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“Who’s there?” It was as guttural as I could make it. Which wasn’t saying much. Ugh, and my voice cracked.

Unaffected by my bark, the human form inched closer, drifting rather seamlessly, as if they floated on the wind—as if they commanded the vapor that flapped at their sides and used it to drive them forward.

Not the grace I expected from a drunk water polo behemoth—but still.

“Don’t come near me!” Improvising, I flung my cruiser to the ground, just killing the calm game. It landed horizontally between us, forming a barricade.

They stopped at the edge of my bike frame. A black combat boot appeared and struck a spinning spoke, putting an end to the click click it made.

What would they silence next? My beating heart?

I shoved my phone at the figure, and they pulled back their hood, revealing an angular face hardly touched by the summer sun, with the most striking hazel eyes I had ever seen. A guy. A guy about my age. Well…that was certainly a surprise.

Green dominated his light brown irises, with specks of gold so pure they belonged in a pan sifter’s dish. He observed me, brow furrowed behind tufts of black or brown hair—hard to tell in the dark, even with my flashlight shining in his face—as if in an attempt to hide any emotion.

His lips curled up, angling ivory cheekbones into a menacing grin. Like he was detecting if I was the threat. Me. The one at least a solid foot and a half shorter than him.

In a concerted effort to look intimidating as hell, I held my head higher and willed my facial features to set into a shield of indifference—while he stood with the coiled tension of a mountain lion before it unleashes itself.

“What are you doing here?” He spoke in a cold, hard tone with a subtle lilt to his R’s.

I opened my mouth but reconsidered my response—I was feeling ballsy. So, instead of condemning myself right off the bat, I decided to do some digging of my own. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“This trestle’s off-limits.” The silver cross that hung from his ear dangled with the tilt of his chin, as his gaze swept me up and down in one long, fluid movement.

A wave of heat erupted through me, following the path of his stare. I took a step closer to my bike—closer to him—hoping the brisk air would cool the sudden fever. “Yet here we are, both trespassing. What’s your excuse?”

It wasn’t too dark for me to catch his sneer. “I was looking for something.”

“Pretty odd place to search in the middle of the night. Don’t you think?”

He shrugged.

“Well, did you find it?” I pressed.

“I think so.” His gaze didn’t waver, whether due to my lopsided flower crown or his own curiousness. Even as I neared the middle of my bike, still lying on its side, parallel to my feet, his eyes bored into me, dead center. “The fog, did it lead you out this way?”

“Believe it or not most people try and do the opposite and avoid places totally hidden by thick layers of fog.” I paused and crossed my arms, all a show of indifference, because my mind was racing as fast as my heart. “But it’s a good shortcut…” I trailed off, as my light landed on a lump protruding from behind his shoulder. A backpack, obviously. One that blended like stitches into his all-black ensemble, with a tufted top.

The warmth flooding me moments ago completely left my body. That wasn’t a backpack. It was a quiver. Packed with arrows.

Being armed with pepper spray was one thing. Waltzing around Santa Cruz with archery equipment? Excessive. What was he going to do, shoot a misbehaving starfish?

Every fiber in my being urged me to turn around. I should have done it. Right then and there, I should have picked up my bike and gone. But I was curious about his venom, whether it actually stung, so I stayed and buried the doubt. “Were you at Grad Night?”

“Why?” No emotion. Not even a flicker. Did he ever blink?

I motioned to his arrows. “Your gear, it looks like part of a costume.”

“Oh, these.” He rotated the onyx quiver so it splayed across his chest. Intricate silvery-white patterns swirled up the sides, like they’d been threaded out of moonlight. With a tilt of his head, he admired his props, revealing a similar motif inked beneath his low, open collar, snaking on the flesh right over the bone.

“Let me guess, new age Oberon?” I said it like there was no other answer, because dressing as a character from Shakespeare was the only rational explanation as to why he was walking around with hunting weapons.

Smirking, he gave a slow bat of his lashes, as if he read my mind and wanted to throw those concerns back in my face. “Ryder.”

“I don’t know that Shakespeare character.”

His voice remained flat. “It’s my name.”