The Guardian and the Grudge

“There’s a special category of man who’ll hold your cat and your secrets—and drop both when it matters most.”

The rough ride up Luke’s driveway was less than forgiving, each uneven patch of gravel jolting the truck and sending the camping gear in the back clattering violently against the tray. Metal struck metal with every bump, an incessant racket that echoed the throbbing inside my skull. Each clang sent a fresh spike of pain lancing through my temples — sharp, rhythmic, almost punishing.

I winced, my grip on the steering wheel tightening involuntarily. It wasn’t until I brought the vehicle to an abrupt stop at the top of the drive that the obvious hit me.

I hadn’t had a single drop of alcohol since last night.

That’s why my head feels like it's splitting open, I realised, as a dull, nauseating pulse radiated behind my eyes. A hangover — uninvited, unrelenting, and now roaring to life in the sharp light of day.

Switching off the ignition brought an immediate, if temporary, relief. The rattling ceased, the engine coughed to silence, and the oppressive clatter of the gear finally stopped reverberating in my skull. But peace was fleeting.

With a sigh, I reached for the door. The hinges let out an earsplitting squeak as it opened — a grating, metallic cry that made me flinch. I jumped down from the cab, my boots landing heavily on the gravel. The motion jarred my spine, the impact sending a ripple of discomfort from the base of my skull to the soles of my feet.

Determined, I marched towards the back of the truck, mentally steeling myself to unload the camping gear. But I paused, one foot already on the tailgate. My fingers hovered over the latch.

No. No, this one’s not mine to carry.

I straightened up and let out a breath, brushing a stubborn lock of hair from my face.

Luke can unload it himself, I decided, spinning on my heel and redirecting my steps towards the front of the house with renewed resolve. It was his idea, his supplies. Let him haul it all inside.

But my approach to the front door was anything but dignified. My foot caught awkwardly on the first cement step, forcing a gasp from my lips. I stumbled forward, my body pitching slightly — but instinct saved me. My hand shot out just in time, fingers gripping the cold railing. I steadied myself, heart pounding, cheeks flushed with embarrassment despite the solitude.

Brushing my hair back again with a frustrated huff, I pulled myself together and continued up the steps, determined to at least appear in control. The familiar front door loomed, its surface bearing the faint scuffs of use and weather.

I knocked — sharp and purposeful — rapping my knuckles against the wood several times in quick succession. Then I waited, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, the cold beginning to bite at my ankles.

Nothing.

No footsteps. No muffled voice from inside. Just silence.

The house stood there, still and silent, as if it too were unsure what to say.

Where the hell is he? I wondered, unease beginning to twist low in my belly. Something about the stillness didn’t feel right. The house wasn’t just empty — it felt hollow, like it was waiting for something. Or hiding it.

With a sigh, I slung my handbag around to my front and began rummaging through it, fingers diving past loose receipts, an old lip balm, and tangled earbuds in search of the spare keys.

"Shit," I muttered as they slipped from my grasp, jangling against the porch concrete before scattering just out of reach. I crouched down quickly, but the motion sent a fresh wave of dizziness surging behind my eyes. The blood rushed to my head with punishing intensity.

Grimacing, I reached out blindly with one hand while steadying myself with the other, gripping the cold metal railing again. As my fingers closed around the keys, a flicker of movement caught my eye.

Across the street.

The neighbour — the one with the over-trimmed hedges and tidy grey polo — stood in his front garden, a green garden hose coiled in one hand, lazily watering a trio of spindly shrubs. But his eyes were on me. Unapologetically so.

Our eyes met.

I straightened slowly, schooling my features into something resembling normality. I gave him a small, polite wave — casual, nonchalant, as if I hadn’t just nearly toppled headfirst off Luke’s porch.

He held my gaze for a moment, then raised his hand in a slow, almost uncertain wave. It was the kind of wave that felt more like surveillance than friendliness.

Another gust of wind ripped down the street, sweeping against my back and slipping icy fingers beneath my jacket. I shivered, instinctively curling my arms around myself.

Hurry up, Gladys.

Fumbling slightly, I slid the key into the lock and turned it. The mechanism gave a reluctant click, and I slipped inside without another glance back.

The door closed behind me with a soft, final thud—sealing out the cold wind that had chased me across the porch. But not the chill that had settled deep inside my chest, bone-deep and coiled like a question I didn’t want to ask.

"Luke, are you home?" I called out, my voice echoing faintly into the stillness. The door gave a second click behind me, as if affirming I was now sealed in. But the reply I received was the same as before—unyielding silence.

The familiar creak beneath my boots as I stepped into the living room did little to calm my nerves. I flipped the switch near the doorway, and the overhead lights sputtered into life, flooding the room in their usual golden glow.

But it didn’t last.

Almost instantly, the lights flickered—twitched, trembled. Then steadied. But the moment was unmistakable.

My breath hitched.

That flicker… I knew that flicker. Not a wiring fault. Not an old bulb. That was the tell-tale pulse of a Portal activating. The kind of shift in the air that you didn’t see so much as feel—like the briefest static charge rolling across your skin.

And suddenly, this house—Luke’s house, which had so often been my safe zone—felt wrong. Not haunted, exactly. But intruded upon. Inhabited by something unseen. Something waiting.

With a tight, purposeful inhale, I moved into the kitchen, my steps cautious but quick. The tiles felt colder than they should’ve. The light buzzed overhead, steadier now, but still untrustworthy. I scanned the room with a gaze sharpened by dread.

What is going on?

Was Luke using the Portal again? Was he even here? Or had someone else come through?

My heart thudded harder at that. I didn’t want to think about Joel. I didn’t want his image flooding back to me—the pale skin, the blood, the stillness. But his name clung to the edges of my thoughts like smoke I couldn’t wave away.

"Luke?" I called again, louder this time, the edge of uncertainty now tempered by something firmer—readiness.

My hand moved almost of its own accord to the knife block. The wood was smooth, the knives arranged with clinical neatness. I grabbed the one with the thickest handle, the weight of it anchoring me like a talisman. I wasn’t foolish enough to think it would protect me from everything. But it was better than empty hands. Better than fear.

"Luke?" I repeated, softer now, just loud enough to hear myself. My bare feet padded onto the carpet as I edged closer to the living room, knife lowered but ready, my shoulders tight with tension.

Then—

A sharp creak.

The stairs.

Someone was ascending, each footstep muffled but clear, and close. My whole body stiffened, muscles locking, breath suspended in my lungs.

My mind screamed at me to run. To hold my ground. To shout. To freeze.

"Cody!" I cried, the relief and surprise colliding in my voice as he stepped into view from the stairwell.

His eyes widened at the sight of me—and then dropped to the knife.

"What the hell are you doing with that knife?" he demanded, quickly crossing the room. His voice held no humour, only urgency and alarm.

Heat rose in my face like a flush of shame. "I... I thought... nothing, really," I mumbled, the words tripping over themselves. My grip on the knife loosened as I lowered it, embarrassed at how absurd I must have looked.

But Cody didn’t smile. He didn’t joke.

He stopped a few feet short of me, and I could see it—etched into his face, the way he carried himself, the way his hands were clenched into fists at his sides. Something had shifted in him.

His jaw twitched. His breath was shallow. He looked like someone holding back a flood.

And then, as if offering proof of it, Cody slowly opened his hand.

The Portal Key gleamed dully in the soft light.

The room fell still.

"I know you know what this is," he said, voice low and deliberate.

My eyes locked onto the device in his palm, my breath catching. A thousand moments replayed in my head at once. All the odd timings. His sudden arrivals. His mysterious departures. His knowledge. His questions.

How did I not see this already?

How had I missed what was right in front of me? Cody… Cody was one of them.

And suddenly, everything else—the awkwardness, the affection, the notes, the wine—it all felt like scaffolding built around a secret. Around this.

The Portal Key sat in his palm like a loaded confession. And I just stood there, stunned, mute. No gasp came. Just silence. Because the truth had already taken my breath away.

“So, you are a Guardian, then?" I found my voice, though it emerged brittle, laced with disbelief and a growing sense of betrayal. My throat felt tight, as if the words had clawed their way out.

"Yes," came his simple, yet earth-shattering reply.

A chill rippled through me. The room around us—the familiar kitchen, the living room, the dim light from the window—seemed to warp slightly, as though I’d stepped out of my life and into someone else’s.

"I thought Luke was the only one," I said, blinking rapidly, the edges of my vision slightly blurred. My voice cracked on the last word. The world as I knew it had already shifted once with the discovery of the Portal. Now it was crumbling again.

"No."

"How many of you are there?" The question felt colossal as it left my mouth—more than curiosity. It was fear. Wonder. Dread. I held my breath, bracing.

Cody shrugged, like it was the most unremarkable thing in the world. "Dozens, if not hundreds."

I stared. If my jaw could have detached itself from my face and thudded to the floor, it would’ve done so with seismic weight. My thoughts scrambled like spooked birds in my skull.

What does this mean? What else have they kept from me?

"I honestly don't know, Gladys," Cody said, his voice maddeningly calm as he stepped forward and gently pried the knife from my hand. I hadn’t even realised I was still holding it.

His touch was gentle. Familiar. And yet, I pulled my hand away the moment it was free. I turned from him without another word and strode into the kitchen like I had purpose—like I wasn’t about to unravel from the inside out.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" I snapped, opening cupboards with a sort of frantic precision, each handle yanked harder than the last. I wasn’t just searching for wine now—I was reaching for something to make it all make sense.

Behind me, I heard Cody set the knife down on the bench. "It’s a dangerous lifestyle. I wanted to protect you," he said.

I spun, hurt flashing hot and fast through my chest. "Like you protected Joel?"

The words shot from my mouth before I could temper them. Harsh. Raw. Honest.

"That’s not fair, Gladys," Cody retorted, his voice hardening into a low growl. His jaw tensed. "I had nothing to do with Joel’s death."

I stared at him, narrowing my eyes. Part of me ached to believe him. To return to the version of Cody who brought me wine and scribbled apologies on torn paper. But another part—the louder, sharper part—refused to be soothed by charm or denial.

"I didn’t," he said again, this time more firmly. "I didn’t, Gladys."

"Do you know who killed Joel?" I asked, my words clipped, tight with frustration. The kitchen offered no comfort—every cupboard I opened came up empty of what I wanted. Not even a sad little half-bottle of red hiding at the back of the furthermost cupboard. I slammed the last door shut with a jarring thud.

Cody shook his head. His answer came quick. Too quick? "No, I don’t."

I didn’t reply. I just looked at him—really looked—searching his expression for a flicker of something off. A twitch, a shift, a blink too slow. But there was nothing. Just sincerity wrapped in shadows.

With a sigh, I turned to the fridge. Desperate hope clawed its way into my chest—there has to be a bottle in there. I gripped the handle.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" Cody’s voice sliced through the moment, redirecting us with casual deflection.

My hand hovered on the fridge handle as I paused, reality rushing back in.

Right. That’s why I was here.

I moved back to the bench and opened the top drawer. There, nestled among bits of scrap paper and lost pens, was Luke’s notepad. I tore off a sheet, found a working pen, and began scribbling a note.

"Luke asked me to pick up some camping goods that he had purchased. It’s all in the truck in the driveway," I said as I wrote, my voice dull with fatigue.

"I see," Cody replied, his tone shifting into something oddly bright—his face breaking into a wide, delighted grin.

The expression stopped me mid-sentence.

That grin—it didn’t fit. Not here. Not now.

There was something... off about it. Something too pleased. Too sudden. Too much.

It twisted in my gut like a warning bell.

And I realised, once again: I didn’t know who Cody really was. Not truly.

And maybe I never had.

Unable to bring myself to probe any further into Cody’s enigmatic behaviour—his strange grin still echoing in my mind—I forced my focus back to something tangible, something I could control. "Come help me unpack. I need to take the truck with me," I instructed, my voice firmer than I felt. I clung to the tone of control like a life raft in a rising tide.

Cody didn’t answer, just turned sharply and made a beeline for the front door, his boots thudding softly across the floorboards. I followed a pace behind, each step a careful negotiation between my composure and the anger simmering just beneath it.

Outside, the cold bit sharply at my skin, the breeze slicing across my face and pulling at the hem of my jacket. The back of the truck groaned open with a metallic clang as Cody reached in without hesitation and grabbed the first item—one of the bulky canvas bags stuffed with camping gear.

Curiosity pressed at the edges of my mind, insistent and nagging. But this wasn’t just about curiosity anymore. It was about answers. About truth. About trust, or what was left of it.

"Come home with me," I said, stepping beside him and reaching into the tray. My fingers curled around the rough strap of a gear bag. "I want to hear more of your Clivilius."

Cody paused, then leaned in slightly, planting a soft kiss on my forehead. The tenderness of the gesture was jarring—misplaced, maybe—but it still sent an ache deep into my chest.

"I can’t right now," he replied, the words gentle, but weighted. "But I will tell you more soon."

A vague promise. A familiar one.

"How soon?" I asked, wary. Every word from his mouth now came under new scrutiny, sifted through the sieve of doubt that had started to form in me.

"Hopefully later tonight."

‘Hopefully.’ My stomach tightened at the word. It was a lifeline made of fog.

"Do you want me to pick you up from somewhere?" I asked, trying to keep some thread of connection alive, even as it frayed.

"No," Cody replied quickly, that same cheeky grin flickering across his face. "I’ve already activated my Portal in your kitchen and registered the location."

My heart skipped a beat.

Convenient, I thought, the word snapping like a whip in my mind. Too convenient. But before I could respond, another thought slammed into me with such force it nearly knocked the breath from my lungs.

"Chloe!" I gasped, rounding on him. My voice rose sharply, the anger boiling to the surface. "She’s with you, isn’t she?"

Cody’s grin dropped, his features tightening into a sombre mask. "I’m so sorry, Gladys. I never meant for that to happen."

His regret might have been real, but it barely registered beneath the roar in my head. My hands curled into fists. My heart was hammering, frantic.

"I want her back!" I demanded, voice cracking under the weight of grief.

"I’m sorry, Gladys," Cody said again, softly. "She can’t come back."

The words didn’t make sense at first. Can’t? What did that mean? What had he done?

Rage ignited inside me.

"You bastard!" I screamed, the sound raw and guttural. The box in my arms hit the ground with a thud as I stepped forward and thumped Cody’s shoulder with every ounce of strength I had.

He didn’t flinch. Instead, he set his box carefully on the edge of the truck bed, then turned to face me, his arms out, trying to pull me close, to contain me.

But I wouldn’t let him.

I twisted, shoved, thrashed in his grip. The betrayal, the grief, the aching, gnawing loss of Chloe was too much. I sobbed violently as my fists pushed against his chest, until my strength gave way and I collapsed into him, broken.

"You’ve taken my baby," I whimpered, barely able to get the words out through the tears. My body shook as each sob racked through me, shoulders jerking uncontrollably.

"I’m so sorry, Gladys," he murmured again, holding me for one long second before releasing me. He bent to pick up the box again.

His sorrow, however genuine, couldn’t touch the hollowness in my chest.

We worked in silence after that—hauling the camping gear in and dropping it inside Luke’s living room without a word. Every movement felt dull, distant, like my body was acting on its own while my mind floated somewhere far away.

The grief wrapped itself around me like a second skin, and Cody’s presence—once familiar, maybe even comforting—now pulsed with contradiction. I didn’t know if I wanted to scream at him or reach for him again.

But I did know one thing: the Cody I thought I knew was gone. And Chloe was gone with him.

As soon as the truck was emptied at Luke’s house, I made a hasty retreat, barely waiting for the last box to hit the floor. I didn’t look back. Had I not needed to take the truck with me, I would have left it—left him—to deal with it alone. It would’ve been nothing more than he deserved. A petty act, perhaps, but in the moment, it felt like my only form of protest, a flicker of control in the aftermath of devastation.

Cody hadn’t tried to stop me—not with words, not with touch. Perhaps he understood that anything he said would fall flat against the wall I’d hastily rebuilt around my heart. Or maybe he didn’t understand at all. Either way, I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. Couldn’t bear the sight of the man who had brought my world crashing down with a handful of truths I never asked for.

I climbed stiffly into the cab of the truck, wincing as the muscles in my legs complained. My hands trembled slightly as they found the ignition, but I turned the key with a determined snap, the engine roaring to life beneath me. The jolt as I backed out of Luke’s driveway sent a clattering shudder through the vehicle, the rattle of tools and leftover gear echoing like a drumbeat of my inner chaos.

Gripping the steering wheel tightly, I tried to focus on the road, though my thoughts churned like a storm-tossed sea. Anger coiled like a snake in my gut, sharp and hissing. But beneath it, betrayal lurked, heavier and more hollow than rage. Then there was the grief—fresh, raw, and consuming. Chloe. My Chloe. My sweet, soft, stubborn girl. Gone.

And yet—how shameful it was to admit it—there was still that hint of something else. A thread of love, stretched thin and trembling, but not yet broken. My heart ached at the contradiction. How could I still feel anything tender for someone who had kept such colossal secrets? Someone who had held my cat’s fate in his hands and chosen silence?

But even as I drove, I couldn’t fully lay blame at his feet. Deep down, beneath all the emotion, I knew it wasn’t truly Cody’s fault that Chloe had disappeared through the Portal. She’d slipped through something so much bigger than either of us. But still—he knew. He had known what that world could take, and he’d let it happen. Worse, he hadn’t told me. Not until it was too late.

What do you really know about the man? The question slithered across my thoughts, insistent and cruel. The Cody I had grown to trust, to confide in, to care for—was he even real? Or just a carefully constructed version, one mask of many?

My grip tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles whitening.

The truck bounced slightly as I hit a shallow pothole, jarring me back to the present. The seat beside me, empty and silent, seemed to stretch wider with absence. I stared at it for a second too long, as though expecting Chloe to pop her head up from a jumper or mewl for a treat.

But there was nothing.

Just the hum of the engine. The low whine of tyres on bitumen. The ghost of fur in the corner of my vision.

"A glass of wine will be the first thing I do when I get home," I muttered, the words hollow but somehow comforting. It was a promise to myself—a small ritual of normality I could cling to in a world that no longer made sense.

If wine couldn't fix it, at least it might dull the edges.