Page 85 of Born for Lace

And seeing that hating myself and my kind is a plague that never ends, why not fuck her? Why not fuck her tight, inexperienced body and be the vile abomination I am.

I shove the truck into gear and take off down the unsealed road, burning up the red dirt as we pick up speed.

“Dahlia? We are the good guys. We are not going to hurt you or Spero. You must know that.” Tomar cranks his neck around to look at her, her cheeks losing colours, her body stiff. Fight and flight always have a challenger in Common humans. And it’s freeze.

Most little girls freeze.

Shadows do none of the above. They do not react; they act.

I don’t have time to console her or explain. I have to get as far from the place we were seen as possible.

If I have to choose between the sweet looks she gives me, the gentle smile—I clear my throat— or her safety, then I will fucking choose her safety.

Every. Fucking. Time.

I will go west.

As far west as I can.

“He’s not operational anymore.” Tomar studies my little flower as she wilts and hides, tucking herself into the corner of the truck. Petrified.

Not operational…

Fucking perfect choice of words, like I’m a homicidal machine, made of killer edges, coils and joints, a branded engine, fuelled up and ready to be activated.

For murder.

I lift my hand and tuck my hair behind my ear, my fingers skimming the metal part of my skull. Not operational, indeed. Unable to be destroyed by the Brain-Interface coil they had in my head, but still drawn to every fucking beacon—the devices The Trade use to control us—and every other Shadow. Including the Shadow baby sitting behind my seat.

I sensed him while he was still in the womb. Tomar made the connection and communicated with Maple through her Ward, unknowing the civil unrest would take him as a casualty, and she would die in labour.

Then… I sensed the baby in the Half-tower and found a redhead with an infant cornered in a laneway by Marshal Blues.

I feel him now—behind me.

My blood literally surges in response to other Shadows, not unlike a thousand tiny lightning bolts trying to escape from inside my veins.

And I know that if I held him, time would warp, but I would be in control. It would stretch, but I would understand it. And so would he.

“Lagos has no ties to The Trade anymore,” Tomar continues, “His life is at risk if you tell anyone what he is, even in the Common Community. You cannot trust anyone. Dahlia?”

“Leave her!” I bark, angry at myself and him for being so careless with our information. We should have never told her about the Shadow baby. We should have taken the thing to the Common Community ourselves. Dropped the little Lace Girl back at the Half-tower to be a Trade man’s unconscious fuck toy.

She would have never crawled into my mind. Never made me feel.

I fist the steering wheel, hearing the plastic crack under the pressure of my ragging possessiveness. Memories of her assault me. Of her bruised and naked in my arms. Of her virgin blood on my fingers. Of her soft, inexperienced lips trying to find a rhythm above mine. Mine. Mine. Fucking Mine. That’s all I know, and I can’t think of anything more dangerous than a little flower plucked and kept by an iron-blooded beast.

My eyes drift up to her reflection again, muscles rippling along my arms and over my shoulders in response to her withdrawn expression. Green irises shuffle as she panics internally. Fingers drawing swirls on her knees. Her bottom lip is tucked between her teeth, gnawed and worried. I want to hold her.

Fuck.I force my eyes back to the road and keep driving toward the Horizon.

West.

* * *

A hot electric outline comes into view along the hazy horizon belt. The shape of an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Nothing abnormal alters the flow of my blood, which doesn’t mean it is abandoned, only that there are no Shadows, and no military with beacons.

It is strangely still. I sense very little through my iron-blood.

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