Lane had walked nearly a quarter mile up the empty road when he felt Apollena’s absence. Three years may not be a long time, but in the spring of his youth, Lane considered himself radically fortunate to have a sister like Luna. She simply had no fear—at least none that they’d encountered so far. Her confidence was contagious, and Luna, in turn, admired Lane’s ingenuity. Being reliant on Lane wouldn’t be giving her the credit she was due. Individually, they could manage just fine. Together? They were an unstoppable force and immovable object that worked in tandem to overcome obstacles no ordinary pair of siblings could. But, when the frightened scream broke the still of the night once more, Lane felt the absence of Apollena’s fearlessness and the courage it fostered.
Lane stood there, frozen in the middle of the street across from the house with the second story light blinking in odd sequences. His eyes had adjusted enough to the dark. No streetlamps lit his path. Only the bright, waxing crescent moon and trillions of stars shone down from above. It was a young girl who’d screamed, judging by the pitch and timbre. There was terror laced in the scream that made Lane’s skin crawl. Someone needed help and by the looks of things, only a thirteen-year-old armed with a flashlight was going to answer that call.
Taking a deep breath, Lane sprinted around the side of the house. Luna’s methods were usually more direct. She would have burst through the front door without knocking. Lane, however, solved a puzzle by finding the edges first. Making a complete lap around the house, panting for breath, there was no immediate evidence of forced entry. No clear and present danger from the outside.
Now came the moment of truth.
Stepping up to the front patio, wooden floorboards creaked, bending under boot, Lane balled up his fist and knocked on the door; “Miss, it sounds like you’re in distress. Is everything okay?” Still waiting for his final bout with puberty to deepen his voice, Lane’s attempt to come across as authoritative and masculine was comical at best. He probably would die from embarrassment if whatever was waiting inside didn’t kill him first.
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