Another sleepy little beach town, so much like all the others, with the same endless array of beach bars and t-shirt shops, tattoo parlors and seafood restaurants; all eager to give the tourists a taste of paradise.
What a load of crap.
The locals all had the long-suffering look of people too long at the same job, needing the money the holiday travelers brought in and loathing every moment of it. A surly remark lurked behind every smile.
Why had she picked this place?
The warm night breeze was like a lover's caress as it moved over skin and through hair, carrying the scent of exotic blossoms and the steady throb of the pounding surf.
Oh yes. That's why.
The stairs to the apartment were concrete, offering only the slightest rasp of grit as the light dusting of sand shifted underfoot. A quick twist of the bulb on the landing, and the door melted into the surrounding darkness. The lock was unremarkable. He took the time to oil the hinges before opening the door and stepping into the flat.
All was still. Dark as the Pit, too. The night-vision goggles took care of that little obstacle, and he looked around carefully, allowing himself the time to adjust to the brief disorientation. There was nothing on the cheap coffee table. No magazines, no newspapers. A pair of flip-flops was slightly askew beside the door, the lone sign that anyone was actually occupying the apartment.
She travels lightly. Surely, after all this time, there is something treasured? Some memento she held dear? With long-practiced stealth, he moved to the bedroom, and paused to be sure she was actually there. Indeed, she was sprawled bonelessly in the middle of the bed, wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt that had shifted as she moved in her sleep to reveal—
That's not why you're here.
The small wooden cabinet rested atop the battered chest of drawers. There was nothing special about it, though it pretended to Asian heritage. He checked the sleeper again. Still dreaming. The little wooden door opened easily, and he looked at the bottle within. Runes literally crawled across its opaque surface.
No, that couldn't be right.
He reached for the slim neck and felt his skin crawl in protest as a bead of sweat ran down his spine. The merest brush of contact, and he was lost in a swirling storm of agonized screams and boiling blood. He jerked his hand back, biting his tongue in effort to remain silent.
It was a shaking hand that carefully closed the too-thin door on the cabinet, effectively hiding the bottle from view, although its shape seemed burned into his retinas. The few steps to the front door seemed to take an eternity, and it took all his will not to just run for the exit.
The goggles were shoved in his bag almost before he had the door open, and he stumbled at the shift in his vision, scattering the flip-flops to opposite sides of the room. There was no time to remedy the error, there was nothing but the overwhelming NEED to get out, to put as much distance as possible between himself and that damned... THING. He was already panting when he made the sidewalk and finally allowed himself to run.
Mere blocks away, and he was dead-bolting his own front door. His hands shook as they closed on the Maker's Mark bottle, his fingers settling on the hard red wax that had sealed the top. He fumbled for a glass, but gave up after the second attempt sent it skittering over the edge of the table to shatter on the floor.
Fuck.
The bourbon was smooth as it splashed into his mouth, the glorious warmth sliding down his throat like mother's milk. Two, three desperate swallows and he thought his world might start to make sense again. He shuddered at the unwelcome memory that spiked through his brain.
FUCK.
He was suddenly aware of how his clothes clung to him, sweat-sodden with fear. He left them in a trail to the shower, where he climbed under the cascading hot water, huddling on the tile floor, shivering. He reached up and twisted the cold tap almost closed, feeling as though he would never be warm again; never get the images out of his head.
What the fuck was she doing with something like that?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dee was suddenly and completely awake. Why? She didn't move, but kept her breathing slow and steady and just listened. Nothing. But she could almost swear she wasn't alone in the house... She slitted open her eyes just enough to see that it was dark. Too dark.
Was the power out? She listened for another long handful of heartbeats. The low, steady hum of the ceiling fan assured her all was well.
The darkness unnerved her. The light on the landing didn't have an off switch; it had taken her a week to get used to sleeping with its light leaking through the cheap miniblinds. Why was that light out, now?
It's an imperfect world; bulbs burn out all the time.
Although unmoving, Dee stilled herself further. She thought she had heard a sound... perhaps the whisper of fabric, as if shifting along an outstretched arm. Her heart hammered in her chest, pounded in her ears, and she bit back a curse as her own body robbed her of that briefest advantage.
Fuck.
Or did it? Again, louder this time. That breath of movement, the obvious sound of clothing. She didn't dare move, but strained with all of her being to pin a location to the sounds.
THERE. Someone was in the living room. She recognized the sound of the lightweight flip-flops as they slid across the tile. In a single fluid motion, Dee rolled from the bed, her hand reaching, closing around the baseball bat resting against the side of the mattress. Weapon raised, she darted through the darkened apartment, silent and furious. The front door stood open, and she rushed to the landing, barely catching a glimpse of her intruder as he-? she-? disappeared into the night.
FUCK.
Dee stepped back inside and closed the door before turning on all the lights. Nothing seemed to be amiss, although one of her shoes was in the tiny kitchen, and the other was barely visible beneath the sofa.
In the bedroom, the door of the wooden cabinet was not quite closed. In a panic, she opened the door completely. Dee sobbed with relief to see the bottle still in place. She pulled it to her, sinking onto the bed and wrapping herself around its oddly warm form.
It was safe. Thank the gods.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As was her wont in the late afternoon, Dee was sitting at an umbrella-shaded table, drinking a glass of white wine and watching the ocean. The remains of her meal had been cleared away, but that didn't stop the birds from eyeing her hopefully. A glossy black grackle squawked and shifted atop the sign that said, "Do not feed the birds" in five languages.
"Do you think they can read?"
"The tourists, or the birds?" she responded without turning.
He responded with a genuine laugh. "Both, I suppose."
Dee glanced at him, quickly, appraisingly; the fabric of his casual attire that spoke of money, his average yet almost delicate features, his grown-out haircut that brushed his shoulders, the way his smile somehow made him seem completely accessible.
Without a word, she used one foot to push the adjacent chair out from her table.
"Yes."
He paused for only a moment; having been caught trying to think of an excuse to ask to join her, then accepted her offer, placing his amber drink on the table in front of him.
"I'm Matt," he said, extending his hand.
