Chapter 1

There's something about watching thunderstorms that has fascinated me for a long time. It might be the bright flashes of lightning, the thunder shaking the trees, or the power of nature behind it. On the back deck of the family cabin, I'm wrapped in a warm throw blanket and watching the electricity dance through the sky. After each rumble of thunder, I take a sip of my warm earl grey tea. This is how I like to enjoy my weekends alone in the north, away from the busy city life.

One bright blue bolt surprises me. They're rare, but the most beautiful part of even the most violent storm.

A few minutes pass before something in the trees catches my attention. I have to squint through the rain, through the lenses of my glasses, to notice a figure coming through the trees. I am slightly alarmed when I see that it is a man, stepping disoriented out of the forest. As he gets closer to the deck, I'm frozen with fear and confusion. Who is this stranger? His long black hair is slicked back behind his head, revealing the strange garments on his body. He has a bizarre look in his green eyes; he's dazed and lost, looking for any sign of help.

Before I can make any move, the stranger collapses onto the damp ground below the deck. I rush over to the railing to get a better look, and notice the gash near his hairline.

My first instinct is to help him, even though I am doubtful of how much I can do. Though I should be calling someone for help, it's rare for the landline to work during a storm this strong. I rush off the deck and to the stranger's unconscious body. Not sure of what to do, I find myself reaching for his neck, to check for any sign of a pulse. His skin is surprisingly cool to the touch, and slick from the rain. Not a moment passes before his hand springs up and grabs my naked wrist. I'm frozen again as he slowly cocks his head to look up at me.

"It's been a long time since I let a mortal touch me," he mutters.

I awkwardly pull my wrist from his strong grip and instinctively take a few steps back. "Sorry..." I mumble as he struggles to get to his feet. I have the urge to help him stand, but remain stuck in place as thunder booms overhead. My mind races with thoughts of where he came from, why he's out in the middle of nowhere, and what he wants with me.

The stranger turns his head to meet my fearful gaze. Though the storm is loud, I can hear his question over the commotion. "Could you offer me a place to sit down? Somewhere warm and dry preferably," he adds.

Though I want to react, I still find myself motionless with fear, my own eyes locked into some kind of staring contest with his as we wait in silence for the next move.

Something changes in his stoic expression; perhaps it is sincerity. Kindness, even. "I'm not going to hurt you. I don't mean any harm."

Something still keeps my feet planted in place, though he doesn't seem to let it faze him. He turns to look at the house and takes one shaky step towards the stairs. And another. I remain where I am. When he arrives at the bottom of the stairs, he mounts the first step, a painful groan escaping his mouth as he bends his knee. Suck it up, I tell myself. I have to help him.

I don't realize I'm moving until it happens, and before I know it, I'm holding his slender arm in my hands to steady his balance. He nods a thank you and we work our way up the slope to the deck, one step at a time.

Once we make it to the top, I realize that even though the deck is warm and dry, the interior of the cabin offers some light to shed on this situation. I still don't know who this stranger is, or what his story will tell. I open the door so we may enter the cabin, and help him inside, easing him onto the couch. He takes a heavy sigh of relief.

"Thank you." Without the commotion of the storm, I can hear the accent in his words. It must have been the rumble of thunder, or simply my heart pounding in my eardrums, but I hadn't noticed it before. It's a smooth tone of voice that's distinctly English. I wonder if that's where he came from.

I find myself smiling, and finally find the courage to speak to him. "My phones are out because of the storm, but can I get you something? To drink maybe?"

"Yes, something to drink would be nice," he replies, rubbing the skin of his forehead near his wound. In the light of the cabin I can see it better, though it looked worse outside in the throes of the storm.

I amble to the fridge to take a look at what I have. It's been a while since I've ventured up the road for rations and supplies; I'm low on almost everything. "I don't have bottled water," I say from the small kitchen area, "just from the tap. The only other thing I have is white wine," I add, almost sarcastically.

"Wine will be just fine," he says.

His request takes me by surprise; maybe he's delusional from hitting his head. The fridge still open, I ask, "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'd like a glass if you're offering."

I suppose I'd want a glass of wine too if I'd appeared from nowhere in the middle of the forest. I reach for the glasses on the top shelf of the cupboard and pour one for him, as well as one for myself. When I return to the living area to hand to him, our fingers brush for a very brief moment. I find myself pulling away quickly, merely out of instinct. My eyes fall on the gash near his hairline.

"Would you like anything for that?" I ask, and then take a sip of my own wine. I motion to my own forehead so he understands the context.

I realize he's not aware of his own injury as he reaches up for it with his free hand, and quizzically feels the wound, tacky with blood. He examines the viscous substance on the tips of his fingers, and offers me a puzzled glance. "Would I be able to clean myself up somewhere?"

I nod and point to the bathroom door. "Right through there." He sets his glass down on a nearby table and begins to straighten in his seat, but groans as the pain shoots through the body. "Let me do it. You're hurt."

It's not until I'm in the bathroom, gathering some antiseptic and a few other items that I ask myself if I know what I'm doing. Why am I playing hostess to a stranger who came out of the forest, disoriented and bleeding? I don't even know where he came from, and something about him seems so strange. It's also nearly eleven o'clock and the phones are out. What am I going to do with him in the cabin? He seems to be well enough to avoid a hospital visit, but there is so much more about him I don't know.

I look at myself in the mirror, noticing I look flushed with color. My palms are a bit sweaty, and my hands shake just enough to notice.

I shake out my worries and return to the living area. He's still there on the couch drinking white wine, so this isn't some strange dream after all. I'm cautious to approach him, but find that the atmosphere between us is slightly more relaxed, and not as tense as our first meeting.

He nods to allow me to begin, but before I can, he coldly looks me in the eye. "Be careful," he mutters, his mouth a hard line across his face.

I move slowly, afraid that I'll startle him if I don't follow a strict routine. At first I use a damp washcloth to dab up the excess blood. Every so often he winces when I touch the wrong spot with the wet fabric, but composes himself immediately after.

"Where did you come from?" I ask, lightly dabbing antiseptic onto the wound.

His disposition remains hostile. With his eyes on the floor, he quietly says, "It is nothing you should concern yourself with."

I leave it at that; clearly he isn't in the mood to talk to me in-depth and reveal some much-needed information. I finish cleaning the wound, finding that it appears to mar his pale skin less than before with the blood gone.

"All done," I offer, taking a seat on a nearby chair with my glass of wine. "It looked worse than it really was."

"Thank you kindly," he replies.

For what seems like a long time, we sit in complete silence, taking turns as we lift our glasses up to drink. I fear that I'm drinking too fast, but he surprises me by finishing first.

The words escape my mouth before my mind can process them. "Would you like some more?"

He's as surprised as I am by my question, though what shocks me the most is the amused smile that breaks his face for just a moment. "Yes, I would."

Our fingertips brush again when I retrieve his glass, sending an unwelcome chill down my spine. It's not until I'm refilling his empty glass that a wicked plan crossed my mind. Could I get him inebriated on white wine to find out what he's doing out here? There are risks, of course, but I have a churning feeling in my stomach that it will be worth the reward.

He thanks me again for the second glass, and we return to our sitting-in-silence routine. I wait until he's nearly to the bottom of his before I try to prod for information again.

"It would be helpful to know what you were doing out there."

His movements seem different to me now. He appears to be more relaxed, leaning back further onto the couch and tapping his fingers on the wine glass. "I'm not from here."

"Then where are you from, and why are you here?" I catch myself asking before I can think again, and immediately notice that my quick questions have ripped him from his relaxation.

His eyes burn through mine, and he sets down his glass without breaking his gaze. "I thought I said before that it not something to concern yourself with."

"I'm sorry, but…but…" I sputter, but the wine seems to have done its work on me more than him.

I'm startled when he stands up from the couch. He struggles through the pain, I can tell by the frustrated look on his face, but one step at time, he makes his way over to me. Before I know it, he's standing directly in front of my chair, glaring down into my eyes. He is a dark storm cloud inside, looming over me before the first strike.

He freezes me solid again, the second time since his arrival. When he realizes I'm too stiff to react, he delicately places one finger under my chin to tilt my head further up. His cold skin chills me once more.

My mind brings me back to the first words he spoke to me, the frigid words echoing as he speaks to me.

"You listen to me, mortal girl," he breathes. There's the word. Mortal. It hadn't crossed my mind before, but now it takes me aback. "Some things in this world are not meant to be trifled with, and me being here is one of those things."

I don't control the connection between my thoughts and my words any more. He seems to have that effect. "Then what do you want with me?"

His words still nothing but a low exhale of breath, he tells me, "Because I need you for something."