Siren glanced down. The cat was the only thing visible in the shadows around their feet, his stark white fur practically glowing in the dark and his large, unblinking eyes catching the flickering lightning in an iridescent display when it flashed.
“I’ll just stand here and shiver to death then.”
A perturbed breath lodged in Carver’s throat and he took a step back, blocking out the minimal light streaming through the door behind him. “Oh for crying out loud,” he sighed again. “I’ll take care of the alarm now. I just have to find it first. Nobody move, please.”
Siren had no intention of moving. She felt weird enough as it was, standing in the middle of a stranger’s sun porch with a wicked storm raging just beyond the shutters blocking out the world. The humid air smelled clean, like laundry had only just been taken from the dryer and the owners gave everything a good scrub down with pine cleaner and lemon-scented dusting spray moments before they walked through the door.
In the dark, however, every sound was amplified. Carver’s scuffed dress shoes clomped quietly across the hardwood, and she swore Mr. Pounce was scratching at himself as if he’d come down with a bad case of fleas. The cool floorboards creaked beneath her sandy feet, her knee clicking audibly as she started to turn away from the window to stare into the house around her. Continue reading
The Write Stuff 