The app finally loads, and I see a twenty-something year old man standing on the porch. There’s something familiar about him, like we’ve met before but I can’t remember when. He has light brown hair and kind eyes. He’s dressed casually in jeans and a sweater, with an unzipped jacket over top. Scrambling out of bed after Ethan, I pull on the sweatpants I stripped out of and grab a zip-up hoodie on my way down the stairs.
“Don’t look him in the eye,” Ethan whispers, pausing at the base of the stairs before entering the foyer. He thinks whoever is on the porch could be a vampire.
“I won’t,” I tell him, but that goes out the window as soon as Ethan throws open the door. Because this guy looks so freaking familiar it’s annoying me. The man smiles when the door opens, but that quickly fades when he sees the gun pointed at him. He holds up his hands and looks at me, and I know the shock and fear in his eyes is real.
“Can I help you?” Ethan demands, tone anything but friendly.
“I, uh, I…” The man’s gaze flits from me to Ethan and back. “Is Estelle home?”
What? This is a joke, right? I run my fingers over Hunter’s fur. He’s calmly sitting at my side, still not on guard since he doesn’t perceive this man as a threat.
“You’re looking for Estelle?” Ethan echoes.
“I am, since this is her house.” The man inches back and I can see the regret all over his face, thinking we’re a bunch of crazy people for answering the door like this. He’s wearing cowboy boots, and something about that clicks in my mind.
“I remember you.” I blink and see his face clearly in my mind. He looks exactly the same, like he hasn’t aged a day. He was Aunt Estelle’s friend—boyfriend maybe?—and he’s in several of the photos in the album I found in the attic not that long ago. He joined us for tea on the porch and brought little honey cakes with him each time. Harrison and I loved them, and I remember sneaking several cakes home with us. We hid in the closet and ate them, not realizing that we got crumbs all over the carpet, which attracted ants.
“He’s not a vampire,” I tell Ethan, though I don’t know what—or who—this guy is. My memories aren’t the most reliable, but I know he looks the exact same as I recall.
“Vampire?” the guy repeats with a laugh. “Did Estelle put you up to this?”
“Estelle is dead,” Ethan goes on and the man’s face goes slack, color draining from his cheeks. He’s either a good actor or he really didn’t know, and the shock hits him hard.
“Dead?” He staggers back, bumping into the porch railing. “H-how?”
“She was old,” I answer, narrowing my eyes as I try to remember more about this man. I liked him. Trusted him. He used to push me on the swing in the front yard…only he wasn’t pushing me. He used magic to make the swing go back and forth. “Who are you?”
“Old?” He’s slowly shaking his head, trying to take everything in. “I saw her just…just…” His eyes fall shut and he lets out a defeated sigh. “Time moves differently here.”
“She asked you a question.” Ethan hasn’t lowered his gun, and his arms aren’t wavering. “Who are you?”
“Nikolai,” I say at the same time as he speaks his name. Ethan looks at me in question for half a second. “He was friends with Aunt Estelle.”
“You’re Estelle’s niece?” Nikolai tips his head. “Well, I’ll be,” he mutters under his breath. “You’re Anora. It’s been…ten years?”
“More like twenty. I think.” I stare at this man, suddenly desperate for answers. He knew Aunt Estelle. He’s met me before. Could he fill in the missing gaps of my memory?
“You’ve met before?” Ethan still doesn’t lower his gun.
“Yeah,” I answer. “But the memories are hazy.”
“Why are you looking for Estelle?” Ethan asks.
“I was hoping she could help me as I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a sticky situation,” Nikolai explains.
“Sticky situation?”
Nikolai makes a face and then sighs. “I seem to have gotten a bad luck spell cast on myself.” He pauses, taking in the look on both mine and Ethan’s faces, telling him to go on. “My ex was a bit of a jealous type…turns out her sister was too.” He winces and shakes his head at himself.
“How did you not realize Estelle would be old?” I ask him.
“I’ve been in my realm,” he answers as if that makes sense. “Time moves differently there.”
“Sure.” I bob my head up and down, trying—and failing—to remember more about him.
“You look like her,” he says softly. “You have her eyes.”
I do, I know from looking at photos of her now. I get my green eyes and red hair from her, though you don’t need to be an old friend to know that. Anyone with access to social media could figure that out.