Pulse

Chapter 19

Cian

I brought Lucie home, and then headed back towards my own place, keeping the radio off and the windows down. I removed my hood, letting the wind play with the strands of my hair, whipping it across my face and into my eyes. I listened to the rubber tires against the asphalt, and tried not to think too much about anything.

Which was virtually impossible.

I thought about the soul in the boathouse, and about that persistent message on The Sea Daisy, and I thought about the "shadow." The shadow, the shadow, the shadow. What was it, and what did it have to do with Dempsey?

And Lucie. Lucie, the girl whose mouth I had come so painfully close to touching with my own. I was intoxicated by her; when she was around, something in me changed. I tasted the succulent flavor of joy for the first time in years, like sugar and desire on my tongue.

The Horne residence loomed in the distance, looking out over the bay with an assertive gaze. It was a contemporary and minimalist artwork in the museum of the rest of the city, with broad black-shuttered windows that touched the roof and brick painted as white as snow. Floral bushes lined the cobblestone walk to the mahogany double doors.

The place was kept in tip-top shape twenty-four seven, everything polished and shined and trimmed. I got the feeling my parents were afraid that if the house crumbled, the image they'd made for themselves would go dismally with it.

I parked the Escalade in the garage and climbed out, my feet scuffing against the concrete floors. The motion-sensor lights flickered on as I crossed the distance to the entrance, hanging the keys on the key hook beside the door.

With a sigh, I opened the door to the kitchen and shuffled in, unzipping my hoodie. Both Mom and Dad were there, Dad tapping away at his laptop and Mom blissfully putting something in the oven that looked and smelled eggy. The oven whirred and clicked to life in all its stainless steel, newest-model glory, and then both my parents turned and noticed me standing there.

I hung my hoodie on the coat rack. "Hi."

Mom shut the oven at the same time Dad shut his laptop. They both had stone cold, frozen gazes, a shimmer in their eye put there by years of corporate work. That's how they looked at me now: like I was a distasteful order of business. I had seen this look before. There was nothing I hated more.

Mom pursed her lips, untying her apron. "Care to explain why neither of us have seen you since noon yesterday? Do you know how many hours that is, Cian James?"

I winced. Middle name. Not good. I remembered when hearing Mom address that way used to prick tears from my eyes, as that was the selling point to her anger. I knew I was getting grounded when she said Cian James. "It was some angel stuff," I said, which wasn't necessarily a lie. "You wouldn't understand."

"You can't keep using that as an excuse," Dad said, watching me from his perch on a barstool. His hair, the same color as mine, was spun gold underneath the vintage light fixtures suspended from the lofty ceiling. He regarded me with eyes as frigid as ice, his voice his signature gravelly, authoritative one. "Whether or not you like it, you live under this roof and you are our son, and you will abide by the rules we lay down for you. That means coming home at a reasonable hour."

I bit my lip. "Okay. Sorry. Is that quiche?"

The last question was directed at Mom, who had sighed in distress and resorted to switching the oven light on. "It looks like quiche," I remarked.

"Yes, Cian," she said, eyes half-hidden beneath her eyelids. She passed a hand over her fair hair, replacing strands that had escaped her chignon. As to why she wore a chignon this early in the morning when she had no one to impress, I wasn't sure. But then again, this was my mother, who, if there was no one to dress well for, dressed well for herself. "It's quiche."