I feel strangely rattled. I’ve never been stuck like this. I’ve watched him from a distance for months, memorized every motion, learned every secret. Now I’m close enough to smell him. His skin. Salt and soap and rain. And he doesn’t even know my name.

I can still see the anger in his face.

Anger because he’s afraid. I am making him afraid.

Fine. Let him be angry. Let him feel something, anything, for me.

“There’s a darkness at work here,” I tell him. “It’s been getting stronger. Now it’s ready to act.”

“Here,” he says tersely. “In my house.”

“In this town. In the woods.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes. The woods. He wonders what I know, but he can’t ask. He can’t admit that this is something we share.

I watch the flicker turn from fear to doubt and then into disbelief. He flattens his feelings into sarcasm. A smile that’s almost a smirk.

“A darkness,” he says. “Okay. Next are you going to tell me that metal is the music of Satan and invite me to come get born again at your church?”

“No,” I say. “It has nothing to do with metal.”

I’ve gone about this all wrong. He’s not going to listen; he’s not going to admit that he believes me, not even to himself. I should have known better. But I wanted this. I wanted him to open his window.

Anders looks at me now like he can hardly believe he’s still listening, standing here, letting cold rain splash through his window.

“All right,” he says at last. “Well. If you’ve ever got something else really important to tell me, maybe you could do it in daylight, at the Crow’s Nest or somewhere, instead of sneaking across our lawn and staring into my bedroom window.”

The words shove me backward for an instant.

For that instant I’m only what he sees. The crazy niece of the crazy local drunk. The obsessed, rain-drenched fan peeping into his bedroom in the middle of the night.

He reaches up to close the window.

“Did you give her anything?” I ask.

He freezes. His hands are still on the window. “What?”

“That woman,” I say, slow and clear. “Did you give her anything? Even your word?”

There’s a long, silent moment. Wet wind gusts between us. He drops one arm, keeping the other on the window frame.

“No,” he says at last.

“Good.” I step closer again, putting my fingers back on the windowsill. Closer to him. “But they won’t give up. They’ll keep trying until they claim you.”

Or destroy you. But I don’t tell him that. It’s kinder, I think. Besides, his face is hardening into skepticism again.

“So, the music business people are the darkness you were talking about.” He smiles. It doesn’t get anywhere near his eyes. “Okay. I’ve never heard it put that way before, but I bet some bands would agree.” His arm tenses, and he starts to pull the window down. “Thanks for the warning.”