(FREE TO READ) Bad Moon

chapter 13; Felix

Jaylin hit the door so hard, the wood scuffed his fist.

Open, he cursed to himself. Goddammit, open!

After an impatient moment, his fist beat against the door again. But when the locks unlatched and the door swung inward, it wasn't Alexander or Quentin's face that greeted him. Mrs. Sigvard inspected him slowly, a bathrobe loose on her sharp pointed shoulders, her hair damp and her cheeks heated pink. She looked undone. Nothing like the painting on the wall.

"Oh, um..." Jaylin stepped away from the door and wrapped his jacket tight around him. "I was looking for—"

"Alexander!" Mrs. Sigvard screeched and spun around, trotting away in her velvet slippers without another word.

Alex was there in seconds, looking slightly less pale and dark beneath the eyes. "Jaylin? What's wrong?"

"This!" Jaylin shoved his way through the door, past Alexander. "This is what's wrong!"

Heavy black paws trekked in slowly behind him, sharp curled claws tacking against the stone of the foyer floor. The black wolf stopped just at the threshold of the living room and shook out the rain from his fur.

"He's been following me all night," Jaylin said. "I couldn't go to work, I couldn't go home. Every step I take, he's right behind me. I don't know where the hell you got an actual, living, breathing wolf from, but keep him. I don't need the attention."

Alex rubbed the back of his neck, watching the beast settle on the foyer floor. "This is more Quentin's department."

"Okay, then where is he?" Jaylin stomped past, the wolf once again following his every footstep. "His room's up here, right?" he asked, bounding half way up the staircase. "To the left?"

"Uh, yeah," Alex stammered, jogging after Jaylin. "But I don't think you should—"

"Which room?" he asked, hastening down the hallway.

"Jaylin, I don't think this is a good time."

But Jaylin wasn't listening to Alexander. Something else had gathered his attention—a sound, soft on the ears like velvet. He stopped to listen to the melody, rich and tinny from the keys of a piano. Jaylin followed the sound, Alex fumbling after him.

"Jayin, wait. We're not supposed—hold on a minute!"

But he had to know what beckoned him. That familiar tune, rising and falling with slow, despondent spirit. He followed the sound to a large pair of cherrywood doors and felt the smooth indentation under his hands, the ridged rose carvings sliding beneath his fingertips. Wherever these doors led, the music carried on behind them. The wood shivered beneath his fingertips.

He pried one door slowly open, half expecting the light of heaven to flood his eyes. But it didn't. There was hardly any light in the room at all. The windows were sheathed with a heavy black curtain, the chandelier dead and dark. The only light with which he could see came from a flat screen television on the side of the room, playing a football game on mute.

It looked almost like an office, a pair of leather lounge chairs on one side, the entire wall a bookshelf on the other. And in the middle, settled between two large windows, was a Victorian-style grand piano. Jaylin could tell by his form alone that it was Quentin who sat on the bench, fingers dragging against the keys, sliding up and down not effortlessly, but slow and labored. His body didn't sway like the pianists on television or in music videos. Quentin seemed hardly interested in the piece at all, his spine curved and slacked, one hand working the keys harder than the other.

But somehow, despite his off-tempo playing and the occasional slip of the fingers, the sound was still captivating. And standing in the heart of the song, Jaylin could put the words to it now.