Sol would kill for some dreamweed.
The sun had set hours ago, and he hadn't liked the way his dark had gotten a little darker when it did. Though he would have preferred to stay in the water, he forced himself to walk up and down the beach and practice his shaping on land.
The houses were easy. They rose up from an otherwise empty charcoal landscape like mountainous shadows. As it had grown darker, those shapes had changed slightly, developed a shimmer, and it had taken him a few minutes to realize it was the lights he was sensing, their energy something he could detect in the air and feel on his skin.
It was the smaller details that were harder to determine. Pieces of driftwood, the odd bottle, or broken shells and sand dollars, the wooden posts that held up the occasional trash can. The forms of the few people milling about both near and far, the way he could almost determine their limbs from what otherwise resembled pillars of gray smoke.
The beach was virtually barren, the threats to him here nonexistent. That wouldn't be true elsewhere. The sooner he could master his bat-like senses the sooner he could test out his ability to navigate more complex environments. It was the main reason he'd asked if he could stay for a few days. He felt safe here.
He made his way back to the cottage and sat on the porch, studying the differences in the textures of the sky, and sand, and water, all the wide open space an abyss he could easily get lost in. Now that he was satisfied he could at least function in his new shadow world, he needed a longer term plan for his stay here. He had nothing but the shorts Farron had provided him.
To start with, he needed more food. His stomach was about to start eating itself. And a toothbrush. His mouth was like ash. Maybe some extra clothes. The nights were still cool and he could use a long-sleeved shirt.
He hated feeling this helpless. He hated he would have to ask Farron to supply all these basic needs, but he didn't see that he had a choice.
Where the hell was she anyway? It had to be close to midnight. What kind of a restaurant stayed open this late on a weeknight in a one stoplight town? And then like a punch to his gut, it occurred to him maybe she had a boyfriend. Which would make sense. What didn't make sense was how he suddenly wanted to smash something, hurt somebody.
He needed a smoke. Bad.
His ears pricked to a sound—a soft, scratching noise in a steady cadence. Footsteps. Someone small, smaller than him, but not a kid. Thank the goddess for small mercies. He smelled oranges. He angled his face toward the sound and saw the fire.
"Where the hell have you been?" His fingers cinched around the edge of the porch.
That fire coming toward him seemed to glow brighter with a teasing spark like a shooting star. "I told you, I had to work."
"It's got to be close to midnight." As she drew closer, he picked up on other scents. Smoke again. Cheap cologne. Beer. Male. She smelled like a party. His jaw clenched and he forced his gaze away from the fire.
"What's the matter with you?" she asked, bringing that cloud of stink closer.
"Oh, I don't know. I'm blind. I'm about to fucking starve."
She offered him an unsympathetic, 'humph,' and placed something on the porch. Plastic bags crinkled. His gaze was drawn back to the fire, a beacon in his endless night. It looked different. Not as bright, and it felt different, heavy, like she was sad. Did she have something to be sad about?
"Did something happen? You sound different."
"No," she said. "Just tired."
An unsatisfactory explanation. All her answers to his questions left him unsatisfied.
