Chapter 23: Shadows on the Porch

Kaelen’s POV

Three yards down the unpaved track of Old Lighthouse Road, the rain turned into a thick, sticky drizzle inside the black SUV.

I didn't switch off the engine until the vehicle rolled to a silent halt under the sagging branches of a coastal tea tree. The forest surrounding me was a dark, gloomy wall, filled with the odour of damp soil, salt spray, and the slight, pungent smell of burnt pine carried on the onshore wind.

I sat in the quiet cabin for a long time, holding on to the leather steering wheel with such a grip that the skin on my knuckles turned white.

The encrypted phone in my breast pocket was silent. I had instructed Devlin to lock off all incoming transmissions, to cut the audio link with the mobile command centre, and to keep my security detail at the highway junction. If I moved my armed guards up this narrow dirt track, or if the glare of the tactical lights pierced through the cypress trees, the delicate strand which was holding my world together would break beyond repair.

I opened the door and stepped out into the night.

The air was extremely cold, sharp, and pressing into my chest as I drew my coat closely around my neck. Each step I took along the gravel path felt heavy and deliberate, like a man walking towards a firing squad. My leather boots sank into the mud, the faint sound dampened by the constant roar of the sea hitting the limestone cliffs situated half a mile to the west.

Up ahead, through the dense weave of the cypress trees, a weak yellow light flickered.

The kind of devastating fire that Victoria's mercenaries had promised over the radio didn't happen. It wasn't the scorched, smouldering wreck that Devlin had feared. As I cleared the last curve in the track, the actual layout of the property became visible in the faint twilight that came after sunset.

The old pump shed located on the far eastern ridge was reduced to a pile of scorched, steaming beams dripping in the rain. But the main cottage, which was protected by a dense scrub of oak trees positioned fifty yards downwind from the shed, remained untouched. Its weathered timber siding was dark from the rain and the corrugated iron roof rusted at the eaves, but from the small multi-paned window facing the porch, a warm, buttery light poured out onto the wet grass.

My heart gave a sudden and violent thud against my ribs so sharp it caused my knees to weaken for a moment.

I stopped at the edge of the gravel turnaround and stepped into the deep shadow of an old cypress tree.

My breath formed little white clouds against the dark. I remained there completely still, my eyes directed at the narrow wooden porch.

Three stone steps led up to a sagging screen door. Beside the bottom step, a pair of small, mud-spattered red gumboots sat next to a folded oilskin coat. Beside them was a wooden toy sailboat with a broken mast, its white string entangled in the wet grass.

I looked at the little wooden sailboat. My throat tightened so much that I could barely draw some air.

A child.

Four years of cold rage, carefully planned revenge, and convincing myself that Valkyrie was a mercenary who had exchanged my heart for corporate gold… all of it began to dissolve into an unbearable and suffocating ache.

Slowly, as if moving through deep water, I forced my feet forward. I walked across the wet lawn, keeping my boots on the grass to silence the sound of my steps until I was standing at the foot of the steps.

The wind shifted its direction, and a sound drifted out into the cold night air through the gap in the lace curtains that were covering the window.

It was a soft, melodious giggle, bright, carefree, and pure.

The sound of a young boy laughing.

My breath caught in my throat. I stood frozen at the bottom of the steps, my hands resting against the coarse porch pillar for support.

"Again, Mommy! Please do it again!" The small voice cried out from inside, clear and sweet over the sounds of sea breeze in the background.

"Lachlan," the voice said, "the knight can only move in an L-shape."

That was her voice. Deeper than I remembered, frayed with a quiet exhaustion, but undeniable. The same voice that whispered against my shoulder in the dark before the world broke down. The voice that I had struggled with for four terrible years to get rid of my memory.

"Like a horse?" the boy asked, followed by the soft clatter of a wooden piece striking the board.

"Just like a horse, my brave boy," Valkyrie whispered. A gentle, quiet pause followed, the sound of a chair being dragged across the floor. "Now have your warm milk; Uncle Hamish said the generator will lose power in ten minutes. We need to have your story finished before the lights go out."

I didn’t realize I was moving until my boot touched the first wooden step.

The timber gave a small, painful squeak under my weight.

Inside, the laughing stopped instantly.

The silence that came after was suffocating, heavy enough to squeeze the air straight out of my lungs. I noticed a tall, slim figure rise quickly from the small kitchen table, and a shadow moved towards the wall, reaching for something close to the coat rack.

I took the second step, then the third.

My hand stretched out, my fingers trembling slightly as they reached for the iron handle of the door. My mind was a chaotic storm of conflicting emotions, unbearable love, toxic doubt, fear, and a desperate burning need to look into her eyes and demand the truth about the dummy, Victoria, and the boy whose laughter was still echoing in my ears.

I placed my palm against the cool surface of the door.

"Valkyrie ..." I whispered, the name torn from the very deepest part of my soul, barely loud enough to pass through the wood.

A sharp, cold metallic click echoed from the dark corner to my right on the porch before my thumb could press down on the latch.

I didn’t even have time to turn my head before a 12-gauge hunting shotgun was forced firmly against the side of my neck, pinning my head against the wooden doorframe.

“Don’t move, Kaelen," Hamish whispered, his thumb pulling back the hammer with a sickening clack. “Otherwise, I’ll spill your brains over this porch before she opens the door.”