The Dark Water

That night, the storm rolled in.

The wind howled around the concrete structure, sounding like wolves trying to claw their way in. Elara lay in the guest suite, staring at the ceiling.

The headache started at midnight.

It wasn't the dull throb of the concussion. This was a spike, a red-hot needle driven into the base of her skull.

She gasped, curling into a ball. Images flashed behind her eyelids—strobe-light bursts of memory.

* Rain. A rooftop. The smell of copper. The weight of something heavy in her hands. A scope. A crosshair.*

"No," she whimpered.

The pain was blinding. She needed water. She needed to make it stop.

She rolled out of bed and crawled to the door. To her surprise, it wasn't locked. Silas must have forgotten, or maybe he thought she was too weak to run.

She stumbled into the hallway. The floor was cold concrete. She dragged herself along the wall, guided by the dim recessed lighting.

"Silas," she croaked.

She didn't know why she called for him. He was her jailer. He was grumpy and mean. But he was the only thing in this world that had a name.

She collapsed near the kitchen entrance. The darkness swallowed her.

She woke to the sensation of being lifted.

Strong arms were under her knees and back. She was pressed against a chest that smelled of cedar and old paper.

"I've got you," a voice whispered. It wasn't the gravelly voice of the boss. It was soft, laced with a terrifying tenderness.

Elara opened her eyes a slit. Silas was carrying her back to her room. His face was close to hers, illuminated by the lightning flashing through the corridor windows. He looked terrified.

He laid her down on the bed. He moved quickly, disappearing into the bathroom and returning with a wet cloth. He placed it on her forehead.

"Breathe," he instructed, his hand resting on her shoulder. "Just breathe through it."

"My head," Elara managed to say. "Pictures. Flashing."

Silas froze. His hand tightened on her shoulder, almost painful.

"What pictures?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"I don't know," Elara cried. "Darkness. A scope. Red."

Silas exhaled, a shaky sound. He leaned closer, his other hand coming up to cup her cheek. His thumb stroked the skin beneath her eye.

"Shh," he soothed. "It's just the trauma. Just a nightmare. Don't think about it."

He looked into her eyes, searching for something.

"Don't remember yet," he whispered. It sounded like a prayer. "Please, not yet."

"Silas?" she asked, confused by the raw emotion in his voice.

He pulled back as if burned. The mask slammed back down. He stood up, his face hardening into stone.

"Sleep, Elara," he said gruffly. "I'll lock the door so you don't wander and hurt yourself again."

He left. The door hissed shut. The lock clicked.

Elara lay in the dark, the cool cloth on her head. The pain was receding, but the fear was taking its root.

* Don't remember yet.*

He wasn't waiting for her to heal. He was waiting for something else.