2
SILAS
The dying light of a million stars stares down at us, the ocean’s roar like the closing notes of an opera, both steeped in tragedy — what have I done?
The dark-haired woman is crouched with her back against the railing on the far side of the boardwalk, a knife clenched in her hand as if she may lunge at me. Perhaps she will, but that is a fight she will lose.
I heard her coming well before she took notice of me, but not in the way I hear most humans. Her inner voice is shrouded in static like a radio tuned half a click south of the wrong station. But her scent … that’s unmistakable, heavy and sultry and flowery, like nothing I’ve smelled recently. Or ever. I want to touch her — to taste her. I clench my fists, nails digging crescents into my palms.
I want to savor that scent,
