Shadow‘s Reach (Halloween Noir) - 11. Doubts and Questions

Alex woke to the warmth of the sun. It gently caressed his skin as he lay on the lounge chair by the pool. The air was more liberating here than in the house—perfumed with traces of earth and water. He could hear faint, ghost-like sounds from beyond the high brick walls, a cheerful song piped out from something like a carnival organ. Obviously, it was played live, judging from the occasional stray notes. What could play so loudly? Those sounds felt far away, like they belonged to another world. He should investigate.

Opening his eyes a little wider, Alex registered the gentle movement of wind over the pool’s surface. A yawn escaped his lips before he could stop it. For just a second, waking here had felt normal—that soft haze of stretching into the day, the muscles uncoiling like they should. He started to tilt his head back to rest again.
Then he moved his arm, and the sensation struck him.

A sharp, elastic tension raced from his shoulder to his wrist, both pleasant and jarring. Alex froze mid-movement, staring at his own skin, the contours of his arm catching the sunlight as he pulled it back up. He rubbed his biceps with his opposite hand experimentally—his fingers brushed lean, solid muscle where once there had been none, and his hand stilled. New energy hummed beneath his skin, his body responding in a way it had never done before.

His heart skipped. It wasn’t pain, but it wasn’t quite normal either. It seemed… foreign.

Sitting up more abruptly now, something he did hundreds of times before, the sensation that came with it startled him all over again. The movement of his wrist was too smooth, too precise, unhindered by the stiffness he’d once been used to. It was liquid and efficient and, for him, completely unnatural.

And yet… it felt good.

The sensation flowed into his back as he twisted, shifting his torso onto the edge of the lounge chair—limbs flexing in a motion he realized was easier than he was expecting, free of the awkwardness that had characterized his body for years. His thighs tensed automatically as his hips shifted upright, and God—he could sense how powerful it was—how different he was now. Whatever magic had restructured him had reshaped the core of his anatomy, fusing parts together in ways that were effortless but alien. He was strong, yes, but it came without warnings or pain. Instead, his body wanted something… different. Something like use.

It wasn’t all pleasant.

He scratched his palm absently as he stood, blinking at the sensation traveling down his spine and arms. Muscles able to strain, release, and relax with perfect efficiency. The heat was prickling on his skin now, more keenly experienced than it had ever been before—everything sharper, stronger, louder against his flesh. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was almost too much. He reached for a towel and wiped his arms, thinking the water pooling on his skin might help, but the texture of the towel itself—fluffy cotton—felt strangely amplified.

He shuffled toward the pool, staring deep into its depths. As he twisted his neck, the sunlight hit the side of his jaw just right. Out of the corner of his eye, something flickered—a thread of faint blue light that faded almost instantly. He stopped, brushing his hand across his skin. There was nothing there, but it lingered in his memory. He almost smirked.

“No blue light this time,” he murmured. “That’s a win, I guess.”

But it wasn’t over. Not yet.

As Alex stood by the pool, letting the occasional movement of water and sunlight distract him momentarily, his thoughts unraveled. They twisted toward Jacques—his presence, his voice, the way he had held Alex. The shared kiss, the adrenaline, the pull of another body pressed almost too softly against his own, …the lightness and innocence. And last night... last night, Jacques had come for him. He’d made the effort. His rock in the surf.

And then this morning.

Jacques had been different—detached, quieter. Of course, Alex didn’t know what happened after he lost consciousness when the thugs attacked him. Did he do something to Jacques at the cemetery they were talking about? Alex’ body had been hideous this morning, but even after the transformation, Jacques hadn’t said much before leaving, hadn’t done anything to break Alex’s spiraling insecurities, almost as if Jacques himself were overwhelmed. It made Alex’s thoughts spiral even more in the hours since. Was this his way of pulling away? Of brushing it off? The way that kiss had touched him …

His stomach coiled with bitterness. Jacques had his friends to fall back on, people who dragged him away last night without hesitation—smiling or laughing or cracking jokes as though all this magic wasn’t running beneath their feet. Jacques could just… leave. Walk out the door. Carrying that same stoic energy, like he did not really notice what had happened between them.

Alex pressed his fists against his thighs, trying to control both the building frustration and the nagging ache sitting heavy in his chest. He left me here. Am I supposed to be okay with that?

With a sharp movement, he turned and crouched by the edge of the pool, both knees pressing into the hot stone. His reflection in the water swam into view, breaking briefly before returning as the ripples steadied.

This was someone else—not entirely, but enough that Alex tilted his head in disbelief. Where his once hollow, angular cheekbones had been, there was now sharpness, symmetry, strength. A kind of health that no one had associated with Alex Ashwood in years. He felt it in his legs as he shifted forward farther, sinking lower to the ground with more grace than he’d known he had. He felt it when his hand dipped into the water, too steady now, his arm braced lightly but full of strength against the edge.

Alex pulled back, shaking his hand to fling the water before frowning at his open palm and his lower arm. Smooth, impossibly strong tissue and flesh.
His breath caught as something flickered across his hand again—not just reflections of the water, but that faint light traveling from his wrist toward his fingers. Like the faint mirroring of those arcane symbols he remembered from two nights ago. He could trace them in memory even as they vanished before his eyes.
“Right. Not paranoid at all,” Alex muttered sharply under his breath. A humorless laugh escaped him as he stood. Toward the house. Toward motion. Toward action. This situation was not going to suffocate him.

***

Alex slid open the heavy glass door leading back inside Maison Noir, leaving the humid warmth and the flickering water of the courtyard behind. The air changed in an instant—it was calm, soothing, like being embraced by a mother. But the house was too still, as if it was waiting for something. The only sound was the soft fall of his own feet against the tiled floors, accompanied by the whisper of his breath.

The silence pressed against him. It made his skin buzz, his nerves keenly aware of how isolated he was in such an enormous house. Alex’ eyes scanned the gym. At first glance, it looked like it had never been used, all shiny and new. Polished weights sat untouched on their racks, the benches were aligned in neat rows, and there wasn’t a single scuff or scrape on the wooden floorboards. Still, Alex’ pulse picked up, his body responding instinctively to the space.

Finally, his unrest boiled over. Standing there on the training room floor, a flicker of frustration spurred Alex out of stillness, and he found himself moving back to the weights without realizing it at first. His feet felt light, the motions in his legs calculated and efficient.

His eyes swept across the well arranged equipment before him until they landed on a small set of weights. Alex hesitated. Then, without much thought, he reached out.

The first weight was heavier than he’d expected. Or at least, it should’ve been. His mind recoiled when he lifted it from the rack, how effortless the motion had been. The smooth transition of power in his arms startled him—it felt strange, almost… fun.

He set it down and reached for a heavier one, the process repeating itself in a rhythm that both thrilled and unnerved him. With every new test of his body, Alex felt a cautious kind of exhilaration creep into his fingertips, tugging at the edges of his lips, turning into quiet disbelief: how could someone like him do this?

Yet, it didn’t stop the lingering disconnection—the growing rift between his muscle memory and the strange, living thing pulling the strings now. He swapped the final weight back into place slowly, staring at it like it might bite him. A quiet smile played across his face for a moment before fading into something more pensive. Using his body felt amazing—he could admit that. It was the first time in years he had felt his body respond without hesitation. He’d even call it enthusiasm.

But this still wasn’t his.

Alex turned back toward the changing room, rubbing his arm as he moved, revelling in the sensation. As he crossed the doorframe, a thought unsettled him: What would Jacques do if he saw me now?

Jacques’ face floated in his mind again—the way he’d looked just this morning before he left. Detached, distracted, unreadable. Alex sighed as he pushed back into the hallways of Maison Noir.

How could Jacques leave so cleanly, so effortlessly? Alex wasn’t Jacques. For him, even a playful kiss meant something.

***

He stepped into the adjoining changing room, the crisp and clean smell lingering in the air. It startled him for a second how much the scent hit him, like his heightened senses had turned the volume of the room all the way up.

Alex moved toward the sink, catching his reflection again in the spotless mirror above it. For a second, all he could do was stare—half in wonder, half in unease. The person staring back at him was more vivid, sharper in detail than the Alex he used to know. His lips pressed together, the corners curving downward, as he focussed on his hands.

Bending over the sink to splash water on his face, the shock of cold hit harder than it should have, electrifying his nerve endings, as though his body received sensations differently now. Slowly, Alex straightened and reached for the towel nearby. It scratched across his skin with more intensity than expected, somewhat irritating but grounding.

The wardrobe in the corner caught his attention, dragging him out of his spiraling thoughts. Solomon had shown it to him earlier, mentioning the clothing stored there for guests. He opened the door and actually saw two filled shelves for guests, Jacques and him. He settled on a now tight-fitting gray T-shirt that seemed nondescript and a pair of elastic track pants that didn’t cling too tightly to this new, unfamiliar body of his.

Sliding them on, the cool fabric brushed against his skin with unbelievable clarity. His fingers twitched as he pulled the shirt into place, smoothing the hem over his stomach. It seemed strange—like armor—but it would do. He couldn’t parade around naked.

As he tightened the drawstring of the track pants, something flickered at the corner of his vision. His hands jerked; his pulse quickened. He squinted down at his own reflection in the mirror, just catching the afterimage of the faint, glowing lines under his skin. Blue light arced along the veins in his wrists and disappeared as quickly as it had come.

Alex let out a frustrated breath and squeezed his hands into fists. “I don’t have time for this. I need to do something.”

Anything to drown out the buzzing fear building in his chest. Anything to take his mind off the fact that Jacques had walked out the door earlier, detached and quiet, without so much as a glance backward.

***

The main entrance hall of Maison Noir was silent. Everything about this part of the house seemed to breathe the past—its walls, its floors, even its doors seemed heavy with intention. It felt safe, yet Alex was here, heading toward its most vulnerable point: the front entrance.

The decision should have been simple. Open the door, take a step outside, connect with the world again. After all, Jacques had walked through this same door this morning without a second thought. Alex swallowed hard as the thought surged, unwelcome but insistent. Jacques had left him in the gym with purpose, without hesitation. Alex still saw the image of Jacques pausing briefly, sparing Alex only a few words—and none of them comforting—before vanishing beyond Alex’ reach.
Now, standing where Jacques must have had stood, Alex struggled to match that same confidence. His palms tingled as the faint golden glow of late-afternoon sunlight spilled through the crack at the bottom of the door.

He paused with one hand resting on the doorframe, the cool wood grounding him in the moment. He imagined sensing a restlessness in the house, concern. Still, his hand moved to the cold brass handle.

“Come on,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing his thumb along his fingertips to steady them. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

***

With a sharp inhale, Alex turned the handle.

The hinges groaned faintly, and the heavy door began to give way under the faintest push of his hand. It was easier than he expected—too easy, in fact. The door seemed like it should have resisted more, as if something unseen had reinforced its weight.

The sunlight streaming in hit him hard—hot, bright, more immediate than he remembered it being. It was like stepping through a wall of static, the details of the outside world overwhelming him all at once.

The noise hit him next. Where Maison Noir echoed with oppressive stillness, the French Quarter flooded his senses.

It was alive.

Music floated through the air—lilting, uneven chords from string instruments mingling with drums, laughter, and shouts. A group of tourists wandered past, their voices a chorus of competing accents and bursts of excitement. The smell of roasting nuts and powdered sugar washed over him without warning, tangled with the faint spice of gumbo from some unseen corner. For just a moment, Alex let it wash over him, his breath catching. Life.

He could feel life in every shade, every scent, every movement.

And yet, as he stepped forward—just slightly, his hand still resting on the door frame—a strange sensation prickled down his spine.

His gaze drifted first toward a man leaning against a lamppost on the opposite side of the street. The man was tall and narrow-shouldered, his head slightly bowed like he was just watching the flow of people passing by. But as Alex shifted the door open wider, the man’s head rose abruptly.

Their eyes met.

The man didn’t speak. He didn’t smile. But something about his gaze sent an icy chill racing along Alex’s skin. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and his body went rigid without warning. There was something off—something terrifying in the stillness of the man’s expression, even though there was no clear reason why.

Then Alex noticed the flick of the man’s eyes—subtle but deliberate—as he glanced toward the café farther down the street. The movement was fleeting, but it made Alex’s stomach churn. He realized, with dawning unease, that the man wasn’t just watching Alex. He was keeping track of someone else, too.

Alex pulled his gaze away quickly, his breathing tight, but everywhere else he looked seemed wrong. He spotted two men sitting outside a café farther down the street. They had been talking—he was sure of it—but now, their eyes fixed on the door and Alex, their conversation forgotten. One of them leaned forward slightly, murmuring something to his companion. The other nodded, his hand drifting to the edge of the table as if preparing to rise at any moment. Their postures tensed, subtle but unmistakable, and Alex’s pulse quickened as he realized they were shifting—angling themselves for a clearer line of sight to the door.

No recognition, no warmth, no curiosity. Just… sharp, focused attention. And something else—an awareness of the man by the lamppost. One of them shot a sidelong glance his way, a flicker of distrust crossing his features before his expression returned to its cold neutrality. Alex’s unease deepened as he caught the faintest movement: the man by the lamppost adjusted his stance, subtly but purposefully, as though to counter their new positioning.

Closer to him still, a woman burdened with two shopping bags in each hand stopped mid-step in the middle of the street. Her movements were slow, unnaturally deliberate. She stared toward the door, unsettlingly clear in her focus. Her head tilted slightly, her lips moving faintly. Alex couldn’t hear her, not through the swelling noise of the Quarter, but he swore for a second that she was speaking.

Then, just as suddenly, her gaze flickered sideways. Her body shifted slightly—not toward Alex, but away, as though positioning herself to avoid the café and the lamppost simultaneously. Alex’s breath caught as he realized her placement wasn’t random. She was aligning herself. Strategically.

The tension between them all was palpable now, an invisible web stretching across the street. Alex could see it in the way their eyes darted toward one another, their movements measured, wary. No one made a move toward him—not yet—but the way they adjusted, almost in unison, set his nerves on edge. The man by the lamppost turned slightly, his body angled to keep both Alex and the others in his periphery. The men at the café seemed to do the same, their chairs scraping faintly against the pavement as they leaned just a fraction to one side, their hands no longer idle on the table. Even the woman, her bags swaying gently at her sides, shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her stance deceptively casual but clearly calculated.

Alex’s chest tightened as the realization hit him: they weren’t just watching him. They were watching each other. Competing. Waiting for the right moment to strike.
The tension, the hum inside him grew louder, hotter. It wasn’t just restlessness now—it was energy, raw and wild, clawing to get free. Panic tightened his throat as the sensation intensified, pushing against the boundaries of his control. He gripped the doorframe harder, his knuckles white, but it wasn’t enough.

Then it happened.

The power surged through him, impossible to contain, spilling out in a torrent of blue light that crackled along his arm and poured into the frame of the door. A blinding light filled the street for those who could see it, and the air smelled of ozone, sharp, like in a thunderstorm. The whole house seemed to come alive in that moment, its walls vibrating with a deep, resonant hum, sending tremors into the ground. Light raced along the wood, into the walls, the floors, and out of sight, disappearing as quickly as it had come.

***

Alex pulled the door shut faster than he meant to, the loud bang echoing through the house’s stillness. He never realized that mere moments later the street outside was empty, his watchers terrfied, running for their lives. No-one who witnessed this power would have dared to go near him this day.

He felt his chest seize as he leaned heavily against the wood, pressing his palms flat against the doorframe like it might burst free from its hinges if he didn’t hold it steady. Trying to calm down, he let his senses wander. Outside, the world had been alive—chaotic, sharp, and immediate. But inside, Maison Noir felt still again. But not lifeless or nervous. It was calm, protective, and humming with more power than it had held for centuries.

He blinked hard, his mind racing. What the hell had just happened?

Were they waiting for him? Watching? Was he imagining it? No, it was too deliberate—the way their heads turned, the pause in conversation, the unnatural ease with which they suddenly tracked him.

Alex’s hands twitched faintly at his sides, the tendons in his wrists almost painfully taut. He clenched his fists and exhaled shakily, muttering, “Not paranoia. It wasn’t paranoia.”

The thought made him feel simultaneously justified and utterly sick. Were they there for him? Was this his fault, somehow?

Slowly, Alex pushed himself off the door and stumbled back a step, his legs still shaky despite how strong they felt. His pulse hammered in his chest, and his skin still prickled faintly from whatever had happened moments before.

He backed away from the door like it might crack open on its own at any second, his steps echoing as he retreated farther into the house. The same gnawing frustration bubbled under his skin—frustration at his fear, at his helplessness, at the fact that Jacques could walk out the same door without hesitation, without consequence.

But Alex wasn’t Jacques.

Jacques could carry himself in ways Alex couldn’t. Jacques hadn’t looked back this morning. Jacques probably didn’t feel the kind of paralyzing, heart-pounding isolation that churned in Alex’s chest as Maison Noir swallowed him back into its cold depths.

By the time Alex made his way back toward the pool courtyard, his hands were trembling faintly. He sat and stared at the water again, fidgeting with the edge of his shirt as the last weak light of the sun broke across the horizon. His thoughts tumbled over themselves uselessly, too loud and jagged to quiet. Only the presence of the house and his faintly glowing hands remained.

Solomon should return soon. He had so many questions.