Mercy

Havermouth, Present Time

In the suburban streets, they had encountered no other cars, but there was some traffic on the road towards the warehouse district. Everyone drove just that little bit slower than normal and leaned forward over their steering wheels in order to gaze around, dazed by the damages of the storm.

The gutters ran heavy with water, flowing around embankments of debris, leaf matter and sodden rubbish that had been carried by the rain. Windows were broken or blown out, other properties had branches that had fallen onto their rooves, or sheets of roofing that had been carried off by the wind and the property owners were spreading tarp over the openings in case the rain returned.

“It looks like a war zone,” Aislen observed.

“No,” Talen shook his head, but his tone was mild. “A war zone is much worse.”

“You have seen many wars,” she realized, looking up at him. His profile was perfect, she thought, and her fingers itched to draw it, the long strong line of brow and nose,