The Empty Throne. Cayla Kluver

there?” I demanded, squinting to bring the shape into better focus.

      There was no answer, but it seemed to me that the shadow shifted, moving along the floor, and I hopped on top of my bed.

      “I’d leave if I were you,” I cried, trying to sound menacing but having no idea to whom I was speaking. “You’re not welcome here.”

      Still no reply. Should I stand my ground and fight? Or should I scream and draw the attention of the residents of the Home, making my presence known? But perhaps my presence was already known. Liking neither option, I leaped from the bed to land in front of the door. I threw back the lock and shoved it open, then dashed barefoot into the small hallway and out the exit to the alley. I broke into a run, not daring to look over my shoulder for fear of what might be following.

      I ran until my sides hurt and my feet felt bruised and bloodied, then stopped to join a group of homeless huddled around a trash heap fire for warmth. A few people were cooking cups of coffee or watery soup. No one gave me a glance, telling me the makeup of the group changed frequently. Feeling anonymous, I scoured the direction from which I had come but detected no sign of pursuit.

      I exhaled heavily, then tried to determine what had happened. What might have been lurking in my room? And how could it have entered? There was only one small, high window, and it had not been broken. And the door had been firmly locked from the inside. I rubbed my hands together over the burning rubbish, considering the possibilities. An intruder could have been in my room at the time of my return. But the lamp had been lit. Surely I would have noticed.

      I shook my head, trying to clear the fog that had of late inhabited my brain. There was one other possibility that scared me as much as, if not more than, the presence of an intruder. Could I have imagined the whole thing?

      I had to quit using Cysur. Despite the hunger I felt for the peace it could provide, it might be causing me to hallucinate. Now more than ever, I needed to keep my wits about me, and I needed to leave behind the world of utter depravity that I found so appealing.

      Considerably calmer, I returned to the Fae-mily Home, not wanting to sleep on the street and believing it was best to face my fear. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that my imagination had transformed a shadow into a threat.

      I entered the shelter from the alley, acutely aware of the pounding of my heart, for it reverberated in my temples, my ears, and my very skin. I took several deep breaths, then forced myself to push open the door to my room. I tensed, clutching my long knife, but saw no intruder. On the other hand, the light from the interior of the Home did little to illuminate the space. I crossed the threshold and crept toward the lamp on the nightstand, keeping my back to the wall. There was no sound other than my soft footfalls and my ragged breathing.

      After what seemed like hours, I brought the lamp to life. I scanned the room, taking note of every shadow, then crossed the floor to close and lock the door. I was alone. Or was I? My eyes shot to the cot. Could something be skulking underneath it? I knelt down, my heart once more drumming, and took a look. The only thing hiding from me was dust. With a relieved laugh, I reclaimed my feet, internally chastising myself for being so foolish. Then I crossed to the washbasin and dampened a cloth, wrapping it around my damaged feet. When they stopped smarting, I crawled into bed. Only this time, I didn’t douse the lamp.

      * * *

      The next morning, I obtained an envelope from Fi and stuffed the note I had written inside it, asking her to post the message by snowbird to the Dementya Estate. She readily agreed but refused the coin I proffered, leaving me feeling even more indebted to her.