Rain fell softly against the windows of the Colton house; a gentle rhythm that made Sarah think. She sat in the nursery, the faint glow of a nightlight that casted a soft shadow across the room as she rocked the baby in her arms. Jon, her infant son, cool and warm, unaware of the missing piece of her heart.
Her gaze lingered on his delicate features—the dark brown eyes, the shape of his nose—and an unsettling certainty settled over her. He wasn't Rick's child. He was Jack's.
Jack, the mechanic who had stolen her heart years ago. Jack, with his quiet strength and piercing dark eyes. She thought of how he would hold her, his touch electric, his words sparse but deliberate. For years, she had let him fill the hole in her marriage, sneaking away late-night walks.
Jon whimpered, and she gently rocked him again, her heart aching with the weight of her choices. Rick had been good to her, at least in the beginning. She hadn't even known why she'd agreed to marry him. Was it his family? The Fezziwig's, the wealthiest and most influential family in town, Rick rejected for reasons he refused to share?
She glanced at Rick as he stepped out of the bathroom, a towel slung over his shoulders. His damp hair clung to his forehead, and she found herself recoiling slightly at the sight of him. He wasn't a bad man, but he wasn't Jack.
Her thoughts drifted again to Jack, who had left town weeks ago without explanation. He hadn't even said goodbye. She'd only heard from the local that he'd taken a job somewhere out of state. The bitterness in her chest flared. Had she just been a convenient distraction for him? A plaything?
Rick caught her staring. "You, okay?" he asked, his voice heavy with exhaustion.
She smiled, but didn't mean it. "Fine. Just tired."
Rick nodded, running a hand through his hair as he moved toward the bed. "You should get some sleep," he murmured.
Before she could answer, a noise echoed from downstairs—a rustling sound that froze them both. Rick's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. "Did you hear that?"
Sarah nodded, her pulse quickening. "What was it?"
Rick moved quickly, grabbing the shotgun mounted above the bedroom door. "Stay here," he ordered, his voice low but firm.
"No, Rick—"
"Stay," he repeated, his tone brooking no argument. her breath shallow as she followed him to the top of the stairs. The noise came again, louder this time, a scraping sound like nails dragging across wood.
Rick descended cautiously; the shotgun raised. The dim light of the kitchen illuminated a shadow—a figure cloaked in darkness, unnaturally tall, with glowing violet eyes that burned like embers. Sarah's heart seized.
"Who's there?" Rick demanded, his voice trembling despite his attempt at authority.
The figure stepped forward, its movements deliberate and unnerving, it was like it was pulled by invisible strings. Its breath rasped, each exhale carrying the stench of sulfur, each breath felt like pain, the unnatural tall figure wore a tall hat, that looked Victorian.
"Burn," it rumbled, the word resonating like a death knell.
Rick looks at this a says "my family where right, am a fool. "
The kitchen erupted in flames, fire consuming the walls and ceiling with an unnatural speed. Rick fired the shotgun, the blast deafening, but the figure didn't flinch. It tilted its head, almost amused, before raising a hand. The fire spread, licking across the floor and climbing the staircase.
Sarah screamed as the inferno reached them. Rick's voice was a distant echo, shouting something she couldn't make out as the heat engulfed them. The last thing Sarah saw was the figure's violet eyes, unblinking as everything dissolved into ash.
The Firefighters worked tirelessly, dousing the last stubborn embers, while paramedics moved quickly but solemnly, their faces grim. The wreckage was a charred skeleton of what had once been a home, the scent of burnt wood and sulfur lingering in the air.
Among the responders stood a man dressed in a sleek black suit, his dark hair slicked back from the rain. Tony Fezziwig surveyed the scene with an intensity that drew the attention of those around him. He carried himself with a quiet authority, his polished shoes crunching over wet debris as he moved toward the bodies.
A firefighter gently lifted a corner of the rag covering Sarah and Rick, murmuring something to Tony. He knelt beside them, his expression carefully controlled as his gaze lingered on Rick's face. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached out and picked up a small object lying in the ash near Rick's hand. It was a coin—ancient-looking, its surface tarnished but engraved with strange symbols.
Tony straightened; the coin pressed between his fingers. His jaw tightened as he slipped it into his pocket. "He was a fool," he said softly, his voice low, barely audible over the crackling remnants of the fire. "But he was still my brother."
There was no grief in his voice—only a bitter sadness, as though he had expected this outcome. He turned as a woman in a police uniform approached, her boots kicking up ash as she came to a stop beside him. Her auburn hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, and her badge glinted in the faint glow of the fire engine lights.
"What do we have, Fezziwig?" she asked, her voice brisk but edged with concern.
Tony glanced at her; his expression grim. "This wasn't an accident," he said, pulling the coin from his pocket and holding it up. "The Council needs to know about this. Tonight."
The woman's eyes widened as she studied the coin, recognition flickering across her face. "You're sure?" she asked, her tone now hushed.
Tony nodded. "This is their mark. And if they're involved…" He trailed off, his gaze drifting toward the ambulance where paramedics huddled around a small figure. A child.
Jon.
Tony's eyes narrowed as he walked toward the ambulance, the woman following close behind. Jon sat wrapped in a thick blanket, his dark eyes wide and unblinking, his face smudged with soot but otherwise unscathed. One of the paramedics looked up as Tony approached.
"It's incredible," the paramedic said, shaking his head. "Not a single scratch on him. He was in the middle of it all, and yet…" He gestured helplessly.
Tony crouched down to meet Jon's gaze, his sharp features softening for a moment. "Hey, kid," he said gently, his voice barely above a whisper. Jon didn't respond, his tiny hands clutching the blanket tightly.
The woman nodded, her hand resting instinctively on the holster at her side. "I'll call it in."
Above them, the rain continued to fall, the cold drops hissing as they met the embers of the fire.