Third Person POV
Three days of nothing.
Not just silence. Void.
Her last words echoed annoyingly in his mind. "Even if it's the last thing I do."
It was an irrelevant statement. It didn't mean anything. Did it?
His head fell back against the chair, revealing the strong column of his throat. His Adam's apple bobbed slowly as he swallowed. He pressed his eyes together, trying to eject the words from his mind. This was the nineteenth time today he had let the words replay.
'What exactly did you mean, Ásta? What games are you playing?'
He ran his hand through his hair, already partially dry. The steam from his shower had dissipated. He had bathed twenty minutes ago. He was still sitting, thinking about things he considered irrelevant, staring into empty spaces of his room.
Then he stood, pushing himself out of the chair, and walked into his closet. His eyes ran over the fabrics, assessing which would be best for tonight.
Wool. Linen. Silk. Velvet. Tweed. Cotton.
He reached for a crimson tuxedo, already paired with a matching tie, petty coat, and pocket square. The only way to arrange suits. His thumb ran over the designs etched into the fabric.
'Why did her shoulders drop that way?'
'Relieved. She was relieved to see me.'
He clicked his tongue. He had begun getting ready two hours before the dinner. He had one hour left before he would be late.
He walked back into his room, taking the shirt off the hanger and setting his jacket and other garments on the chair before he put on his shirt.
His mind circled back to the meeting. Her shoulders dropping. The relief on her face. Each time, he told himself it was strategic analysis. Each time, he ended up staring at nothing, his focus fractured, his thoughts looping without conclusion.
A knock came at his door.
"Mr. Daníelson, your tea is ready." The help's voice was a professional monotone.
"Come in."
Laurus didn't turn from the mirror. His voice was sharp, nearly irritated.
The dark walnut door opened slowly. She paused at the doorway, her eyes immediately snapping to the floor. Laurus adjusted his armband as she crossed the room, set down the tray, and began to pour. The steam curled upward, carrying the malty scent of Assam. Her hands were steady, but her shoulders were tense.
He watched her movements, registering the flinch he had caused, the way she avoided his reflection.
"What?" His voice cut through the quiet.
"N-nothing, sir." Her voice was higher than before.
She finished pouring, stepped back, and left without being dismissed.
Only when the door closed did he realize he was still in his briefs and garters, the bands tracing the lines that separated his quads from his hamstrings.
He let out a sigh, sat down, crossed his legs, and picked up his phone. His fingers tapped impatiently on the armrest. He opened their chat thread. Three messages sat unread, undelivered.
"Meeting Thursday 10am. Confirm."
"Awaiting confirmation."
The last one:
"Ásta."
Just her name. He had typed it. He had sent it. He would not ask himself why.
His finger hovered over her profile before he set the phone down on the table. Then he picked up the cup of tea.
'The burn looked like an accident? No. She doesn't make mistakes like that. Self-inflicted. But why?'
He held the cup until the tea cooled. He took a sip of the now lukewarm liquid and set it down. Then he stood and went back to dressing.
The suit was smooth, lustrous charmeuse, reflecting light ever so subtly. The color popped with depth, cut to follow the lines of his body without clinging. His room behind him, dominated by saffron hues and accented with a deep brown that pulled the space together, was all clean lines and cool light. His possessions were arranged with surgical precision, including the teacup he had just drunk from. Nothing out of place. Nothing unexpected.
He picked up his phone from the table. His fingers finally landed on her profile.
Last seen 04/07/2015.
The timestamp felt like a mockery.
He set the phone down sharply and went back to the mirror, adjusting his lapels with slightly more force than needed. He noted it and steadied his hands against the suit. Then he reached for his watch. Platinum. Minimalist. The kind of thing people noticed only if they knew what to look for. He fastened it around his wrist, the click of the clasp a small anchor in the quiet.
'She's an adult. Why should I overthink it?'
He turned, examining his profile. The jacket skimmed his frame. Lean. Not bulky. He didn't train for show. He trained for function.
"You must be presentable in every setting, Laurus. Not memorable. Presentable. There is a difference."
The unwanted words flashed across his mind. He pushed them aside.
He tidied his hair, picked his phone from the table, and made his way downstairs. He checked the time. Twenty minutes left.
The warm evening breeze caressed his skin as he walked to the car. Páll was silent behind the wheel. The impatient tapping of Laurus's fingers atop his knee filled the quiet.
He picked up the phone and checked her profile again.
'Ridiculous.'
He called the PI. Casual. Professional. Just checking.
"Where is she?"
A pause. Then the PI's voice: "She went for a walk, sir."
"How long ago?"
Another pause. Longer this time. Then a sound. Almost a gasp. Almost.
"About... five to seven hours ago, sir."
The numbers didn't compute. Five to seven. Hours. Not minutes. Hours.
"And she walked? And you didn't think to call me?"
He cut the call. Didn't wait for an answer. There was no answer that would satisfy.
He stared at his phone. The city lights painted the interior of the car in streaks of orange and red.
He called her. Directly.
The number you have dialed is switched off.
He called again. Nothing.
Again. Nothing.
His hand gripped the phone. The leather of his dress shoes creaked as he shifted weight. He didn't notice.
'She went for a walk. Five hours ago. In the state she was in. And I didn't know. I didn't...'
He stopped the thought. Forced it down.
'This is a professional concern. She is the lead playwright. The project cannot proceed without her. This is...'
The phone was still in his hand.
"Midtown."
He didn't wait for the driver to ask. He set the phone on the dashboard mount, the GPS already pulling up the address, and the driver changed course without another word.
The car pulled up to the house. Laurus got down before it had fully stopped. He stalked toward the door, tried the handle. Locked.
He took a sharp breath and went back to the car. This time, he didn't go to the back seat. He opened the passenger door and sat up front.
"Drive around."
The car circled the neighborhood. Slow enough for Laurus to take in the dark surroundings. Not slow enough to be anything but methodical.
The PI waved them down. A scrawny blonde man in casual clothes.
"Sir." He ran up to the car. Laurus nodded. The driver slowed.
"I'm already trailing her."
Laurus nodded and leaned back. The driver continued. The quiet car filled with the slow rhythm of Laurus's fingers tapping the leather.
This was taking too much time.
Where would she even go on foot for seven hours?
His eyes kept scanning the streets. Even as he picked up his phone. Even as the other end picked up after one ring.
"Yes, Mr. Daníel..."
"Report on Örn's whereabouts. Now."
He didn't wait for her to respond. He scrolled through his log and called Stefan. His eyes never left the streets for more than a moment. They were already near the highway. The tapping of his finger on the leather armrest became faster. Less rhythmic.
A fresh flare of irritation rose in him as he waited for the line to pick up. He called again.
The moment Stefan answered, Laurus spoke. Out of character.
"Have you seen her?"
"Her?" Stefán's voice was confused. "Ásta? No. Is there something wrong? Is she okay?" His tone sharpened.
Laurus pinched the bridge of his nose.
"She's fine."
He cut the call without another word.
A message came in from Dìs.
"He's at a casino in Háspenna."
Waste of time. Waste of effort.
His mind raced with possibilities. Then the words flickered through him.
"If it's the last thing I do."
His lip twitched. Disgust.
'She's not that stupid. She wouldn't.'
His fingers stopped tapping against the leather. The passing lights of other cars covered his features. His jaw was tight. His hand slowly clenched into a fist. A vein bulged at his temple.
"Sir."
The driver cleared his throat.
"What?" The word was sharp. His hand unclenched. His jaw loosened.
"Your phone."
Laurus glanced down. The phone was ringing in his hand. He picked up.
"Yes?"
"Black Falls. She's at Black Falls trail. Last seen at the visitors center."
He cut the call. Pulled at his tie. It felt suffocating now.
He ran his hand over his face. He had planned his night out. A dinner for appearances. An after party with directors who needed advice. A meeting with the head of an entertainment company looking to contract him. Then home.
Not driving around looking for a grown woman.
Ten hours. For God's sake. Why am I even doing this?
"Black Falls."
His voice came out hoarse. Unexpected.
"Drive."
The driver nodded. His fingers resumed tapping on the leather of the center console.
'Where are you.'
The thought was unplanned. Uncharacteristic. It wasn't a calculation. She wasn't a variable. She wasn't a problem.
His nails dug into the console at the end of each tap. His other hand fidgeted with the sleeve of his shirt.
The only thing he heard was the continuous tick of his watch.
Twenty-nine thousand ticks later, they arrived at the resort.
Laurus didn't wait. He stepped out of the car and took off his jacket. The night air was cool against his damp skin.
He walked straight to the trailhead, ignoring the mud sticking to his shoes.
Just as he was about to step onto the trail, he stopped.
A silhouette appeared in the darkness. One he was far too familiar with.
He breathed out.
Almost relief.
Almost.
"Ásta."
Laurus's eyes squinted, adjusting to the darkness pooled under the trees. Flecks of light moved through the leaves, shifting over her face and her hair until she became visible.
She was wearing a shirt. A shirt he recognized. The same one he had seen folded neatly on the couch. Her pants dragged along the ground, the hems wet and dark with dirt.
He didn't move.
She did.
She kept walking, slow and steady, like she was automated. Like something else was moving her feet. Her face was calm again. That familiar stillness. But something underneath it had shifted. Something he couldn't name. Something that made the silence between them feel thicker than it should.
She stopped just in front of him.
The first thing he noticed was the sharp metallic smell. It cut through the cool night air, through the scent of wet earth and pine. He looked down at her hands.
They were pressed around a book.
Clutched to her chest like a lifeline. Her grip was shaky, but she held it like she would rather lose her fingers than let it go. And something dark stained her skin. Dried. Flaking at the edges. Rust-colored in the faint light.
Blood.
He looked at her face.
Her lips twitched. The faintest ghost of a smile. Not warmth. Not humor. Something else. Something that made his stomach tighten.
Then it was gone.
His nails dug into his palm.
"The play," she said. "Give me three days."
Her voice was flat. Not tired. Not hopeful. Just... certain.
His brain short-circuited. "Play? What are you..."
She was already walking.
He turned slowly, watching her move past him. The hem of her pants dragged through the mud. He finally registered her bare feet, that left faint impressions in the dirt.
'All the way here?'
He followed.
The questions in his head had no answers. He walked in silence. The only sound was the soft press of his shoes against the earth, and the softer sound of her bare feet ahead of him. The trees watched. The fog waited. The night held its breath.
"You aren't walking back."
His voice was firm. He was already preparing for her to push back. To argue. To resist.
She stopped.
The silence stretched. Three seconds. Five. He could hear his own heartbeat.
'Standard. Provocation. Push back. The known cycle.'
"Where's the car?" she asked quietly.
Her voice was soft. Almost gentle. It was worse than yelling.
"You can't just walk..." His eyebrows furrowed. "What did you say?"
She turned to him. Her yellow eyes weren't dead anymore. They weren't alive either. They were something else. Something that looked through him, not at him.
"Where's the car?"
The feedback loop broke. He blinked.
Then he walked.
He led her toward the car, now parked in front of the visitors center. The gravel crunched under his shoes. He didn't hear her feet. She made no sound at all.
He opened the door for her. He didn't look at her. He couldn't.
When she climbed in, he shut the door and walked around to the passenger side. He got in the front.
"Same place."
His voice was flat. The driver didn't ask.
His eyes flickered to the rearview mirror. Her face was blank. Not even a flicker of recognition that they'd been to her house. Like the drive meant nothing. Like the house meant nothing. Like he meant nothing.
He looked away.
The driver pulled out of the lot. The tires rolled over gravel, then smoothed onto asphalt. Laurus stared through the window.
The first few minutes passed in silence. Then the trees began.
Birch trunks rose on either side of the road, pale and thin, their leaves whispering in a breeze he couldn't feel. Fog had started to settle between them, curling around the base of each trunk like it was searching for something. The headlights cut through the mist, illuminating patches of bark, patches of darkness, patches of nothing at all.
He watched them pass. One after another. After another.
The road curved. The trees thinned. On the right, the ground fell away into shadow, and beyond it, the mountains rose; massive walls of ice, blue and black in the dim light, their peaks lost in the clouds. They loomed over the car, indifferent, ancient, like they had been watching this road long before he was born and would watch it long after he was gone.
He didn't look at her. He kept his eyes on the ice.
The road straightened. The mountains receded. And then there was nothing.
The glacial outwash plains stretched to the horizon; flat, black, desolate. No trees. No houses. No light except the moon and the faint glow of the headlights. Braided rivers of meltwater reflected the sky, thin threads of silver cutting through the darkness. The fog hung lower here, hugging the ground, turning the landscape into something from another world. A world where time moved differently. A world where he wasn't sure he belonged anymore.
He didn't speak.
She didn't speak.
The driver didn't speak.
The silence was heavier than any of them. It pressed against his ears, filled the space between breaths, made the ticking of his watch sound like a hammer striking an anvil.
He counted the ticks.
Ten. Twenty. Fifty. A hundred.
The road continued. The fog continued. The silence continued.
He lost count.
It felt like hours. It might have been.
Then the city lights appeared on the horizon; a faint orange glow that grew brighter as they approached. Streetlamps replaced the darkness. Buildings replaced the ice. The world became familiar again. Ordered. Predictable.
His fingers began tapping the center console.
Midnight. The streets were quiet.
As they approached her neighborhood, he finally looked up at her through the rearview mirror.
The hair at the back of his neck stood on end.
Her back was ruler straight. Her fingers gently caressed the stained book in her hands. And she was smiling. A smile that pulled at the lines of her face, that made her look older, that made her look wrong.
He snapped his neck back to the front.
'That wasn't...'
He glanced again.
She was sitting normally. Hand still on the book. Face neutral as ever. Her eyes met his in the mirror, and for a moment, he could see a flicker of a smile that wasn't there.
The car stopped in front of her house.
She didn't thank him. He didn't speak. They stared at each other for half a second.
Then she got down and closed the door.
He didn't move until he heard her front door close behind her. Then he slowly leaned back into the chair. His heart was beating faster than it should against his eardrums.
"When you make a pact with the devil, you don't get to choose what he takes. You only get to choose what he leaves."
-Unknown