would probably be the least of my problems. Odds are great that I’d get shot.

My purse lies next to the door so I sling it over my head and slip the gun inside. I walk out the door but decide to keep one hand in the purse. I feel better with the gun in my hand than without it.

I step off my porch and head down the sidewalk. When I reach the street I pause and look in both directions. It’s late enough now that there are no trick or treaters, which is probably good. I am, afterall, carrying a loaded pistol.

I turn towards where I last saw Jax and walk with a confidence I don’t really feel. The street is eerily quiet. I stay on the sidewalk, trying to pretend I’m not rushing from one pool of light from the streetlamps to the next, though I know I am.

The house on the corner of the block has one of those tall privacy hedges blocking my line of sight of the next street. I walk close to the bushes, easing my way to the corner, one hand tight on the cool grip of the pistol.

When I reach the edge I press myself to it and wait for my heartrate and breathing to slow down. Then, faking a sense of calm I definitely do not feel, I peek my head around the corner. The street is dark. Too dark.

And out of the darkness a figure emerges.