Page 36 of Snag
Except for the nearly collapsed Outcast clubhouse three blocks up, the MC has cleaned every trace of the brawl with Chains, the berserkers, and the other unaffiliated shifters from the immediate area. In this particular block, the boarded-up windows are the only lingering evidence. Though most of the stores are closed for business and the foot traffic is minimal, the restaurant on the corner appears to be pumping out take-out — most of it likely for the shifters who’ve spent the day cleaning up the area — and the grocery store has fruit and vegetables displayed outside their plywood-covered windows, under a front awning.
The streets are still damp, but the rain has eased.
“Because of what happened last night?” Presh asks, swallowing. Her attention has shifted westward toward the ocean, as if she’s recalling or visualizing where Bellamy lured her, then killed Kris. Where I murdered Chains before his time.
“Yes. We don’t need to follow any of those trails from last night. But despite the circumstances, it’s a good opportunity for you to practice picking out different resonances.”
“If I can,” Presh says quietly.
“You can,” I say firmly. “All of the awry can sense essence, even if they don’t see it. It’s our fundamental nature. We pull, or weave, essence from ourselves and our environment.”
DeVille’s lighter isn’t working. He shakes it and clicks it a few more times. His gaze is intent on Presh though, and I have no doubt he’s listening.
Rought pivots, phone still pressed to his ear, snatches the unlit cigarette dangling from DeVille’s mouth, and crushes it into tiny flakes of paper and tobacco. DeVille shoves away from the truck, seemingly ready to fight for his right to slowly poison himself. Shifters don’t easily die fromcarcinogens, but they can make themselves sick if they try hard enough.
Rought silences his younger half-brother with a sharp jab of his forefinger and middle finger against his chest.
DeVille loses his breath with a pained gasp, then wheezes on his next compromised inhalation.
Rought’s tone is low. “You’re standing in the presence of a fucking goddess, who has more power in her little finger than you’ll ever access or see in your lifetime. Pay fucking attention. Learn something.”
Well, that makes it clear where Rought stands on the Conduit-as-a-divinity issue. Thankfully, his beliefs don’t seem to deter him from making out with me. Though with his beast a mythical creature, maybe that dampens the whole intimidation factor.
“I’m not awry,” DeVille protests weakly.
“You have no idea what you’re capable of yet,” Rought says.
“We don’t share that bloodline,” DeVille says, frustration edging his words.
“I should hope not,” Rought says with a hint of a threat. “Since you’ve been following my sister around like a lost puppy ever since you first laid eyes on her.”
DeVille goes very still, deliberately not looking at any of us.
Precious flicks her eyes up to meet mine, her gaze filled with questions that I know she’s not ready to have answered. Despite my unfortunate slip during my argument with Rath.
“Though we obviously share commonalities, every awry is different,” I say, ignoring Presh’s look and keeping us on track. It’s one thing to take a moment to educate the young awry, and another thing to let a dire mage get bored withtheir hide-and-seek game and start wreaking havoc again. “I don’t generally see residual essence trails. I can feel essence, say in spells or charms, though it has to be extremely robust for me to pick up on it. But what I can see when I take a moment to look are the threads of fate, the essence-forged connections if you prefer, that weave us all together, between each other but also within our world.”
Presh’s eyes widen. She blinks a few times.
I pause, only partway through my explanation. It’s possible I’m imparting too much information to be useful. I’ve been worried from the start that mentoring with me might not be the right experience for Presh.
“Threads of fate …” she murmurs. “And sometimes you just know you’re supposed to do something …”
“Like go to the beach.” DeVille, now listening intently, steps closer. Though his gaze still rests on Presh not me. “‘The path leads directly to the beach,’ you said.”
“Yes.” I sigh. Last night’s failure lies with me, though. Not the teens.
Presh closes her eyes, swallowing. “Kris said … she said that we should turn up the street. That there was a better place to hide …”
“Maybe this is too much,” I say. “Why don’t we go back to —”
Presh’s eyes snap open. “No, Zaya. I’m here … I want to do this … please?”
DeVille exhales a heavy breath. “I shouldn’t have listened.”
“It’s not like you could have carried both of us, Andy,” Presh says, firmly maintaining the prickly walls she’s erected between them.
“I could have,” he insists.
