Page 45 of Malevolent Hearts
Out of nowhere Lucas barrels up the staircase behind us, his breaths coming fast, eyes wide with urgency. “Fucking hell. Where have you been, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“I’m right here… unfortunately.” I’m aware I’m being dramatic, but I don’t have any fucks left.
“Well, while you were drowning yourself in liquor, I was down near the cliffs, and I saw Beibhinn. She was heading towards the lighthouse.”
His words strike me, a lightning bolt cleaving through the haze of intoxication. Beibhinn. Her name stirs the embers of something dangerous and raw within me. “Beibhinn,” I repeat aloud. A prayer, a curse, and a revelation all at once. My pulse quickens, thudding against my temples, demanding action, daring me to go to her.
“Uh-oh. Don’t do anything stupid, Cadden,” Brodie warns, but his voice fades into the background, a distant murmur against the pounding of my heart and the chaos that Lucas’s words have unleashed.
“I need to see her. Where are my keys?” I panic as I pat my pockets, the words thick on my tongue.
“Not a chance, mate. You’re fucking wasted. You’ll be driving nowhere. Not tonight.” Brodie’s grip is firm on my arm, his stance unyielding as the foundation of this godforsaken house. He’s right, of course, but the logic of it doesn’t quench the fire in my veins.
“Then I’ll walk.” My hands clench at my sides, itching for the keys they cannot have.
“Walk? To the lighthouse? Dude you can barely stand straight,” Brodie scoffs, but his eyes betray his understanding. He knows the pull she has on me, an invisible thread taut with years of resistance and desire.
“I only had two beers,” Lucas interjects, his voice slicing through the fog in my head. “I can take you over there.”
“Lucas, you’ve been promoted to best friend,” I breathe out, relief washing over me like the first rain after a drought. Salvation comes in unlikely forms—tonight, it wears Lucas’s face.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Brodie says, his brow creased with worry. “For what it’s worth, I think going over there, out of your mind, is fucking asking for trouble. Promise me you won’t do anything you’ll regret.”
Regret is a relative term, lost on a man driven by something primal, something that defies reason and caution. I nod, more to placate Brodie than any real promise of sensibility.
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Lucas says, steering me towards the door. His hand is steady on my shoulder.
Once we’re outside again, I lift my chin and aim my gaze at the sky. The stars are out, mocking me with their serene glow, so distant and untouchable. They know nothing of the torture brewing beneath my skin or of the longing that sets my path ablaze.
“Come on, Casanova. The stars will be here again tomorrow. Same can’t be said for your prickly princess.”
After following him across the drive, we reach the car in quick time, and I release a chuckle. “Fairy tales normally have a carriage poised to carry the prince to the princess.”
“Sorry, they ran out of horses at the dealership,” Lucas quips. “Now get in before I rethink my offer.”
Before long, the lighthouse comes into view. Lucas kills the engine, and the world falls silent except for the distant crash of waves against unforgiving cliffs.
“Do you want me to come up with you?” he asks, his voice a low hum in the cocoon of stillness.
A beat skips in my chest, then steadies. “No,” I rasp, the word tasting of salt and resolve. “Best if I face her alone.” I exit the car, and my feet betray my bravado, every step an uneven dance with gravity.
The wind is a whispering spectre, weaving through my hair, carrying the briny scent of the ocean. Leaving Lucas behind, I push through the painted red door and begin my ascent up the stone stairs. Each step higher is a laborious climb from the abyss the drink has cast me into. Finally, I reach the top and enter my library room with ragged breaths. One last hurdle before me, I fumble up the ladder to my makeshift bedroom. It takes several attempts, but finally, I succeed.
My gaze tracks across the darkened space, then there she is—perched on the edge of my bed like a siren born of moonbeams and midnight sins. Her presence is a tangible ache in the air, pulling me towards her as if the very cosmos demands it.
“Beibhinn,” her name escapes me, a prayer from lips that have tasted too much whiskey and not enough truth.
She doesn’t stir, doesn’t speak, just sits there, bathed in lunar glow, a vision that stitches the frayed edges of my reality together. My heart drums a reckless rhythm, resembling a captive bird thrashing against the cage of my ribs. With each step I take towards her, the room spins a little less, the haze lifts a fraction, and the impossibility of her being here sharpens into painful focus.
“Beibhinn,” I try again, the sound barely above a whisper, afraid that any louder might break the spell or scatter her existence to the winds. In the hallowed silence of the watch deck, where only the stars are witness to our fractured history, I dare to believe that redemption might exist in the curve of her shadow, in the silent conversation between our souls. “You came.”
The moon carves out her silhouette, a dark promise against the pale light. Black boots climb up her legs, a sharp contrast to the delicate play of moonbeams reflecting against her colourless hair. Her attire is a whisper of danger—fishnet tights and a leathery looking minidress that clings to her like second skin, fashioned from shadows and maybe, just maybe, sin itself. “Pretty Poison,” I croak, the syllables thick with intoxication and disbelief, “why did you come here?”
She remains silent, an enigma wrapped in the night’s embrace. My vision blurs, and I squint, trying to make sense of this apparition. The room spins gently, as if caught in a slow waltz with my unsteady mind. I’m adrift in a sea of doubt and whiskey fumes.
“Answer me,” I plead, my voice rising, tinged with the frustration of a man who has lost too much to believe in miracles. But she remains mute, a living statue, and I’m left clawing at the reality of her presence.
Is this some cruel trick of the liquor? A figment born from the depths of my yearning? I recall the last time I saw her, where words were weapons and our hearts the casualties. There had been fire in her eyes then, a tempest unleashed. Now, there’s only silence—a void where her voice should be.