Page 17 of Wicked Chains
The frog hops onto my wrist, its skin cool and damp against mine. I expect to be grossed out, but it's not as slimy as I thought it would be. More like... moist. Which isn't much better, but I'll take what I can get.
"I should probably name you," I say, studying it. "Can't keep calling you 'the frog.'"
The frog stares back at me with those bulging eyes. It's not exactly cute, with its lumpy, spotted skin and wide mouth, but there's something oddly endearing about it.
"How about Hank?" I suggest.
The name comes to me suddenly, a memory from years ago. Hank was the night manager at that run-down motel in Florida, the one where the frog had given me my amphibian phobia. But Hank himself had been kind to me. He was an old guy with leathery skin from too many years in the sun, and he'd slip me free sodas from the vending machine whenever he spotted me wandering around the parking lot, pestering the tourists.
The frog—nay, Hank—croaks, which I decide to take as approval.
"Hank it is, then." I offer him a tiny piece of meat from my plate. "Nice to meet you, officially."
Hank sniffs at the offering, then gulps it down.
"Whoa, slow down there, buddy. I don't want you choking on my watch. That would be just my luck, wouldn't it? 'Charity Case Kills Familiar On First Day.' I can see the group chat now."
For the first time since I summoned him, I feel a strange sort of connection to this weird little creature. We're both out of place here. Both adapting as best we can.
"We're going to be okay, Hank," I say, not entirely believing it myself.
Hank croaks again, then hops onto my shoulder, perching there like he belongs. His weight is surprisingly comforting.
"Just don't pee on me," I warn him. "We're not that close yet."
I finish my lunch quickly, aware that I'm still the center of attention for many in the dining hall. I don't care. Let them stare. Let them whisper. I’ve got bigger problems these days.
I'm just about to leave when the atmosphere in the room shifts. It's subtle, a ripple that moves through the dining hall. My skin tingles with warning before I even look up.
Ash stands in the doorway, tall and striking. His green eyes scan the room, and I know exactly who he's looking for.
Me.
My heart rate doubles instantly. Hank must sense my panic because he smooshes himself against my neck, as if trying to hide.
"Time to go," I whisper to him, gathering my things as quickly and casually as I can.
I stand, keeping my head down, and walk toward the side exit. If I can just make it out before he spots me?—
"Rose."
His voice carries across the room, silencing every conversation nearby. I stop short, my back to him, then I make what is probably a terrible decision to keep walking, pretending I didn't hear him. The door is just a few steps away.
"Ms. Smith." His voice is closer now, the formal address at odds with the intimate way he says my name. "A moment of your time, please."
It's not a request.
I tighten my grip on my tray and speed up, pushing through the side door with my shoulder, out into the hallway beyond. I dump my tray at the return station and keep moving, fast but not running.
"Come on, Hank. We're getting out of here."
Hank hunkers down, my partner in crime fleeing from the big bad. For the first time since he appeared, I'm genuinely glad for his company.
"Don't worry," I tell him as we turn the corner, heading for the stairs. "I won't let him hurt you."
Maybe having a frog for a familiar isn't so bad after all.
Seven
