The stars are hiding tonight.

Shivering, Tory yanks her jacket's cord tighter, feeling it dig into her middle. The gloom sits heavily over the street before her, condensing in a fog thick and choking as smoke. She ducks her head as she marches through it. Chills hang like icicles in the air, piercing her in every direction and turning her hands so numb she can barely grip her satchel. She should have grabbed some gloves this morning. Curse her morning brain for convincing her that she could in some way resist the cold.

As she rounds a corner, she steals a glance at the sky. The fog conceals its details, melds its velvet swathes into darkened grey, even the moon a mere smudge of fuzzy silver light. Darkness is cramped. It closes in like a series of tight walls, a cage, coiling around the town in the form of a gigantic serpent slowly constricting her chest.

It brings a flood of relief to finally slip inside her front door and shove it roughly closed behind her, sealing out this beast of an evening. She tosses her jacket onto a chair already piled high with dirty washing and drags herself into the next room, collapsing onto her bed, hearing its springs squeak under her weight like machinery in need of oiling. A series of problems for another day, the cold freezing them in some far corner of her mind. She'll thaw them out in the morning. It's too late to think now.

It's then she realises that the house isn't entirely quiet.

Halfway through peeling back the thin sheet, she stiffens. A soft scuttling resonates through the room, as if some great insect has crawled into the pipework and is on a mission to find the exit. Considering the last time she cleaned the drainage, that wouldn't be surprising.

But the sound doesn't come from the walls, or the roof. The longer she listens, the easier it is to pinpoint its location. Rising, she fumbles for her bedstand, extracting a match from the box discarded there and striking it. Its burst of light guides her to the lamp's wick. She shakes it out, then grabs the lamp by the handle, thrusting it towards the far corner.

Nothing reveals itself but the single, worn handle that leads to her closet. The other is an empty hole, chipped at the edges, waiting to be fixed. She can't remember when it broke. By now, its absence is so familiar that she doesn't see much use in replacing it. Bending down, she peers through the hole, the flicker of the lamp's flame leaking in a sliver of light.

It's impossible to see anything. She realises with a jolt that the scuffling has stopped. If anything, the silence sweeps in with a greater chill. Gritting her teeth, she shoves open the closet door.

An old glass bottle topples out, hitting the ground with a sharp crack that makes her jump. She shakes herself, forcing her gaze to examine the rest of the closet's interior.

Nothing. Her light sweeps over the threadbare shirts, the rusted cans, the spiderwebs clinging to the single shelf as it hangs on a decided angle. She sighs. No wonder this place is creepy. She needs to clean it someday.

Peering deeper inside, she attempts to calm her heart. It's started thrashing without reason, beating faster as she studies the closet's darker corners. Cold clings to her skin as if she's stepped outside again. She takes in a shaky breath.

"Nothing," she snaps, letting her voice fill the warped quiet. "There's nothing there, Tory. Get ahold of yourself."

Still, she can't help but lay the lamp on the floor before she shuts the door, drawing comfort from the flickering line of light it etches underneath. She can't take her eyes off it as she backs up to the bed, climbs under the blankets. Child's play. A little light to chase away the shadows, a way to pretend that the darkness doesn't scare her. It shouldn't. It hides nothing but dust.

She pins it with her stare. The line of light shines merrily away. Laying back, she pulls her blankets tighter, trying to relax.

Then the lamp goes out.

With a gasp, she sits bolt upright. The dark's cage is back, clutching at her lungs. She moves on fearful instinct, turning over, wrenching open the bedstand's drawer, snatching up the half-melted candle from its very back. Another hurried match illuminates the room in muted flame again. It's enough guidance to close a hand around the second object in the drawer, the cool metal surface of a gun.

Holding her breath, she advances on the closet. The candle's flicker is turning eerie, only helping the shadows to dance in the corners of her vision. The greater reassurance she finds in the trigger she rests a finger on.

Its necessity comes from human threats. She never thought she'd be wielding it in the direction of a noise from the dark. Perhaps the late hour is driving her mad.

Mad and stupid, and yet very real fear trickles down her spine, cooled by the press of the dark.

The scuffling is back, a shift of movement that doesn't cease this time as she reaches the closet doors. She clicks the safety off her gun. Deep breath. It should be nothing. She'll prepare for the worst regardless.

Bracing herself, Tory kicks open the closet and aims into its depths.

Right at the tiny chest of a boy.

He yelps, scrambling back, bare feet skidding over loose papers until he falls with a thud against the wall. His arms are thrown up to shield his eyes. He whimpers, curling into himself in his desperation to get away from her. Beside him, the lamp lays on its side, a brief wisp of smoke curling from the extinguished wick.

Tory is frozen. She stares, baffled, hardly conscious that she hasn't yet lowered her gun.

"Go away!" His voice matches in every way the child he appears, pitched high and trembling with fear, and yet it shocks her. What had she been expecting? The guttural growl of a monster from such a small thing?

"Please." His heels drag over the floor, pushing in a futile motion. "It hurts."

His pitiful tone wrenches her from her stupor. Crouching down, she lays the gun on the ground with care, showing him her empty palm. "I'm not going to hurt you."

An animalistic whine accompanies his further shuffle, his knees drawing up to his chest. "The light." He shivers, his breathing ragged.

She glances at the candle in her hand. "You want me to put it out?" She bites her tongue, hearing her voice's waver. The top of his head bobs, a tangled nest of dark hair dipping in and out of sight, and she draws in a sharp breath. "You realise I won't be able to see a thing without it?"

That stills him. Slowly, his face emerges, his eyes only just peering over his arms' protection. They reflect the shadows, a mirror image of the misty night outside. "You... can't see?"

"Not without light, no." She frowns, still trying to extract sense from the situation. Confusion has set like a fog amongst her thoughts, concealing all remnants of logic. "Why, can you?"

Another hesitant nod. "The light..." He winces, twisting away from the candle's flame. "The light makes it harder."

"Okay." Tory picks up the gun again. He flinches, beady eyes darting to it, but she gives her head a firm shake and crosses back to rest it atop the bedstand. Open and available to reach, but as far from her hand as possible. She's learned enough about the world to know to be cautious, even when presented with apparent innocence.

She glances back at the boy, cowering in the corner of her closet, and a fist closes around her heart. Yet she can't see any way that he'd hurt her. The bigger question is how he got there in the first place.

And why he's afraid of light.

Resting the candle on the bedstand as well, she turns back towards him. "Is that better? When it's further away?"

"A bit." He unfurls, gradually, arms wrapping around his legs instead. Torn rags cling to his thin frame, clearly made for when he was even smaller than he is now. The faintest purple eats at the edges, a faded hint of original colour, but all else has fallen to stains. He can't be more than six or seven. Why is he alone?

"Where are your parents?" she asks before she can help herself.

"My..." His brows furrow. "What?"

An icy spike cuts through Tory's heart. She swallows around the sudden lump in her throat, unsure where to proceed from there. How can she have even considered him a threat? He's just a boy, scared and lost. Abandoning the gun, she slips into the shadowed corner, kneeling down just outside the closet in order to sink closer to his level while leaving a stretch of safe distance between them. He lets out a soft gasp but doesn't squirm away.

"You're not in trouble." She keeps her voice low, edged with the barest smile. "I just want to understand. How did you get in here?"

"The..." He twists around, wide eyes flickering with confusion as if he expected to see a miniature door carved open in the wall beside him. "The whispers told me to come in, so I came." His tongue runs over his lips, nervous, but his gaze sharpens when he looks back to her. "I'm hungry."

An involuntary flinch shudders through her. For a moment, the black sheen of his eyes loses all reflection of the candlelight, deep and empty as twin voids. He blinks, and it's gone.

She stands up a little more abruptly than she means to. "I'll get you something to eat, then. Would you like that?"

He nods, watching her with eager intensity. Part of her is relieved to dart out of his sight, into the next room, only realising when she gets there the challenge of locating her kitchen cupboards in the dark. She doesn't dare light another lamp, not wanting to scare the boy again. Thankfully, muscle memory serves her well enough to feel for a handle, twist, grope into the space opened without entirely knowing what she'll find.

At least she had the foresight to cut up yesterday's loaf. It's easy enough to withdraw a thick slice of bread and shoulder the cupboard closed behind her. "It's too late to be cooking anything, so I'm afraid this is all I have." The moment she enters the bedroom, his gaze darts to her. He hasn't moved. She hurries over, sitting on her heels before him as she offers the bread. "It has seeds in, though, so it's not entirely plain. I hope--"

He snatches it up before she can finish, taking an ambitious bite. Sparks light in his eyes like stars. His lip curls in a smile. His front teeth poke out, glinting oddly in the muted light.

Delighted warmth settles in her chest, twisted with cold unease. "Does no-one look after you?"

He swallows, legs stretching out as he relaxes into the wall. "No," he says without looking up.

Tory's fingers itch. She curls them into fists, letting the surge of fury dissipate, the raging waves in her chest calm in their hollowed well. Whose choice was it to abandon this boy? Are these the streets she lives on these days? Perhaps there is someone else she should be pointing her gun at. Sucking in a deep breath, she shifts closer. "You live alone?"

"I'm not alone." The words are muffled by his next mouthful of bread. He gulps it down. "The whispers protect me."

"The whispers?" That brings with it a different kind of chill, more foreign, harder to place.

He appears puzzled that she needs to ask. "From the darkness. They tell me where to go. Do you not hear them?"

She chuckles. "I'm afraid not."

His frown deepens. "Then how do you know where to go? Aren't you always lost?"

Her instinct is to laugh again, but it dies in her throat. Lost. As literally as he might mean it, it strikes a cord in her chest. She steals a glance at the candle on her bedstand. "I suppose I let the light guide me instead."

With a shrug, he returns to devouring the bread. "You're strange."

Her lips quirk. "I think you're the strange one, kid." Lingering over the words, she debates prying more, but then his confused gaze meets hers and she shoves it aside in favour of indulging him. "And what do these whispers say?"

The last of the bread vanishes. He takes a moment to lick the crumbs from his fingers before replying. "Not much. Just where to go next. Where is safe, where to eat." His smile twitches into place again.

She does her best to mirror it. "Well, they were right about this place. You're safe here."

Sitting up, he beams at her. "I thought so."

"Yep. Safe enough to come out of the closet, even, if you'd like."

Briefly, he peers around her, before recoiling with a sharp shake of his head. "It's nice in here."

Tory can't hold back her snort of laughter. It emerges like an explosion, shattering her composure. He goes stiff, a fearful streak entering his gaze, and she hurriedly reins it back in, but the amusement lingers. She sweeps the meagre selection of tattered clothes, the broken shelf, the old scraps of paper tossed inside and shut away to be dealt with on a day that never came. She's surprised he's not choking on the amount of dust he's kicked up.

"I think your perception of nice might be a little different to mine." At his wordless bemusement, she adds, "It's filthy in here. I'm not sure I've touched it since I moved in."

He doesn't seem fazed in the least bit. "It's dirty outside. Plenty of things still live there."

"That's a good one. I think I'll add that to my list of excuses for when my mother visits."

For a moment, he keeps studying his lap, thoughts drifting like mist through his expression. Then he stands. In a few hesitant steps, he's crossed into the open room. He lingers there briefly, fingers flexing as if testing invisible strands, before his gaze snaps to the candle and they abruptly clench into fists. He teeters backward, shrinking in around her other side before she's fully registered his presence.

His head rests on her shoulder. Little warmth seeps from his skin to hers, as if frost has crawled into the gap between them. She pushes back against her instinctive flinch, instead wrapping a gentle arm around his middle. He's shockingly slim, a fragile thing under her grip. The urge to embrace him tighter coils in her biceps, but she keeps her hold relaxed, not wanting to force him into anything.

Yet he seems happy enough in this new position, a stark contrast to his earlier wariness. A contented sigh drifts from him as he curls into her chest. "I like you, Tory."

A smile rises unbidden, spreading its soft tingle over her spine. Strange as it might be, there's something quite natural about the way he slots in beside her, as if the space was waiting to be filled by a child sprung from the darkness. She chuckles lightly. "You're not so bad yourself, kid."

It's then the realisation hits. She twists around, staring down at him. "Wait. I never told you my name."

His dark eyes glimmer, something like amusement alive within them. "No, the whispers did." He gives a tinkling laugh of his own. "I thought you got it by now."

"I suppose I should have known." Her humour feels more false, cracks splintering her tone. Best not to forget quite how odd this particular child is.

A loud knock at the door grabs ahold of that unsettled spike and yanks it through her, jolting her rigid. She tosses a frantic glance at the window but sees nothing. The dark clouds in too thick.

She realises that he's tensed as well. Lifting his head, he wriggles out from her arm, rotating to face the door. His breathing has quickened. Tory gives his shoulder a gentle pat. "It's alright. Probably just some late-night seller." She pushes to her feet, frowning at the sudden pound of her heart. Why is every little thing setting it on a rampage tonight? "I should probably get it. Just stay here, alright? Be nice and quiet for me." It's likely for the best that the neighbours don't find out that she's picked up a random kid from the streets just yet.

After checking for his nod, his throat bobbing, she crosses the room to grab the candle. Her fingers brush thoughtfully over the handle of the gun beside it before she draws back sharply, shaking her head. And appearing at the door with a weapon isn't going to help her look any more innocent.

The knock sounds again, louder. "Coming!" she shouts, hurrying from that room to the next and wrenching open the front door as soon as she skids up to it.

Only to be greeted by the barrel of another's gun.

The blast of bitter cold from outside mingles with her shock, hitting her hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs. She would stumble back did it not encase her in heavy ice. The man is a good head taller than her, buried in such thick black furs that he appears like some hairy beast bearing down on her. The lower half of his face is covered by a matching mask. All that is visible in her shaky candlelight is his flinty glare.

He advances a step, gun inches from her chest. "Where is it?"

His voice drags through her in serrated claws, armed with a deep snarl. Tory opens her mouth soundlessly, clutching for words. A weapon would have been appropriate after all.

"Where is it?" he repeats.

"I don't..." She sucks in a sharp breath at the flash of fury in his eyes. "I don't know what you mean." Her voice crumbles, brittle with the taste of a false lie. She grits her teeth, cursing the thought for entering her head unpermitted, for distorting her feeble shield of innocence.

He can't mean the boy. Why would he?

His finger twitches on the trigger, the movement sending lightning to shred her veins. "I advise you to tell the truth, Tory."

This time, she can't miss it. Her name, unspoken and yet laid bare. Senseless ideas whirl through her mind, clashing enough to make her head spin. Maybe the darkness has been whispering to this man as well.

"I am telling the truth." She shoves the words out between her teeth, sharpening them with steel, courage with no base. He could kill her. One click and he could kill her. She won't die pleading. "There's nothing here worth taking. Get out of my house."

Surprise falls to fresh anger in his gaze. He thrusts the gun further forward, its barrel pressed up against her ribs enough to spread a thin ache of protest. She refuses to move. Perhaps it's stupid rather than brave. Yet she plants her feet like those of a statue, chin tilted to meet his gaze, firm and unyielding. It can't be the boy he wants. Protective instinct sings through her veins regardless.

He wasn't expecting this. It shows in the slightest furrow of his brow, the silver flash of his eyes widening. They soon harden into a decisive glare. "I'll ask you one last time. Where is that wretched shadow?"

Shadow. Her confidence falters. Her heart gives an objecting squeeze, but she can't deny the image that crawls into her mind, the flash of black eyes.

"I know you've seen it," he adds, any remaining doubt leaving his expression. She's given it away.

But there shouldn't be anything to give away. Cold fear winds its way back into her lungs, stifling her breaths.

It buries her in clogged silence for too long. He shoves the gun again, forcing her to stagger back. "You're useless to me," he growls. "I'll just--" Suddenly, his head snaps sideways, the pierce of arrowheads locking onto a new target. "No need." The mask hides his smile, but it leaks through in his voice. "It came without calling."

Tory lets her gaze follow, and a gasp tears from her throat.

The boy is a ghost in the pale light, his pale silhouette detaching itself oddly from the shadows. He stands stock still, all but his fingers as they writhe like miniature serpents. His gaze has never been more intense.

The gun drags over her chest, leaving it behind in favour of pointing at the boy. He doesn't move an inch.

The light has dimmed, cloaking them in heavy sheets of darkness. The candle. She didn't notice it fall from her hand.

"You can leave us, Tory." If anything, the man's voice has gotten gentler, but it carries the low lilt of danger. "This may get messy."

Disbelief thickens her fear, coating her jaw in dry sand. "He's a kid." They're the only words she can dig for.

The man gives a disgusted snort. In a wave of panic, she lunges for his arm, digging her nails in. "Don't." She doesn't know her desperation until it thrums through her, merging with the ceaseless hammer of her heart.

He jerks away, readying the gun. "This isn't your business. Leave--"

His voice arcs into a scream.

Red tints the dark, streaks of crimson invading her vision and yanking the world out of control. Glints of the boy's pale skin join the swirl. The pearly flash of claws, elongated, sharpened like knives. The scream shreds into nothing a bare second before another sound cracks the air, the distinct, earsplitting bang of a gun.

It rings in Tory's ears, splitting her skull. She hisses, the sound grating through her, the ground swaying. She doesn't realise her legs have folded in on themselves until her knees hit the floor.

Her head bows, too heavy to lift all of a sudden. It's impossible to make out anything but the blurry shapes of her own hands, greyed by the darkness, as she moves one to touch her middle. It comes away wet, warm liquid oozing over her palm in a sticky layer.

Blood. Panic rolls dully through her chest, a pathway cleared for the rising spike of agony.

It's both too loud and too quiet all at once. Her lacking vision swims. Screams echo through her mind, twisted wrongly, soon smothered by the sharper sound of bones breaking. Of splinters crushed to dust.

More blood flows over her fingers. Her inhale is slippery, falling from her grasp.

"Tory!"

The boy's shrill voice cuts through her haze just as she feels herself topple sideways. Weak pressure slides over her spine, his hands failing to catch her, until it meets the ground. She gasps, another painful wave crashing through her limbs. Any moment, she'll sink beneath its surface, drown in its raging current.

She blinks, and manages to make out his face looming over her. Faint moonlight leaks over his features in a silver sheen. Enough to make out the fangs protruding over his bottom lip, gradually retracting as it quivers. They're coated in scarlet.

"What..." She coughs, an iron taste bittering her throat. "What are you?"

He hardly seems to hear the question. Tears glisten in the dark eyes, tiny pools reflecting a shimmering image of the night sky. "No," he whimpers. "No, no, no. They're only supposed to hurt me."

Tory grapples for a decent breath. She holds his gaze, shoving aside her pain and fear and confusion. Only one thing truly matters. "Did you get hurt?"

He shakes his head, teeth digging into his lip as he bites at the bloodied droplets. "But you did." Trembles break his voice. A tear splashes onto her chest. "You... you can fix it, right? It will... Your light will heal? Like the dark does for me?"

Despite herself, she manages a weak laugh. "Your darkness sounds far nicer, kid. I--" She winces, her head pounding, aimless fighting instinct eaten at by the searing flames alive within her. The dark pool of her own blood stains the edge of her vision. Her panic gradually fades with nowhere to direct it, not with so little hope.

"I'm not coming back from this," she finishes softly, the ripple of the words like a blanket to numb the pain.

No coming back. This is it.

A strangled sob escapes the boy, more tears spilling down his pale cheeks. "I'm sorry," he chokes out, throwing his arms around her, the shakes that wrack his body channelled into hers as he tightens his embrace.

"It's okay." Her voice flutters like a drifting leaf, too brittle. "It's okay."

Better than keeling over one night in a dirty bungalow, vanishing off this earth without a soul to watch. At least she has someone to hold her as she dies.

"I liked you," he says, almost pleading. His low, pining growl is muffled as he buries his head in her chest. "I chose for you to live. They shouldn't... I told them not to take you."

She hasn't the energy for a soft chuckle. "Is this your--"

The shadow is a fool to combat fate, but his trust in you is not misjudged.

"Whispers," she finishes on a hiss of a breath, conscious of her awkward pause. Ice flows through her in a stream. The voice resonates in her head, low, the barest brush of sound with an echo that sharpens each syllable.

This one is young. Decisive strength draws the voice louder, drowning out the boy's sniffles. A guardian is needed. You will follow him.

I will follow him. A strange surety fills her. It makes no sense, and yet it spreads out within her like the beat of wings, weighted on her shoulders but fluttering with the taste of freedom. The pain is inconsequential, the warmth of her blood vanishing in favour of numbed cold. It's not unpleasant.

The boy draws back in a snap. His black eyes meet hers, wide and expansive as a domed sky, delight creeping out in a litter of stars that parts their fog. A slow grin winds its way to his face. "You hear them."

"I..." Her hand drifts to her middle, closing around the wound. Still bleeding. Still dying. Either a final glimpse of insanity has found her, or something else entirely. "I hear them." She doesn't know her own belief until it stretches out in wonder in her tone.

Her eyes slide closed, falling to gentle darkness. When she opens then again, the night has changed. Silver depicts every line in perfect clarity, shines on every tired surface, glints in each spec of dust, as if moonbeams shot straight from the heavens have spilled into her front hall.

Thoughtlessly, she pushes herself up into a sitting position, hand still resting over the gunshot wound. Except there's nothing there, not any more. Blood stains her fingers, slipping between them without source. Any sense of agony has gone.

And the boy is there, on his feet, bouncing on his heels. His smile paints everything in freshly beautiful light. "You can see now."

She nods absently, dumbfounded. She's shivering. Not from cold or fear, but the sheer thrum of energy through her, as if someone has injected her with sugar. Alive. She feels so incredibly alive. But she's supposed to be dead.

This is what it is to be a shadow. That whisper again, all the more clear, borne of the flickers lighting her view. To walk the line of life and death, light and dark. He will show you.

The boy has a hand outstretched. "Follow me," he says, eager.

Steadily, she climbs to her feet. She's stunned, confused, but that is fading as the gloom catches alight, as the whispers crowd into her mind with a thousand tales to tell. Light flickers, darting bright and dim, never quite sure which path to blaze. Darkness is unceasing.

She takes his hand. "Guide on, kid."

~

This story sort of got away from me, but I had fun with it. Yes, that boy may be a budget version of Nathan. I can only write stories that feature a pale bby with creepy dark powers nowadays.