Page 5 of Awry
Are they … helping me?
I release the clutch and allow the car to roll out of the parking spot.Not for the first time, I wish that I could influence inanimate objects, such as the two huge motorcycles parked right by the front door.A couple of blown tires would be really helpful right now— but without me being caught in the act of slashing them.
I shift into gear and tap the accelerator.Then I carefully drive around the side of the building, parking before the kitchen entrance at the back.The weathered metal door is conveniently propped open with a brick.Such conveniences often pop into existence when I’m guided by a knowing.
Thinking about the daisy-chain tattoo around the server’s wrist, and the cafe owner who employs a woman who was once sold through an illegal shifter-trafficking market — and therefore might not have legitimately secured her freedom — I leave the car running.
Tuckedwithin a gentle eddy ofintent— my own — I step through into the back hall.It opens to the kitchen on my right, specifically into the dishwashing station.The cafe owner and Daisy stand at the other end of the short hall, their bodies canted toward each other, laughing and smiling.A show, I’m sure now, as they all but block the way to the front door as well as the view of the bathroom door.At least from the bikers, who are now dealing with whatever minor crisis I’ve sent their way via Breaker’s phone.
To my right, the young dishwasher spins, startled at my abrupt appearance and opening his mouth to address me.I simply smile with all the charm I can evoke in the moment, waving toward the door to the ladies’ room.The dishwasher nods, grinning back at me.
His inherent essence is a gentle whisper, barely stirring the threads of pure energy that encircle him.He’s another shifter of some sort.I wonder if he hides a trafficking tattoo under his rubber gloves.
I had presumed that the cafe had gone silent when the bikers entered, dragging the girl between them, because the two were well known.And maybe they were, but they weren’t local.They don’t provide protection to this area.The Southern accents have told me as much.
Was a call in to the local club already?Or the police, if they could be trusted in this area?
Both options are more reasons to keep moving.
As I press open the bathroom door, I whisper a bit of luck into the cobweb-thin thread that has sprung forth between the dishwasher and myself, letting it go as soon as the good intent is sent.It will settle as it wills.Maybe into nothing.Or maybe it will be the edge the boy needs in the moment he most needs it.
I step through into the bathroom, carefully shutting the door as silently as possible behind me.Light-blue square tile grouted in white runs across the floor and halfway up the walls.Two toilets are encased in two stalls, and the air smells of more of that lemon hand soap.
The teenager is hunched over the middle of three rounded white ceramic sinks.A stream of cold water runs freely over her raw wrists.Her violet-tinted eyes are red-rimmed and puffy when she looks over at me, but she’s not currently crying.
I push my sunglasses up onto my head, wrapping my left hand around the amulet that helps both to focus and to constrain my use of my powers— in theory, at least— letting the teen take in my own eye color.Her irises hold more blue.Mine, when not subtly masked by a lick of intent that is seldom reliable when I try to actually use it, are more purple.
My lack of melatonin — the scientific explanation behind the exceedingly rare violet-eye phenomenon — is more striking than hers.My skin is paler as well, and my hair is currently light brown streaked with copper, red, and gold.Though no matter what color I try to add — red, blond, or anything else — the highlights all wash out to a copper hue within a few weeks.
“Do you need a way out?”I ask, hushed.
The teen’s mouth drops open, and hope blooms across her face and through her entire body on her next breath.It’s gone an instant later, and her shoulders slump.She shakes her head.“I can’t … I don’t want —”
“Me to get hurt?”
She bites her lip, shaking her head.Not in denial, just in … despair.“You don’t know me.”
“What if I told you I could survive anything they can do to me?Anything just about anyone can do to me?But that coming with me might put you in more danger?Temporarily, at least.”
I’m getting more hints from theknowingnow that I’m standing so close to her.So I alreadyknowthat things are going to get worse before they get better.But since that’s one of the ultimate truths of the universe, it isn’t news to me.
I’m also playing a bit fast and loose with my own power, so it’s a given that it’s all going to eventually bite me in the ass.Possibly literally, given the presence of shifters.
The teen’s brow furrows.
I release my hold on my amulet, drawing her gaze to it.I wonder if her awry senses are awakened enough to feel its energy.Her gaze flicks to my bracelet next, brown topaz and gold still twisted around my wrist and forearm.So perhaps she can sense essence-infused artifacts.Not that the bracelet is actually an artifact.
Even though I’m distinctly aware of the threads I’ve forged between me and the bikers, and Breaker specifically, shifting and thinning, I just stand quietly under the teen’s regard.
“I can’t push you,” I say gently.“Some choices have to be your own.Not everything is determined by fate alone.”
Startled, her eyes flick up to meet mine.“Can you get me home?”
“I’ll die trying,” I say, aware that I’ve uttered my own destiny — a single, short thread of it, at least — as the words fall from my lips.
I’ve never been great at keeping my mouth shut, even when I’m trying.Or ignoring a knowing even when doing so was in my best interest.
I reach for her.
