Page 42 of Palingenesis

I swallow hard. “Yeah, look, I haven’t been avoiding you and I like your husband—” Morgan flinches like he’s about to lunge at me and I rush out, “—as a friend, I swear—but I don’t know. The move has fucked with me really bad, worse than anticipated, and being here just feels like… I don’t know. Off. And I’m having nightmares and—”

Gods, stop fucking talking, Shannon.

“Nightmares?”

“Uh… yeah. Hallucinations, weird fucking memories—” Pull up, Shannon, fuck. “Yeah anyway. I’m sorry.”

I stick my hand out between us, my other still up in the air in surrender, and Morgan just stares at my offering like I’ve sprinted a leg from my palm.

Then he inhales deeply, lip curling and I return my hands to their position of surrender.

“You smell the smoke?” he asks, his dark eyes assessing me hard. Like a predator does right before it decides if its opposition is friend or prey.

Letting out a deep sigh and accepting whatever fate comes next, I drop my arms to my sides and I nod. “I can’t stop smelling it–or seeing it. Fucking tasting it.”

Gods, do I taste it.

Rich, with a tang on my tongue that hasn’t subsided no matter how much I work it over with my spit. Not even the tequila has dulled it like I hoped for and I’ve just been enjoying the taste of smoked liquor since I sat down here.

“Did you let him in?” he asks, drawing my attention back to his bearded face.

My shoulders slump. “I couldn’t help it.”

The admission feels heavy on my tongue, the insanity of it all playing over and over in my head, and yet I still can’t seem to make any sense of it.

Why me? Why now?

What the fuck did I let in?

It all points to existence of the paranormal–or that I’ve finally lost my marbles. Neither of which I’m prepared to accept but as Morgan guides me back to the bar, his whole vibe shifting from overbearing to somewhat defeated, I can’t help but wonder.

Just because I can’t accept it, doesn’t mean it isn’t true.

Silently, Morgan slides another pour my way, then takes one for himself. He throws it back with a hiss and immediately pours another.

“Gods, this isn’t good,” I murmur and follow suit.

He eyes me for a moment, then downs another shot.

“My family has been here for a long time,” he finally says. “But not as long as other things.” The way he words it raises the hair on the back of my neck. “My kin flocked here for a reason. They always told the stories of land and privacy, but there’s something more to it.”

I lean against the bar, listening intently and waiting for more to come out of his mouth. An explanation, a reason–fucking anything to help put things into perspective.

“There’s a line, some manage to straddle it, but a line between human and… other. These woods—the mountains—make that line almost nonexistent.”

Blinking, I grip my glass tighter. “Say it,” I mutter. “Just fucking say it.”

“His legend is one that people tell over a campfire in the dead of night, one that leaves you trembling.”

My stomach drops out my ass, and sparks dance across my skin.

“A scary story?” I whisper, too afraid to give it more credit than that. “A bedtime tale.”

Morgan tosses back his next drink and slams the glass down so violently that it cracks.

Finally, he nods. “But all tales start with some root of the truth–a bear shitting in the woods, a bird made of flames.”

A flash of that singed feather fills my mind and I swallow hard. “Made of flames…”