Page 39 of Mated in Flames
Warwick
Idon’t think any of us slept last night. The sun dawns, and finds the three of us sitting around our cramped, dining table, cooling cups of untouched coffee before us. I can see the dark shadows beneath Dane’s and Luciana’s eyes, and I doubt I look any better.
Not a word had been spoken between us for an hour, when Dane and I arrived back to find Luciana in the kitchen. She had asked us what had happened to the Supernaturals, and we simply told her that they had been dealt with. She didn’t ask for details, and we didn’t give them. Some things, after all, were better left unsaid.
As the first rays of sun sneak in through the window, Dane finally stirs.
“More coffee?” he asks, his voice startling loud in the silence.
“Yeah, thanks,” I say, pushing my cup away.
Luciana just nods silently. Dane carefully grips the handles of each mug and carries them to the kitchen. When he turns the tap in the sink on, the world somehow feels a little bit more normal, as though the strange atmosphere that had fallen over the house was starting to dissipate. It makes me rouse from my hunched over position in order to stretch.
No matter how many times I think about it, the events of the last few hours just don't seem entirely real. Between Dane being kidnapped, and waking up to Luciana weeping in my arms, nothing seemed to make sense anymore.
Over the last few hours of thought, however, I’ve managed to piece together a few pieces of information.
First, Luciana’s antidote seems to have worked. Rather than purging the poison instantly, however, it worked after I had already died, forcing me into regeneration. It wasn’t what Luciana had wanted but, honestly, it was better than I had ever expected.
Secondly, Dane seems to have forced himself into his own regeneration without me laying a hand on him, much to my relief. His was the scream that I had heard as I blacked out. We still don’t know how it happened.
And, thirdly, the Supernaturals had been taken out without a single weapon, they’re guns lying beside them. When we asked, Luciana had quietly told us that she had done it, but didn’t know how, just that she had pushed the air and thrown them back.
So many revelations and too little time to digest them. But the world was moving on, and it was time for us to do the same.
“How are you guys feeling?” I ask.
It’s a broad question that opens us up to a lot of discussion, something that I’m not sure we’re ready for. But ignoring this isn’t going to work.
“Tired,” Dane says from the sink, filling the kettle and setting it to boil. Then he sighs and leans against the table, eyeing us both. “A bit ashamed. I can’t believe I let them get me so easy.”
I grimace. Hearing Dane blame himself sounded as wrong as hearing it from Luciana yesterday.
“Don’t,” I say instantly. “We all know what happened. I was reckless and I led them right to our door. We didn’t even know they were coming.”
“It wasn’t just your fault, Warwick,” Dane says, a humourless smile curling at his lips. “I got complacent, too. We grew comfortable and we weren’t as careful as we should have been.”
“Does that mean you’ll have to leave?” Luciana asks, looking between us.
Dane and I glanced at one another. We hadn’t spoken about it, yet. Normally, the answer would be a straight yes. But we had spent the last several years building our lives here. It wouldn’t be that easy just to abandon it all.
“Not yet,” Dane finally answers for us. “The Supernaturals tend to work in isolated groups. Just because one lot found us, it doesn’t mean they all know. Actually, the fact that only four of them were here says a lot; if more of them knew, we would have been overwhelmed by them.”
I nod; I had thought the same. Cautiously, I like to think that we’re safe, though Dane and I will be keeping an eye out for anything unusual, and keeping to ourselves for the time being.
“I’m glad,” Luciana murmurs. “As long as you think it’s safe.”
“Our lives will never be safe,” I say, grimacing. “That’s just the way it is.”
I glance at her and wonder if I will see wariness or revulsion. This can’t be the sort of life she wants. But, instead, she just nods seriously, open acceptance on her face. Then she sits back.
“I looked further in my father’s journal,” she says unexpectedly.
I blink.
“Why?” I ask, frowning.
“My father only dedicated the first half of his journal to farm instructions,” Luciana explains. “The rest was a personal journal addressed to me. I’ve never looked at it. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know what he had to say.” She pauses. “I haven’t read the entire story. But, from what I did see, it looks like my mother was a psychic.”
