Somewhere far from Stella's house, Simon lay sprawled on his couch, eyes closed but far from asleep. Memories stirred like shadows at the edge of his mind, creeping in with an intensity he couldn't shake. The forest, Lyra, the scent of damp earth—it all played back with brutal clarity, each detail crystal-clear.
A few days before Stella's attack, he'd felt a familiar, uneasy pull. Without a second thought, he'd taken off on his bike, tearing down darkened roads until he reached the edge of the woods. The air had been thick with tension as he stepped off his bike and walked deeper into the trees. He knew Lyra would sense him coming; that was exactly what he wanted. Finally, he stopped beside a towering tree, the shadows pressing in around him.
Then, without warning, a sharp whistling sound cut through the air. An arrow hurtled toward him, its tip gleaming in the moonlight. Simon's hand shot up, catching it mid-flight, snapping it in half with an almost bored flick of his wrist. He let the broken pieces fall to the ground and smirked, his voice low and taunting as he called out.
"Come on out, Lyra. You and I both know these arrows couldn't even scratch me," he drawled, the words carrying an icy undertone that echoed through the trees.
From the shadows, a woman in her forties emerged, her form youthful and lithe, her skin ageless thanks to the dark magic pulsing through her veins. Her eyes blazed with anger and caution as she stepped forward, her gaze unwavering.
"What do you want, Simon?" she spat, her voice hard and laced with venom.
Simon's smirk widened, his eyes glittering with a deadly charm. He stepped closer, the distance between them shrinking as he spoke with a tone that could chill blood. "Oh, sweetheart," he said, mockingly gentle, "I just want to talk… Or maybe kill you if you waste my time with nonsense."
Lyra swallowed, her defiance faltering beneath his gaze. She kept her face still, but her hands trembled slightly, betraying her unease. She knew Simon was far from the impatient fool he pretended to be. His calm was more deadly than any temper, a calculated quiet that reminded her of a predator circling its prey.
Without a word, she turned, leading him to a patch of twisted roots knotted with earth and moss. Her hands shook as she brushed aside layers of mud, her fingers scraping against the hidden latch of an old, weathered hatch. The wooden door creaked as she pried it open, the darkness yawning below. She cast a quick, reluctant look back at him, but he only gave her a slight nod, an unspoken command to continue. She could feel his eyes on her, sharp and unyielding, urging her to quicken her pace.
Together, they descended into the gloom. The narrow staircase wound down, swallowed by shadows that seemed to stretch endlessly beneath the earth. The only sounds were their breaths and the faint crackle of candles below, casting unsettling shadows that twisted and crawled along the stone walls.
At the bottom, the cavernous space of her hideout came into view—a witch's sanctuary, dark and ancient. Shelves carved from stone held dusty tomes and strange relics, some still crusted with dried herbs or faded blood. Jars lined the walls, filled with unknown substances that glowed faintly in the dim light, casting eerie reflections. Ritual markings were scrawled across the floor, some still fresh, others faded with age. The scent of musty earth mingled with sharp herbs, creating a mix that felt almost suffocating.
Lyra took a step back, her body tense, as Simon's gaze roved over her sanctuary with a gleam of cold satisfaction. His eyes glinted in the dim light, an unholy hunger seeping into his stare as he absorbed every hidden corner, every forbidden relic.
"So, here we are," she managed, her voice betraying an edge of defiance.
Simon's smirk vanished, replaced by a chilling calm. His eyes narrowed, taking in the symbols scrawled across the walls, the jagged lines that seemed to writhe under his scrutiny. There was a predator's thrill in his gaze, one that made her blood run cold. She could feel it—the darkness around him, a force that had nothing to do with her magic and everything to do with his.
He took a step closer, the glint in his eyes sharp as a blade. "You've got quite the collection here, Lyra," he murmured, his voice like ice slipping beneath her skin. "Let's hope it's worth my time."
Simon leaned back in the chair, stretching his arms in a leisurely manner that belied the sharp glint in his eyes as he observed Lyra with a predatory patience. The dim glow of her makeshift cellar cast eerie shadows, making the entire scene feel as if it were suspended in time. He traced his fingers along the edge of the table, each movement slow, deliberate, and slightly mocking, as though he were savoring the tense energy building around them.
Sighing, Lyra suppressed her irritation. She knew better than to give in to his taunts; she was aware of the deadly force he wielded, his kind known for cruelty and an eerie charm that could ensnare minds. She straightened, her expression neutral, as she gathered a handful of ingredients for the spell he demanded. She shot him a sideways glare, thinking how easy it would be to drive a stake through his heart—if only he weren't so infuriatingly powerful.
"I'll be brief," Simon said, watching her with an unnerving intensity. "I found a mermaid," he continued, letting the words hang in the air, each syllable laced with dark satisfaction.
Lyra froze for a second, feeling a jolt of both intrigue and dread. A mermaid. The power such a being held was legendary, their rarity unmatched, and finding one of them was like stumbling upon a myth. "A mermaid," she repeated, the word barely escaping her lips. "And yet you came to me?" Her tone was guarded, but she couldn't hide the faint trace of interest flickering in her eyes.
Simon's face remained an unreadable mask as he crossed his arms, his gaze never leaving her. "I didn't come here for pleasantries, Lyra. I need answers. What kind of mermaid is she?"
"For that, I'll need specifics," Lyra replied, steadying her voice as she pulled a crumbling old tome from her collection. "I need to know her birth date."
Simon's voice was cold, precise. "October 15th. Eighteen years ago."
With a nod, Lyra's hands worked quickly, sifting herbs, chalking symbols on an ancient parchment, and whispering words that sounded like the breath of the forest itself. Shadows gathered as she invoked old magic, calling upon secrets buried deep in her bloodline. Her voice grew louder, crackling with an energy that sent shivers down the spine. Simon watched with a look of dark satisfaction as the glow of magic built around her, swirling and pulsing like the heartbeat of something ancient.
Finally, Lyra's eyes snapped open, her face pale but resolute. A shiver of something dark and foreboding seemed to ripple through her as she held Simon's gaze. "There was no mermaid born on that day," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, but the words held the weight of an unexpected mystery.
Simon's eyes narrowed as he processed her words. Lyra was annoyingly efficient, her magic precise, her knowledge vast; she never got things wrong. The memory of touching Stella's feet, feeling the undeniable shape of a mermaid's bone structure, resurfaced in his mind. That night, he knew instantly what she was. And yet… Lyra's spell suggested otherwise.
"Are you sure?" His voice was laced with suspicion, yet somewhere beneath, a sliver of intrigue was weaving through. Lyra gave a single, solemn nod, a flicker of unease darting across her otherwise composed face.
Simon's lips curved in a dangerous smile, his eyes holding Lyra's in a chilling gaze. "Then I'll see you soon," Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Lyra alone to feel the residual chill of his presence.