Suddenly, the front door—the heavy oak door they had locked and bolted—slammed wide open.
A sharp, icy draft swept through the kitchen, snuffing out the candle on the counter and rattling the cupboards. Mailah jumped, her heart leaping into her throat, but Grayson remained perfectly still. He didn't reach for a blade, and he didn't call upon his power. He simply sat there, his gaze fixed on the threshold where the darkness of the porch met the dim interior.
The door groaned on its hinges, swaying like a pendulum, but no one—and nothing—was there. Just the restless, biting wind of a dying valley.
"Just the wind," Grayson said, his voice unusually soft.
Mailah let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, the tension in her shoulders sagging for the briefest of moments. She stood up and crossed the room, her bare feet padding against the cold wood, and shoved the heavy oak door shut. She slid the iron bolt into place, the thud final and hollow.
