Roger shivered and glanced back over his shoulder. Nothing moved in this section of town except the mist. Black on black shadows. Silence. Not even the wind to talk to him. Jeans and sweatshirt weren't enough in the chill that seemed to flow out of the black mouth of the abandoned factory.
Like a monster, waiting to devour him.
When he had been a boy, he had played in the caves along the coast of Cornwall and pretended to be a knight, rescuing maidens from dragons and ogres and other creatures who enjoyed the damp and sand and darkness. His parents had split when he was eleven, destroying his childhood and shredding his dreams of adventure and daring. Moving from Cornwall to Detroit had been the first step in a long, downward plunge, nearly wiping those dreams out of his soul, yet not completely. Darcy made him remember those days. For her, and her belief in him, he wanted to stay and fight for his reputation and the rescue mission.
Roger shook his head and ran his long fingers through his thinning, graying red curls. When had those memories decided to surface? Since he found the note from Darcy tucked under his apartment door? He wished he had returned soon enough to actually talk to her, but maybe it was better that way. With all the lies being circulated about those heading the ministry, it might be better if no one saw them talking in daylight.He just wished Darcy hadn't chosen a place like this. It was one thing for her parents to choose to make their home in the Zone, but another thing for a girl like her to wander around so late at night, alone. True, Darcy was the most talented and natural student of swordplay he had taken on in years, but a white girl riding her motorcycle alone in the Zone after midnight -- that attracted the kind of attention a sword couldn't defend against.