Declan
Up close, Malachi looked remarkably young, yet there was something unyieldingly composed in his posture. He had bright green-blue eyes and rosy cheeks, carrying an aura of quiet, grounded warmth. But as he looked at me, those bright eyes scanned my face with a sharp, lingering intensity—checking the dark hollows under my eyes, the tension in my jaw, the way my hand rested near my coat pocket.
"You look utterly exhausted," Malachi said gently, gesturing toward the porch. "Come inside. Get out of the damp before it catches in your chest."
"Thanks," I muttered, following him up the wide timber steps. "And... thanks for letting me stay here, Malachi. I know we don't really know each other. You didn't have to offer."
Malachi paused at the front door, turning his head slightly to look at me over his shoulder. "Julian spoke of you often, Declan. He held you in very high regard. That makes you family as far as I'm concerned. Please, call me Mal."
He pushed the heavy oak door open, and the scent of the house immediately hit me—rich cedar wood, beeswax, dry wool, and faint traces of antiseptic from the clinic nearby.
The foyer opened into a grand, vaulted living space. The ceiling stretched up two stories, supported by thick, hand-hewn logs. A massive river-stone fireplace dominated the far wall, where a low fire crackled softly, casting dancing orange shadows across dark leather sofas, polished hardwood floors, and thick woven rugs. It was grand, warm, and impeccably kept—almost suspiciously pristine for a man living alone in the middle of a wilderness.
"Let me show you around so you can settle in," Malachi said, stepping smoothly into the center of the hall.
He walked me through the ground floor with measured, easy strides. He pointed out the kitchen—a massive, chef-style space with copper cookware hanging from the ceiling and slate countertops—and the adjoining dining hall.
"I keep the kitchen fully stocked," Malachi explained, pointing to a large walk-in pantry. "Help yourself to whatever you need, whenever you need it. I know your schedule with the local homicide department starts in a couple of days, so don't worry about quiet hours. I sleep lightly anyway."
"Appreciate it," I said, my boots squeaking faintly against the polished wood as I trailed behind him. I kept my eyes moving, taking in every exit, every window, every shadowed corner out of pure detective habit.
We climbed a grand, curving staircase to the second-floor gallery. The upper level was lined with built-in bookshelves, antique glass cabinets, and dark framed artwork.
As we passed down the wide hallway toward the guest wing, something caught my eye.
I stopped dead in my tracks.
Hanging in a heavy, tarnished gold frame between two wall sconces was a large oil painting. It depicted a dense, shadowy mountain forest under a pale, full moon. The brushstrokes were thick, violent, and layered with eerie dark greens, blacks, and bruised purples. But in the center of the canvas, shrouded in mist near a craggy border of jagged rocks, was a shape—a faint, looming outline of a towering beast with golden eyes peering out from the canvas.
I couldn't look away.
A sudden, sharp pressure built in the center of my chest, making my breath catch in my throat. My heart gave a heavy, unnatural thud against my ribs. The painting seemed to pulse in the dim sconce light, pulling my gaze into its dark center with a strange, magnetic gravity that made my skin prickle with sudden, unexpected heat.
"Declan?" Malachi's voice snapped the thread.
I blinked hard, tearing my eyes away from the canvas. My heart was racing, a cold drop of sweat tracing down the back of my neck. I looked over at Malachi, who was standing a few feet further down the hall, watching me with a carefully neutral expression.
"You alright?" Malachi asked, his green-blue eyes narrowed just a fraction.
"Yeah," I rasped, clearing my throat and rubbing the back of my neck. "Yeah. Just... strange painting."
Malachi turned his head to glance at the artwork, a small, unreadable smile touching the corner of his lips. "It's a local piece. Painted decades ago by one of the reserve elders. The locals are fond of their dark folklore out here." He gestured toward a wooden door at the end of the hall. "Your room is right through here."
I forced my feet to move, pushing the strange, heavy feeling in my chest down into the dark corner where I kept all my other unexplainable reactions.
Malachi opened the door, revealing a spacious, comfortably furnished bedroom. It featured a king-sized bed with thick plaid blankets, a stone hearth with stacked firewood, and a massive set of glass French doors that opened onto a private second-story balcony overlooking the treeline.
"The bathroom is through that door," Malachi said, pointing to the left. "Fresh towels are in the vanity. My quarters are on the opposite side of the house, and the clinic is in the barn out back. If you hear dogs barking at night, it's usually just clients dropping off livestock or rescue cases."
"Understood," I said, dropping my duffel bag onto the bench at the foot of the bed.
Malachi lingered at the doorway, his hand resting on the brass handle. "The woods around here are deep, Declan. The Zephaniah Reserve borders my land right past the creek bed behind the barn. They don't take kindly to trespassers, official or otherwise. Stick to the main roads if you decide to clear your head."
I met his gaze, picking up on the quiet boundary he was setting. "I'm not in the habit of wandering around private property, Mal."
"Good," Malachi said softly, offering one last polite nod. "Get some rest, Dec. We'll talk in the morning."
He pulled the door shut, his soft footsteps fading down the hallway until the house fell completely silent once more.
By midnight, the silence inside the ranch house was no longer comforting. It was deafening.