When Eliraviré Roars: A Roar of The Heart

Johnson City, Tennessee

Carmine’s Restaurant

Friday, November 12, 2021

The man at table thirteen nearly fills the booth, his broad shoulders crowding its high back. Around him, Carmine’s carries on in its usual Friday-night glow: shaded lamps over white linen, wineglasses catching the light, conversation rising above the soft clink of silverware. As I approach, the air around him hits me first—a suffocating wave of clove and heavy, sick-sweet jasmine. The clove is sharp, medicinal rather than comforting. And the jasmine? It’s the kind they use in funeral parlors. It doesn’t blend. It battles.

He moves, and the dark, expensive fabric of his tunic pulls tight across his shoulders. His black slacks are pressed to a sharp crease. He looks mid-twenties, maybe, handsome, but his gray eyes hold something ancient and still.

He raises his head to greet me, ink-black hair framing skin so pale it seems untouched by daylight. His gaze begins a slow crawl over my body, lingering on my chest, the curve of my hip, then down my legs. I fight the urge to cross my arms, to cover myself. The look pins me—cold, appraising—and a primal instinct screams: danger.

Then he speaks. His voice is a low purr with a hard edge beneath it. His accent carries a strange, unplaceable Western European lilt.

“I bet your face is stunning under that unfortunate COVID mask. Those amazing blue eyes of yours are enrapturing.”

Ugh. That line. At twenty-one, I’ve already heard enough variations to last me a lifetime, but from him, my Spidey-sense is going off.

I give him the tiny, practiced nod that says I hear you, and nothing more. The smile I force is pure muscle memory; it doesn’t touch my eyes as I ready my tablet. My toe taps a nervous rhythm against the floor—a tell I can never control. I’m aware of the silk of my ruby blouse, the fit of my pencil skirt. My golden-copper curls are pinned up, neat—part of the polished Carmine’s version of me.

“Hmm…” he drawls, his gaze dropping from my face again. “I want something… scrumptious.” His voice lowers. “Are the chicken breasts here as plump and delicious as yours?”

For a split second, his eyes flash a deep, impossible violet. It’s gone so fast I almost think I imagined it. Yet his tone remains light, teasing, as if I’m supposed to blush and giggle.

I keep my expression blank and take a single, deliberate step back.

“Let me grab a colleague to assist you,” I say, keeping my voice level despite the sick unease tightening my stomach.

I turn before he can answer, my heels clicking a sharp retreat across the floor. Revulsion prickles over my skin, but those violet eyes stay with me. Whatever I just saw, I’m not standing close enough to see it again.

I reach the kitchen, finding Macy scrubbing a prep station. She’s tonight’s shift lead and a good friend, and I am so glad she’s here. She gets me.

“Table thirteen,” I breathe, dropping my voice. “The guy just asked if our chicken breasts are as plump and delicious as mine. Can you swap my section? My Spidey-sense is screaming.”

Macy scowls. “What a jerkface. Don’t worry, I’ll find someone to cover.”

Before I can move away, Baxter—my bestie since we were toddlers—catches my arm. “He said what?”

I give him a quick, hushed lowdown, but he’s already waving me off before I finish. “Alright, BooKitty. You take my section—some hella good tippers there. I got you. I can handle the flirt-monster.”

“You’re the best, Bax. I’ll make it up to you, promise.”

The rest of the night progresses without incident, a blur of clattering dishes and forced smiles, but by the time I clock out just after eleven, the ache in my feet has escalated to a dull, throbbing roar.

I walk toward my beat-up Civic the way I always do when leaving alone at night: prepared.

I slip my Kinetik Claws onto my right hand, the three sharp blades extending over my knuckles with a soft snick—a familiar, cold reassurance against my palm. On my left hand, my ruby ring mirrors the readiness, its own slender blade sliding out from beneath the stone in complete silence.

Advanced tech, Mary called them when she insisted I start carrying them on my eighteenth birthday—just a little something extra to enhance Daddy’s self-defense training out in the real world.

“Marlaina!” Macy’s voice booms across the lot.

I turn, weapons lowered but ready, to see Macy and Baxter hurrying toward me, backlit by the restaurant’s warm glow. I stop so they can catch up.

“Hey there, Blade Lady,” Baxter calls, his voice light, though his eyes sharpen as he clocks my hands. “We come in peace. Please don’t slice and dice us.”

I manage a tired laugh. “As long as you two behave, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Did you make enough tips for our Vegas trip? Mateo is so ready for you to catch up.” He gives me a wink. “He’ll be excited you got my good tips tonight.”

Then it hits me.

That familiar prickling awareness raises the fine hairs on the back of my neck. My gaze snaps away from them, searching the nearly empty parking lot.

Bax notices the shift in my posture, the instant my smile vanishes. “What’s wrong? What’s your Spidey-sense picking up?”

That’s when I see him.

The man from my section leans against a gleaming red pickup in the adjacent business’s empty lot—the kind with massive tires and a cab that sits high off the ground. I’m six feet tall myself, but even from here, his size is jarring. His eyes are fixed on me.

“It’s him,” I say, my voice tight.

Their eyes follow my gaze.

“Yeah, damn, he’s huge,” Baxter mutters. “The asshole was all charm with me, but it was clear he wasn’t thrilled when you made yourself scarce. Kept scanning the room for you.”

Macy bites her lip. “I had a word with him when he was leaving. He gave me the creeps too. I stayed on guard until he walked out.”

I retract the Claws and my ring blade before Baxter throws an arm around each of our shoulders, pulling us into a protective huddle.

“Okay, new plan,” he says. “I’m walking you two to your cars. Not letting Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Creepy get any ideas about following either of you.”

I cringe. “So it’s not just me then.”

“Nope.” Macy squeezes my shoulder. “You text me the second you get home, alright?”

We reach Macy’s yellow Jeep first. I give her a tight hug, trying to shake off the image of that violet flash in his eyes. “You text me too, Macy.”

“You both better text me,” Baxter warns, his tone light but his gaze all seriousness. “If I don’t get a confirmation, I’m showing up with the police.”

“Deal,” Macy says, climbing into her Jeep. The engine roars to life, cutting through the quiet night.

Baxter and I walk the two spaces down to my red Civic. “Thanks, Bax. I appreciate this, BooBear.”

He looks at me, real concern in his eyes. We’ve been close since we were toddlers tripping over our own feet while our mothers taught dance classes. More like cousins than just friends, with ridiculous pet names neither of us has outgrown. Baxter’s quiet way of looking out for others is rock solid, and I love the life he’s built with his husband, Mateo. My Bax is a steady anchor in my chaotic life.

“You want me to follow you home? Or better yet, let me drive you home?”

I shake my head, my hand resting on the cool metal of the door handle. “Mateo needs his Queen.”

“Mateo loves you, Marley. Come over! We can have fun.”

I smile, knowing it’s always fun with them, but the heavy ache in my chest grounds me. “I need home. It’s been three months today since Momma died. Daddy needs me.”

Bax hugs me then. Strong and long, and I try not to cry. Even wrapped in his safe embrace, the skin on the back of my neck prickles. I know that sketchy freak is still watching.

“God, I miss her… And Daddy…” I shake my head against his shoulder. “He’s my rock, but Momma was his.”

“She really was. Only one CorriCorri. My second Momma.” He pulls back, squeezing my arms gently.

I wipe at my tears as I open the door and slide into the driver’s seat. “Just… make sure Haint Creeper doesn’t follow me. Give me twenty minutes to get home and get the door locked.”

He leans down to meet my eyes, his expression grim. “Haint Creeper? Yeah, that fits! I’ll stay put until you’ve had time to get down the road a good bit. I’ll make sure he stays put, too.”

I glance toward the man by the truck. His gaze follows me into the car.

Maybe he’s waiting for someone else. Maybe.

But the way his eyes track me…

“Thanks again,” I say, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. “See you tomorrow. Love you, BooBear.”

“I’ll see ya. Love you too,” he replies, and shuts my door with a solid, comforting thunk.

I start the engine, the familiar rumble vibrating through the steering wheel. Macy backs out of her space first, her brake lights flashing red in the rearview mirror before winking out as she turns onto the main road.

Baxter stands beside my car, his gaze sweeping the parking lot. Only when I give him a nod does he climb into his green Tucson, remaining behind to watch.

I pull out of the parking space.

Haint Creeper stays propped against his truck. As I drive past, he offers a small, lazy wave.

My stomach clenches. I know Bax carries a gun, and he’ll use it if things get bad. He’s shown me the basics. Still, I trust the skills Daddy has drilled into me since I was thirteen. I know how to use the tools Mary gave me; I’m not helpless. Baxter will make sure that man doesn’t follow.

But the knot in my chest cinches tighter with every block.

I can’t shake the feeling of eyes on me—like a laser sight tracking my movement. Stoplight after stoplight, I check the mirrors—rearview, side, again and again. Headlights flare, leaving phantom shapes burned into my vision.

Nothing. Just the usual late-night river of red and white lights, the city’s quiet thrum beneath it all.

I flick through SiriusXM stations, desperate for distraction, but each song grates—too bright, too mournful, too loud. My own breathing sounds harsh in the quiet between channels. Then a song plays that sends a fresh shiver down my spine: “Every Breath You Take” by The Police.

Sting’s iconic voice filters through the speakers, wrapping an unyielding obsession in that steady, familiar rhythm. Tonight, it feels aimed directly at me.

I shudder and snap the radio off. I try to focus on the solid yellow lines guiding me home, but they seem to blur and waver, like the edges of a bad dream.

Then the radio flares back to life, picking up at the exact beat where it cut off seconds ago.

I jab the power button, but the digital screen is frozen, unresponsive.

“Turn off, damn it!” I snap.

The voice command kills the audio. I grip the steering wheel harder, listening for it to start again.

I brake hard at a red light on North Roan Street; the sudden stop throws me forward against the seatbelt.

An immense figure dressed all in black is halfway across the crosswalk. He tips his hat, the brim casting his face in deep shadow, but the set of his broad shoulders, that smooth, deliberate ease… he looks just like Haint Creeper from Carmine’s.

My breath catches. How did he get here so fast?

A gust snatches his hat. He bends to retrieve it, and as he straightens, the streetlight hits his face. An older gentleman, his features mapped with deep lines of time.

Not Haint Creeper.

“Paranoid much, Marlaina?” I mutter, dragging in a shaky breath, then another.

At the next light, an old red convertible glides into view from the other direction. For a bare instant, the driver is a massive silhouette against the hard glare of oncoming headlights.

My stomach plunges. The angle of his head, the line of his jaw… it’s Haint Creeper.

Then, as our cars pass, the glare shifts. Another stranger’s face, worry lines stark around his eyes in the quick flash of light.

The relief that should come never quite reaches me. A tremor racks my body.

“Call Daddy,” I force out.

The vehicle’s interface replies, its voice calm: “Calling Daddy.”

“Hey, Babygirl,” he answers. His soulful baritone rumbles through the speakers, settling the worst of the panic rising in my chest.

I spill everything in a rush—Haint Creeper, the way he watched, the parking lot, the song, the phantom glimpses hijacking my mind. The words tumble out, breathless and frantic.

“Come home, Babygirl,” he says, his tone soft but edged with steel. “I’ll meet you at the car and walk you inside. Bax is watching him, and I’m right here.”

“Okay,” I whisper.

When I pull into the driveway, the porch light spills a warm glow onto the familiar brick of the house. Daddy is already there, a tall, muscular shape against the light. As he steps off the porch, I can see his smile crease his brown cheeks, and something tight inside me loosens.

He hurries to meet me and pulls open my car door. “Come on, MarleyGirl. Let’s get you inside where it’s safe.”

He wraps an arm around my shoulders, hustling me up the steps and through the front door. He closes it behind us, locking the heavy deadbolt. Beyond the entryway, lamplight falls across our worn couch and the throw Momma always tucked around her feet. It’s still folded over the back, waiting for someone who isn’t coming home. The moment we are sealed inside, the last of my defenses crumble.

He pulls me into a solid, grounding hug. “That Haint Creeper really rattled you, didn’t he?” he murmurs, his amber eyes seeing right through me. “Bax texted me. Said the guy met up with some girl in the lot and they left together. You’re safe now.”

“It’s not just that…” My voice cracks. “It’s been exactly three months since Momma…” I sink into his strength. “Daddy, I’ve been rattled all day. I almost forgot my Zenthara injection this morning.”

His voice drops, low and rough with his own grief. “I know, Babygirl. Feels like yesterday and forever all at once.” He rubs my back in slow, soothing circles. “But you can’t forget your meds. You know how fast that PMRD pain crawls back if you’re even a little late.”

PMRD—Progressive Muscular Rheumatic Disorder—has been part of my life since birth. With Zenthara, I can work a shift and dance without that pain dictating every step. Without it, my muscles stiffen and spasm, and the pain builds until every movement hurts. Tonight’s aching feet are nothing compared to that.

I twist a lock of Daddy’s braids around my finger. The familiar ritual settles something frayed inside me as I breathe in his scent of warm cedar and an exotic spice I can never name.

“I know,” I mumble against the sturdy denim of his coat. “And I don’t have much left. Nine days’ supply. And Mary isn’t responding.”

He goes still. “Nine days? Shit.”

“Exactly. She didn’t even come by after… after Momma passed. She knows how vital Zenthara is, how rare it is. She promised she’d always help us get it.” I look up at him. “Should we call her office? Did she retire without telling us?”

Daddy thumbs away a tear escaping down my cheek. “Mary? Retire in silence?” He shakes his head. “That woman would wrestle an alligator for you if she had to. If she ain’t responding, something’s wrong.”

His gaze grows distant. “When she brought you to us, you looked so much like my CorriCorri—same golden-copper hair, same blue eyes. Even a hint of a darker-skinned parent in you, for those that can see it. We’d been open to any child, but there you were. Like it was all in the stars, fated to be our Babygirl.”

He pauses. “Mary couldn’t have been fresh out of school then, but damn if she’s aged a day since.” A quiet chuckle rumbles in his chest. “That melanin anti-aging serum’s working overtime. Neither of us looks our age.”

“She is beautiful,” I agree. “I just can’t imagine her not being around. But soon, I’ll be in crippling pain without that medicine.”

“Okay.” His tone firms, pure SEAL steel. “Deep breaths. I’ll dig out the adoption file in the morning. See if there’s a main agency number. Ain’t no way Mary Scott is leaving you hanging by choice. We’ll figure this out.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“You okay now?”

“Yeah. I’m just tired. Maybe a little paranoid.” I manage a weak laugh, but it sounds hollow, even to my own ears.

“You had reason to be scared, Babygirl. And I’m glad you had Bax watching out for you. Not that you can’t handle yourself, but having backup is always smart.” He gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You text your friends you made it home safe. I already told Bax thank you for looking out for my Babygirl.”

“I will.” I nod, exhaustion washing over me as the adrenaline fades.

He turns toward the kitchen while I make my way down the hall to my room. The house is quiet, the familiar walls settling around us.

“You still up for watching The Princess Bride with me, Babygirl?” Daddy calls.

“Yeah!” I call back, tossing my bag onto my bed and forcing a lightness I don’t feel. Watching one of Momma’s favorite movies with Daddy sounds like exactly what we both need.

I check my phone and see Macy made it home. I send quick texts to both of them: Home safe. Weird night, all good.

I change into my favorite red satin pajamas, the cool, smooth fabric a small comfort against my hypervigilant skin. As I pull the pins from my curls, a sensation crawls up the back of my neck—the sudden certainty that I’m being watched. I scan my room, but see nothing.

You’re home. No one is here. Stop it, I tell myself. But my brain refuses to let it go.

As I walk to the bathroom to wash off my makeup, the comforting scent of popcorn reaches me. My stomach rumbles. Daddy’s popcorn is legendary. The perfect balance of butter, garlic, Parmesan, and a faint smoky kick of chipotle. A ritual. A small, dependable joy.

I wipe the last traces of mascara from my lashes, letting out a long breath.

Then the air shifts. The welcome scent twists, curdling into something sharp and acrid. Burnt.

Daddy is a trained chef. He never burns the popcorn.

And the silence… it is too complete. The usual settling creaks and groans of the old house are gone, swallowed by a quiet so deep it presses against my eardrums.

Instinct takes over. My thumb finds my ring, an old reflex, the hidden blade whispering out to meet my touch. I hurry back to my room and grab the Kinetik Claws from my nightstand, sliding them onto my right hand. With a precise flex of my fingers, the blades deploy with a soft snick.

My bare feet make no sound on the wooden floor as I step into the hall.

“Daddy?” I call.

No answer. Only a faint crackle from the kitchen.

I take cautious steps into the great room. At first glance, everything looks normal. Then I spot the old popcorn kettle on the island stove billowing streams of black smoke. I reach out and twist the burner off.

Then I see him.

Daddy is slumped against the base of the kitchen cabinets, his body at a jarring, unnatural angle.

Bile rises in my throat. Did he faint? Is it his heart? “Daddy?” I whisper as I rush to his side.

My fingers tighten on the smooth metal of the Claws, then I retract their blades and the blade beneath my ring before I reach for him. I can’t risk cutting him.

I drop to my knees beside him, my heart hammering against my ribs. I press my trembling fingers to the side of his neck.

He is still warm, but… nothing.

I lean closer, straining to hear the smallest whisper of breath. Silence. I check again, my fingers frantic, desperate for any sign of life.

Nothing. No blood. No visible wound. Just this unnerving, absolute stillness.

“Daddy!” I cry out. The sound is raw, torn from my throat. My hands shake as I fumble for my phone in my pajama pocket.

911. I have to call 911.

That suffocating wave of clove and funeral jasmine hits me the exact second massive arms wrap around my waist. Haint Creeper hoists me backward, lifting my six-foot frame off the floor with an ease that steals the breath right out of my lungs.

My stomach roils. My head begins to pulse. A rock-hard chest presses against my back. His hold is controlled, almost careful, and I hate that he thinks he gets to touch me at all.

A voice slides into my ear, that same velvet, theatrical purr from the restaurant.

“Hello, Chosen One. At last, we’re alone.”

His warm breath against my skin is too near, too intimate, the garlic from his earlier meal mingling with that suffocating funeral jasmine. He sighs and presses a wet kiss to the side of my neck as his massive hands move to grope my breasts.

“My, you’re a sight in these silky red nightclothes. You were divine earlier, too. And I love your hair down like this.” His grip tightens. “Too bad I can’t have much of a taste of you for myself. If only you were mine.”

Something snaps inside me.

White-hot rage surges through the paralyzing grief. I don’t scream; I fight.

Years of Daddy’s defense training take over. I twist hard in his grip and deploy my Kinetik Claws with a lethal snick. I slash backward—a quick, sharp arc.

I hear the tearing of expensive fabric, followed by the metallic tang of blood.

I drive my elbows backward. He is impossibly fast, but I connect with a few solid blows, feeling the thud of bone against hard muscle.

He lowers me and reaches for my legs, but I kick out with everything I have. My bare heel connects with a bone-jarring crunch against his knee. We stumble, crashing into the hallway wall.

His laughter rumbles close to my ear, smooth like dark velvet.

“I like to play! Keep making this fun, my pretty!”

And then… a sharp crackle of ozone. A flash.

A sudden, blinding white light erupts behind my eyes, consuming the hallway, the pain, and the rage. Consuming everything.