A/N: I hope y'all don't think I'm evil after this chapter… cuz I'm not. But I have been planning this little development from the very beginning… so then again, maybe I am.
Part 9
It was fifteen minutes after noon, fifteen minutes into his lunch break, and Tom Locke was letting himself into the house shared by his former girlfriend—and almost wife—and their mutual long-time friend. Jenny didn't know he was here, collecting the baseball glove he'd left behind some months ago, but a quick call to Dee's cell, and he had been assured it was just fine for him to drop by and pick it up on his own. It was strange, having to ask permission when one month ago, it would have been perfectly normal for him to simply walk in and treat the place as his own.
Okay, maybe not a month ago, since things had become pretty tense by then. But still, it wasn't insignificant that he still had his copy of the key, the one Jenny had given him almost two years earlier; she hadn't asked for it back. He wasn't sure whether it was because she trusted him to return it on his own, had simply forgotten about it, or some other third reason such as the fact that she, like him, wasn't entirely ready to let go of their relationship.
Anyway, he wouldn't have stopped by so suddenly, having to resort to securing permission from Dee, except he needed the glove for a weekend game with a group of guys from work. It was Friday afternoon already, and though he could easily have asked Jenny for it after she returned home, he wasn't prepared for the awkwardness of that quite yet. There was just too much finality in asking for something back after a breakup. There was something permanent about the situation once you took that step. And it was a permanence he wasn't sure he was ready for—wasn't sure he wanted to be ready for.
He slipped inside the door, securing the lock behind him as he shut it. His eyes grazed the surfaces of the entrance, the living room, and onward as he walked deeper into the house. Where had he seen it last? Where swould he have left it?
The truth of it was that Tom had not ceased to love Jenny. Far from it. There were just these insecurities that surfaced whenever he thought of their relationship, starting since the day he had first proposed, and she accepted. Insecurities that he had had for a long time now, arising from that certain shared incident of years ago, ones that he had thought he'd addressed back then.
But apparently not.
With the wedding date fast approaching, and faced with the momentous nature of the event and the commitment, Tom had panicked. Old fears resurfaced, like spirits of the past raised from the dead, and he hadn't been strong enough to resist. He crumbled slowly, bit by bit, with nothing so obvious, but gradual withdrawal, pushing her away, keeping her at arm's length, then sinking into himself. Like a turtle crawling back into his own shell, he had retreated. Because when it came to relationships, and fears and doubts, Tom Locke knew how to run.
And he hadn't even been brave enough to make the final break himself, waiting until Jenny did it for them. He'd seen the look in her eyes, the uncertainties that echoed his own, though hers were in response to his distance and changed demeanor. And in the end, it had been easy—far too easy—to just call it off, to throw in the towel. Just like that.
They'd been together forever, since they were kids; they'd never even been with anyone else.
Not really, since you couldn't count him—he and Jenny were never together, despite the best of his efforts.
Even in Tom's mind, he couldn't put a name to the face, or think too hard upon that memory. There was just too much hostility, leftover resentment… things that might have been resolved had he had the chance to confront his rival, face-to-face, on even ground. Nothing a good old-fashioned fistfight wouldn't ease—but there had never been the chance for that. He had gone and gotten himself killed instead. And an oh-so-noble sacrifice it had been at that. Was Tom the only one who saw that the only reason Jenny had been in the position of needing saving was because Julian had lured her into the Shadow World in the first place?
It seemed so.
Because after his "death", everyone had extended their shoulders and their condolences to Jenny, as if the loss had somehow been hers to bear. As if this wasn't the same creature that had tormented them for months, chased them from their own world into his, made them face nightmares that were better left in the dark of the night, in their closets, under their beds—where they belonged.
Jenny had been the worst; her reaction had hurt. And he couldn't help but wonder whether she'd told him the truth, that there really was never anything between her and Julian. Because when they all stood in that cramped little hallway in her grandfather's house after barely escaping the clutches of the other Shadow Men, and he'd seen the way she held him, the way she cried over him, he had doubted it. But he'd pushed the doubts away, because what did it matter? Julian was gone. Tom was still there. And he still loved her, and her alone. That was all that was important. Even if he had to share her love with a memory, a ghost, a rival, that was enough.
Well, he had thought it was enough, but here he was, proving himself wrong. He had let her go, let her walk away from him.
No, that wasn't true. He refused to believe that. He refused to believe they were over, really over—just on hold. He had some thinking to do, some pulling himself back together again, before he could go back to Jenny, look her in the eye and tell her he was ready. That he didn't doubt her—didn't doubt them.
And when the time came, he would do just that.
When the time came.
Garage, he thought suddenly. That was where they would keep any sports equipment; at least, that was where Dee kept all hers. She had her own mini gym set up in there, opting to park her car outside in favor of the training room, although Jenny had adamantly refused to give up her half so Dee could have a "place to kick and punch things." So half the garage had been converted into a training area, while the other half remained suited for its original purpose.
Tom pulled open the door and reached over, flicking the familiar switch, letting light flood into the room. He paused.
Jenny's car was still parked inside. But wasn't she supposed to be…?
And if she was still home, why hadn't she noted his arrival, and at least come down to investigate the noise?
He frowned, a slight tingling sensation at the base of his neck causing him to pull away from the room, the baseball mitt forgotten. She wasn't downstairs, or she surely would have noticed him. So that meant she had to be upstairs, if she was home at all. Backtracking to the entrance, he found himself climbing the stairs to the second floor within seconds.
"Jenny?" The heavy stillness within the house seemed to absorb his call almost immediately. He was struck by the strange sensation of being alone… and yet not alone.
Something's wrong.
He reached the landing, and headed toward her bedroom, hesitating slightly outside the door. "Jenny?" His hand remained poised on the doorknob.
This was ridiculous. He had been in that room enough times—in that bed enough times—to feel perfectly comfortable walking in, especially when he was just checking up to make sure everything was all right.
He entered. The room was empty, the bed made. Everything neat and ordered—nothing out of place. The bathroom door was open, revealing no one inside. And yet, still, he couldn't fight the feeling that something was extremely wrong… something was out of place.
Eyes skimming over the room once more, he suddenly froze. Everything—body, heart, mind—in a temporary state of suspension.
Oh no.
Deirdre Eliade, known to most as simply Dee, was in the middle of demonstrating a newly developed move to her "chocolate martial arts god". It was an intricate step that required first tripping up her opponent, and pinning him to the ground.
"And then," she narrated as she proceeded to the next step, "You do this." Her slender but powerful frame trapped him beneath her, and her clever hands moved so quickly, he could barely register the action. "And voila. He is defenseless to whatever you have in store for him next."
"Uh…" Devon Saunders' slightly confused hazel eyes stared up at her. "That's a great move, really Dee, but there's something I just don't get…"
Dee arched an eyebrow, still seated atop him. "What's that?"
He raised his own two in reply, brow furrowing to convey his emotions. "How exactly does ripping open your attacker's shirt fall into the whole self-defense thing?"
Her dark gaze sparkled as a wicked smile uncurled on her lips. Long, elegant fingers ran down his bared chest, nails scratching lightly the cinnamon-colored flesh, and she delighted in the slight shiver that went through his frame. "It doesn't." She leaned in, slow and close, until her lips were brushing his as she spoke. "You've got it backwards—I'm the attacker, you're the helpless little victim."
Understanding dawned in him—or maybe he just didn't care at that point—because the hands that had been trapped beneath her knees were working themselves free, reaching up and grasping her head, and pulling her down closer to his mouth.
Then 'Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy' began playing in the background, in annoying, tinny, high-pitched, digital sound.
Dee groaned, pulling herself away and slowly to her feet, leaving a rather frustrated Devon lying on the floor. "Have you been fooling around with my phone again?"
His eyes followed her as she made her way to her coat, fumbling through the pockets, searching out the little device.
"What makes you think that?"
Dee glared at him, trying not to smile at the puppy-dog innocent eyes he made in response, and she snatched the phone out. "Because you know I hate these stupid rings. I prefer to keep it simple."
Devon grinned, rising gracefully to stand and re-buttoning the shirt she had torn open just moments earlier. "Then why would I change it? Knowing as I do, just how much this ring would irritate you."
She rolled her eyes, letting him know he was fooling no one. "Hello?"
Turning back to her coat, she pulled her watch out of the other pocket. Twenty-five past. Her next class wouldn't be until one-thirty, after lunch. Which was, in fact, the reason why Devon had dropped by, although they had been a little sidetracked along the way.
"Tom, hey, what's up?" A pair of strong arms came up from behind, wrapping around her waist, and a chin rested on her shoulder. "You find your glove?" She slapped a hand as it began sliding a little too south for its own good. Properly chastised, it promptly returned to more appropriate latitude.
"What?" The sudden tension in her body caused Devon to lift his chin away from the playful, relaxed position. "What are you talking about? Tom, wait… runes? Are you sure?" She raised her free hand to her face, eyes fluttering closed briefly. "No, don't do anything, and don't open the door—not yet. Wait for me. I'll be there in… fifteen minutes."
She pulled out of the warm grasp, taking a couple of steps forward, the comfort of the gesture suddenly lost for her. "No, Tom, wait for me. Fifteen minutes won't make much of a difference either way, but we'll have a much better chance if we go together." Already, she was grabbing her coat, her keys, and moving toward the door. "I'll be there as soon as I can. Okay, see you soon."
"What's going on?" the baritone voice inquired as she snapped the phone shut.
Dee turned to face him, the hesitation as clear on her features as the worry on his. And worry not only at the conversation he'd just overheard, but also at her obvious reluctance to tell him.
As abruptly and unexpectedly as that, a choice had been presented to her. The choice to decide just how serious this relationship was, whether she saw a future worth protecting there. Tell him now and risk a reaction just like those of the police and their parents after the paper house game, where they had lost Summer. Risk losing him, having him think her crazy and simply leave her here and now.
But not tell him, and risk losing him in another way entirely.
It was a big risk, either way. Too big, and unfair. She hadn't told anyone, ever, not since that first time. None of them had, nor had they often spoken of the events, even with each other, over the years since then. They had discussed it enough right after it had happened, but over time with lessening frequency.
But it was just a matter of time—how long could you hide from something like that? Pretend it didn't happen, simply ignore it like it wasn't something you thought about at night, in that time before you fell asleep, or after you awoke from a nightmare and had trouble wanting to return to unconsciousness again. Like it wasn't something that had changed you forever. For better or for worse.
But still, forever.
So right then and there, Dee made a decision. "Come with me."
"Shadow Men?" She nodded. "Shadow World?" She nodded again. "Shadow Men from a Shadow World?"
Dee spared a gauging glance in his direction, daring to let her eyes leave the road. Daring, because with how fast she was going, even a nanosecond spent with her gaze turned elsewhere was a gamble.
"I always figured you for a clever boy, Devon; don't disappoint me now."
"Well, it's a little hard to swallow," he returned dryly, running a hand through curly dark hair. "I think it's saying something that I'm still in this car with you."
Dee grinned as she took a sharp turn and watched him clutch at the door with one arm, the dash with the other. "Is that because you're willing to hear me out, or because you're too afraid to pull the old jumping-out-of-a-moving-car scene?"
"Hey, I may be a stuntman, but the whole deal with a stunt is to try something that you have at least a remote chance of surviving. When certain death is involved, it's just sheer insanity."
"Then I don't know how you're going to feel about this whole entering the Shadow World deal," she muttered under her breath as she barely beat a red light.
Okay, so you've probably guessed at what's coming next. And don't worry, there'll be plenty of Julian… and Jenny, in the next part.
