Page 6 of Awry
She steps closer to accept my hand.
The thin threads already connecting us solidify so suddenly and sharply that it’s like a punch to the gut.I lose my breath within the momentary onslaught of sensation.It settles into an unadulterated rightness.More than a simple thread of destiny.
I’ve never felt the like before.Even accepting my inheritance was less … steady, less resolved.But most essence-wielding is like that.Most essence, most power, grows slowly, and not necessarily steadily.
“What … what was that?”she asks in a whisper.
I meet her gaze, blinking and still feeling a little out of body.“Fate,” I whisper back.“It seems … we are meant to be here, in this moment and beyond.”
She smiles.It’s tentative, shaky.Her grip on my hand is almost punishing.
“What’s your name, sweetness?”
“Presh …” She exhales hope along with the gift of her name, fortifying the connection between us further.Then she inhales strength — I can see it flooding through her — and gives me more.“Precious Guerra.”
I lean into her, taller by a half-dozen inches.My necklace swings forward, drawing her attention again.“Zaya Gage,” I say.Then I add, teasingly, “Granddaughter of Necessity, Daughter of Darkness and Night.”Even though I’m speaking the utter truth.As I always must when I’m about to walk the path of my own destiny.
To my death, I had no doubt.
Presh giggles quietly, as I’d hoped she would.Though depending on how much of the family history I’m willing to accept as pure truth, I’m not lying.
Without another word, I tuck her under my arm.Head held high, gait steady and sure, I traverse theknowing, simply walking her out of the bathroom, down the hall, out of the back of the cafe, and into my car.
She belts in and manually locks her door.
I place the to-go bag in her lap.Before we’ve even skirted the side of the cafe, she’s already eating ravenously.
We don’t even make it out of the parking lot before the two bikes roar to life behind us.
I hit the accelerator and head back to the highway.
Because whether we’re riding the threads of fate or not, the highway is going to be the fastest route to wherever we’re going.
Two
The bikers hang back enoughthat there’s a moment after I round a long curve — still steadily heading back toward the highway — that I think they might just never appear in my rearview again.They do.And there is something seriously nefarious about their languid response to my stealing Presh.It unnerves me, even more than them pushing to catch up to us and trying to run us off the road would.
The teenager strapped into the passenger seat beside me is shoving greasy chicken strips into her mouth like she hasn’t eaten in days.Despite the fries the bikers bought for her at the cafe, maybe she hasn’t.Maybe she hasn’t wanted to eat, to make herself vulnerable in that way.
Maybe the hunger strike was the only part of her life she could control.
I could ask a lot of questions.
And Presh could be, should be, questioning me right now.But instead, she viciously rips the paper off the straw, stabs the straw into the milkshake, and takes a long slurp.Then she slams the heel of her hand against her forehead, stifling a squawk of pain.
I put the heat on, full blast.The car is not as vintage on the inside as it appears on the exterior, though the locks and windows are still manual.The engine hasn’t been retrofitted as electric, but it does have a fossil fuel converter.When needed, heat or air conditioning instantly spills out of the vents, taking no real time to warm up.I have hazy memories of driving down the coast in this car with my mother, back when it ran on gas.After spending hours on the beach, I spent what felt like the next hour wrapped in as many towels as I could commandeer, waiting for the heat to actually start warming the car.
I glance in the mirror, shoving the unhelpful thought away.It isn’t like me to linger in the past.All that is set in stone, unchanging.All my focus should be on navigating the immediate present.For me, there is never any point to trying to live in any moment other than the breath I’m currently taking.Unlike the girl slurping up the dregs of her milkshake beside me, my future is as unchangeable as my past.
Now, at least.Three weeks and a day ago, I still had some sense of … choice, even if it was a false sense.
“My phone is in my bag,” I say.“Behind my seat, side pocket.”
Presh carefully wipes her hands on the paper napkins, bundles the now-empty takeout containers back into the brown bag, then tucks the crumpled bag under her seat — so it isn’t a tripping hazard.She loosens the seatbelt just enough to swivel around, her gaze riveted out the back window for a moment.
“Are they going to kill us now?”she asks calmly.
“No,” I say, completely confident in my assessment.
