The rain's coming down hard, a silver sheet that blurs the edges of Vancouver's skyline and soaks the lawn beneath my boots. I'm standing at the edge of our garden in West Point Grey, the Pacific Ocean grumbling below the cliffs like it's got something to say. My hoodie's no match for the October chill, and my breath clouds in the air, mixing with the salt and cedar scent that always lingers here. The estate's behind me, all stone and sharp angles, its windows glowing like embers against the dusk. I don't know why I'm out here, staring at the sea like it's got answers. Maybe it's just the kind of night that makes you feel like something's waiting in the shadows.
"Cinantra!" Dad's voice cuts through the rain, warm but with that edge he gets when I've kept him waiting too long. "Dinner's getting cold. You planning to mope out there all night?"
I can't help but smile, brushing wet hair from my eyes. At twenty-two, I should be past letting him tease me about my "brooding moments," as he calls them, but there's something comforting in the way his voice wraps around me, pulling me back to the house. "Coming, Dad," I call, my boots crunching on the gravel path. The rain's relentless, drumming against my hood, and there's this weird heaviness in the air, like the storm's carrying more than just water. I shake it off—probably just the weather messing with my head.
Inside, the dining room feels like a different world. The chandelier casts a soft glow over mahogany walls, and the oak table's loaded with roasted lamb, herbed potatoes, and Dad's favorite Bordeaux. He's at the head, his broad shoulders filling out a navy sweater, his dark eyes crinkling as he pours me a glass of wine. At fifty, Dad, Alex to everyone else is still larger than life, all charisma and quiet strength, like a storm that hasn't decided to break yet. His hair's gone silver at the edges, but his smile's as young as ever.
"You're quiet tonight," he says, sliding my plate across the table. "Everything okay at the gallery?".
I spear a potato, nodding. The art gallery in Kitsilano, where I curate exhibits for local painters, is my escape, even if it feels small next to Dad's world. He's a billionaire, all tech deals and real estate, though he keeps the details hazy, like he's shielding me from something. "Same old," I say. "Tourists wanting postcards, artists fighting over wall space. You know how it is."
He laughs, but his eyes don't let go of mine, like he's searching for something. "You'd tell me if something was wrong, right?"
His tone catches me off guard, too serious for our usual banter. My stomach twists, and I meet his gaze, seeing something flicker there—worry, maybe? "Yeah, of course," I say, frowning. "Why?"
He hesitates, his fingers tightening on his wineglass. "No reason. Just… you're my world, Cin. Always have been."
The words hit like a punch I didn't see coming. Dad's not big on mushy stuff, and the weight in his voice makes my chest ache. I force a grin, trying to lighten things up. "Getting sappy in your old age, huh?"
He chuckles, but it's hollow, his eyes not quite meeting mine. "Maybe. Or maybe I know you're meant for more than postcards and paintbrushes."
I don't know what to say to that. He's always pushed me to dream bigger, to step out of my quiet little life, but tonight, his words feel like they're carrying something heavier. Before I can ask what he means, he launches into a story about a botched deal in Singapore, his hands waving like he's conducting an orchestra. I let his voice pull me in, the familiar rhythm of our dinners grounding me, even as that weird unease lingers.
The chandelier's light dances across the table, shadows flickering like they're alive. Outside, the rain's turned into a full-on roar, pounding the windows. I sip my wine, the Bordeaux warming my chest, but that strange feeling won't quit. I glance at the windows, half-expecting to see something out there—a face, a shape but it's just darkness and rain.
"Dad," I say, setting my glass down, "you ever feel like… something's watching you?"
He freezes, his fork hovering midair. For a second, his face is blank, like a mask, but his shoulders go tight, like he's bracing for something. Then he smiles, too fast. "City's full of eyes, Cin. It's just the rain messing with you."
His answer doesn't sit right. Dad never brushes me off, not like that. I open my mouth to push, but a sharp crack splits the air—something heavy, like a branch snapping, or worse. My heart jumps, and Dad's head whips toward the window, his eyes narrowing to slits.
"Stay here," he says, his voice low, sharp, like a command I've never heard before. He's up in a flash, moving with a grace that doesn't match his size, and heads for the French doors. My pulse races as he steps onto the patio, his silhouette swallowed by the storm.
"Dad, wait—" I'm on my feet, but he raises a hand, cutting me off.
"It's nothing," he calls, but his voice is tight, like he's trying to convince himself. He scans the garden, his body coiled, like a hunter waiting for prey. The wind howls, carrying the scent of wet earth and something else—sharp, metallic, like blood. My skin prickles, and a weird heat flares in my chest, like a spark trying to catch.
Minutes drag on, the silence heavy. I edge toward the doors, my sneakers silent on the hardwood. "Dad?" No answer. The rain's too loud, drowning everything else. I step onto the patio, the cold biting through my hoodie, and peer into the garden.
The hedges loom like dark giants, their edges smudged by the storm.
"Alex?" My voice shakes now. That metallic scent hits stronger, twisting my gut. I take another step, my boots slipping on wet stone, and then I see it—a flicker of movement near the cliff's edge, where the lawn drops to the sea. A shape, too big to be human, too fast to be normal. My breath catches, and that heat in my chest spikes, sharp and strange, making my vision blur.
"Dad!" I shout, running now, rain stinging my eyes. I hit the cliff's edge, where the grass is torn up, mud churned like something fought here. My eyes dart to the shadows, and thereglowing amber eyes, low to the ground, staring right at me. A growl rumbles through the storm, not human, not animal, something wrong. My heart's pounding so hard it hurts, and that heat spreads, my fingers tingling like they're buzzing with electricity.
I stumble back, blinking, and the eyes are gone, swallowed by the dark. But the growl lingers, sinking into my bones. I'm shaking, not just from the cold, but from something deeper, something I can't name.
"Cin!" Dad's voice slices through the rain, sharp with relief. He's there, emerging from the shadows, his sweater soaked, his face pale but calm. "What the hell are you doing out here?"
"I—I saw something," I stammer, my teeth chattering. "Eyes. Like… an animal."
He grabs my shoulders, his grip strong but gentle. "It's just the storm playing tricks. Let's get inside." His eyes flick to the darkness one last time, and I swear I see something in them—fear, or maybe something he recognizes.
Back in the dining room, I wrap my hands around a fresh glass of wine, trying to stop the shaking. Dad's across from me, his calm mask back on, but his knuckles are white around his glass. "You sure you're okay?" he asks, his voice softer now.
"Yeah," I lie, those amber eyes burned into my mind. "Just spooked."
He nods, but he's watching me too closely, like he sees something I don't. "Cinantra," he says finally, his voice low, "there's a lot you don't know about this world. About… us. If anything ever happens to me, promise you'll be strong. Stronger than you think you can be."
My throat tightens. "Dad, you're freaking me out. What's going on?"
He smiles, but it's sad, like he's saying goodbye. "Just promise me."
"Okay," I whisper, the word feeling like a vow I don't understand.
That metallic scent clings to me, faint but real, and the heat in my chest pulses, like a second heartbeat waking up.
As we clear the table, the storm rages outside, the windows rattling like they're trying to break free. I glance at Dad, his back to me as he stacks plates, and a chill runs through me.
Something's coming—something bigger than the rain, bigger than the shadows. And deep down, in a place I can't name, I feel it watching me, waiting.