(FREE TO READ) Bad Moon

chapter 26; sunshine

Jaylin had questions, so many questions. It seemed to be the only constant in his life. When one was answered, two more were on the rise. When he thought he finally had a grasp on this twisted situation, something new would happen. Something substantial. This time, it was Imani.

Felix had been revolted since she'd left. He was always in a bad mood, but something was different about his brooding tonight. Jaylin wanted to ask about everything. He felt more in the dark than ever, but he only managed to get out a "wha—" before Felix was disappearing up the stairs to shower off the blood.

Another question.

Jaylin wanted to know just why they bled when they turned. Would he bleed too? Would it be as painful as it looked? Would he even turn, or would his body contort inch by inch, bit by bit as his arm had? How long would that take?

He needed Quentin. He needed answers. He needed to know how long it would take before the black on his body went away.

But Jaylin hadn't realized that all the time he'd sat in the living room, with the stench of stagnant bleach and Lisa's wax candles burning the air, he hadn't been alone.

"He won't be home tonight." Lillabeth's voice reached him like a timid touch on the shoulder. She appeared from nowhere, this friendly ghost of his. "Maybe you'd prefer to sleep in your room?"

There was a spill of disappointment in Jaylin's chest as his heart sank into the depths like a stone. He was hoping to catch him when he came in—to ask about Imani. About the Bad Moon.

"Where does he disappear to all the time?" Jaylin asked.

"Sometimes work," said Lillabeth. "Lately he's been out surveying for scouts." She looked hesitant to answer another question, and when Jaylin opened his mouth to ask one, she gestured with her feathered duster. "Go up to your room and I'll bring you tea."

Jaylin rose from the sofa, heels rocking against the hardwood. He'd barely moved in the past week and walking alone seemed a demand he couldn't supply. His muscles felt like concrete—like carrying them on his bones didn't make him stronger, they only weighed him down. His arm had blackened up to the elbow and beyond, and the pain Quentin warned him about had started to bite at his funny-bone.

He'd put on three pounds last he checked, but Jaylin's weight fluctuated by the hour—not by the day. In the morning, he'd weigh a pound less than the day before. In the afternoon he'd put on four.

Whatever muscle he had felt atrophied as he towed himself up the steps, one weak ankle at a time. By now, the blood stainswere gone. It was like they were never there to begin with.

He hadn't seen his room since he'd taken to sleeping on the couch. It'd been spruced up by the maids and smelled strongly of fresh linen. There was something new and eerie about it. Something that resonated in the floorboards beneath his feet.

A slick, black plastic caught his eye and Jaylin felt his heart gallop at the machine sitting on the study desk beneath his window. Quentin must've left him his laptop.

He popped it from his charger and took it into bed, sinking into downy covers and blankets made of faux fur. They were simple luxuries, but they were luxuries all the same. A bed that didn't bow in the middle, on a frame made of mahogany, not hollow metal pipes and plywood slots. A laptop that booted up in under five minutes, with all the keys included. Food that didn't look like, taste like, or—to Jaylin's conjecture—contain dirt. There were none of the terrible things his life had been comprised of. Everything here was perfect—perfect apart from the lack of his mother and his friends.

It was strange to compare his own life to how everyday occurrences played out at the Sigvard mansion. Jaylin had realized over his short time of being here, that rich people were either incredibly lazy or incredibly busy; everything he could ever need was shoved right in his lap.