The Sentinels When the tequila runs out

The air grew nearly as dark as night, especially with the surrounding trees casting everything into deeper shadows. When lightning glistered through the roiling skies, it lit up everything in sharp relief and caused Sharkbait to swallow and press even closer to the back of the hollow tree. She was too busy watching (and being frightened by) the light show to see the pale figure moving toward her along the forest floor and she initially mistook the snarl of surprise for another guttural thunderclap.

But then someone was speaking to her in a soft voice and Sharkbait blinked as a pale face loomed in the little entryway, peering in at her. The word "Larkspur" triggered a flood of that homesick feeling that was now nearly as familiar as the anxiety that hung around the youth's neck like a yoke. She still didn't have a name or explanation for it. Nor could she figure out why this stranger was speaking to her with such warmth and familiarity so soon after growling at her or why her presence seemed to loosen the knot of anxiousness in her chest rather than tighten it.

"Who," she began, her throat dry and her voice a little raspy from lack of use these past few weeks. She stopped, then tried again, "I don't..." I don't know you, she meant to say, yet the words rang absolutely false in her head and heart. Sharkbait squinted, feeling something worming in her chest, but she couldn't quite grasp it.