Light In The Dark

Part 1: Light in The Dark

The rain came down in heavy, angry sheets, drumming loudlyagainst the large glass windows of *The Whispering Page* bookstore. Thunderrolled low in the distance, a deep vibration that Clara felt all the way downin the soles of her shoes. It was the kind of storm that made the city streetscompletely empty, washing away the usual sounds of traffic and rushingfootsteps.

Clara wiped a smudge of dust off her cheek and let out along, tired breath. She adjusted her glasses, looking around the old, creakyshop she had inherited from her eccentric aunt. With its towering woodenshelves, worn velvet reading chairs, and the comforting, sweet smell of oldpaper and vanilla, this store was her safe haven. She loved the silence here.Aunt Elara had always said that books held their own kind of magic, a quietenergy that kept the darkness of the world outside. For Clara, who had spentmost of her life feeling invisible, it was the only place she truly felt shebelonged. But as the antique clock on the wall chimed twelve times, signalingmidnight, she was more than ready to lock the heavy deadbolts, make a hot cupof chamomile tea, and finally sleep in the small apartment upstairs.

She reached up to turn off the hanging vintage lights,casting long, peaceful shadows across the aisles, when the front door violentlyrattled.

The brass bell above the door did not just chime; itclanged, as if a hurricane had just pushed its way inside. The cold windhowled, blowing a stack of paperback romance novels right off the front displaytable. Pages fluttered wildly across the polished hardwood floor.

Clara jumped, her heart skipping a beat in her chest. Shegrabbed the heavy wooden handle of a feather duster, though she knew it woulddo absolutely nothing to protect her. "I am so sorry, but we areclosed—"

The words died in her throat.

Standing in the entryway was the largest, most intimidatingman Clara had ever seen. He practically blocked out the streetlights behindhim. He was soaking wet, his dark trench coat clinging to broad, heavilymuscled shoulders that seemed too massive for the narrow doorway. Rain drippedfrom his messy, dark hair, pooling on the floorboards and ruining her freshlyswept entrance. He looked dangerous, like a soldier returning from a brutalwar. But it was his eyes that made Clara freeze. For a split second, in the dimlight of the shop, they seemed to flash a bright, unnatural amber. Not brown,not hazel, but the glowing gold of a predator watching its prey in the dark.

"Lock the door," he growled. His voice was deep,rough, and sounded like heavy stones grinding together. It was a voice used togiving orders and having them obeyed immediately.

Clara swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly completely dry. Herhands were shaking violently now, so she gripped the edge of the wooden counterto hide it. Her mind raced. The panic button was under the register, justinches away from her knee. "Excuse me? You cannot just barge in here. I amcalling the police."

The man let out a short, tired sigh that held no humor. Thesound carried a heavy weight of exhaustion that caught Clara off guard. Hereached into his wet coat. Clara braced herself, expecting a weapon, butinstead, he pulled out a heavy silver badge. It did not look like any policeshield Clara had ever seen. There was no city seal, no state flag. It had astrange, fierce wolf carved deeply into the metal, its teeth bared in a silentsnarl.

"I am the police. For the things regular cops can'thandle," he said. He took a slow, heavy step into the shop. As he movedcloser, the damp chill of the storm followed him, but beneath it was somethingelse. He sniffed the air, his tight jaw suddenly relaxing just a fraction. Hesmelled of rain, crushed pine needles, and something distinctly wild. "Myname is Silas. And unless you want what is chasing me to come through that doornext, you are going to lock it, Clara."

Clara’s eyes widened, a cold chill running down her spinethat had nothing to do with the wind. The way he said her name—so certain, sofamiliar—made her blood run cold. "How do you know my name?"

Silas did not answer. He was already looking past her,ignoring her completely. His sharp gaze was fixed entirely on the dusty, heavyoak door at the very back of the shop. It was the door that led to the storageroom. It was the one door her aunt had always told her never, ever to open.

“Leave it locked, Clara,” Aunt Elara had warned on herdeathbed, her frail fingers gripping Clara's wrist with shocking strength.“Some stories are not meant to be read, and some doors are not meant to beopened.” Clara had never questioned it. Until tonight.