Page 76 of All Superheroes Need PR
My fire hits the large mirror, which shatters in its entirety, shards raining over the vanity and skittering onto the white tiled floor.
My mind blanks, and I stagger backward into the bathroom door, the door handle punching clean through the drywall, loudly enough to wake a sleeping bear. In the bedroom, though, I don’t so much as hear her breathing change. Which is a blessing. Because my thoughts have coalesced into one stunning, crystal realization, one that I don’t want her here for.
The monster in the bathroom? Thatthingstanding there so threateningly? It’sme.
My legs move faster than my mind, carrying me back into the bedroom, where she still has yet to move. “Come back to bed ...” I hear her murmur. She’s asking me, and I’m so fucking moved by the soft trust in her tone and so fucking pissed to let her down. Fuck my claws, there’s no way I can touch her—again—knowing what I do now. I look down at my own dick as I step into the walk-in closet to the small section where I’ve thrown my clothes. I choke. I putthatinside of her?
I shove my legs through the extra-large sweatpants she bought for me and throw on the hoodie that matches it. I haven’t worn either before; they’re both too big for me, but not anymore. Theyweretoo big. Now they’re tight around my ass and thighs, my shoulders and biceps.
I leave the bedroom, head into the bathroom, pad over the scattered glass with bare feet—bare feet, can I even call these things fucking feet? The glass doesn’t bother thesethingshanging off my legs at all. I throw open the bathroom window and squeeze my body through it, lifting my phone to my ear as I take off into the sky.
It rings once ... twice ... “Roland, I’m surprised to hear from you. Talk of the town is that you cussed out the president and told everyone to fuck off until next week ...”
“Doc, we’ve got a problem.” My voice breaks. I don’t know if she hears the urgency and the panic choking my throat over the sound of the wind because her voice is chipper in a way that makes me want to punch something.
“You wanna come in? I’m at the clinic now. It’s actually great you called. I was looking at the sample I took from your claws the last time and noticed something strange ...”
Strange? Strange! Did she just have the audacity to saystrangeto me right now? I’m fucking shaking. For the first time in my life, I’m a little terrified. Nessa may be cool with the claws, but this is something else entirely. Will she even want me after this? Who would? I’m a fucking menace.
I glance down at my hands. “The claws are not my problem ...” And then I remember. “Wait. I don’t have my badge. I can’t get in.”
“They’ll recognize you.”
No, they won’t.“Meet me outside. The alley between the compound and the next building block. Street side.”
“All right,” she says, sounding confused. “Well, it’ll take me a few minutes to get there.”
“I’ll be there in five.”
I’m at the COE in three, standing in the dark alleyway, my hands shoved in my pockets, my hood pulled up so high, it stretches the material of the hoodie tight up and down the back of my neck. Because the top of my head doesn’t touch the fabric of the hood anymore. Not with my brand-new fuckinghornsin the way.
I fiddle with my phone nervously in my pocket. It feels like a goddamn kid’s toy now. I yank my fist out of my sweats and look at the shape of my claws—long and thick and dark and curved and bloody sharp and surrounded by red skin.
It’s sunny today. It’s always fucking sunny here. And when I lift my hand out of the sleeve of my hoodie and tilt it toward the light, I can see slightly darker runes carved all over, forming the same pattern as the marks on my ribs and collarbones. Now the repeating pattern is everywhere.
“If I’d known my patients would prefer meeting me in dingy alleyways, I could have saved a helluva lot of money on office space.” Emily’s voice is pleasant and light, and the stress that’s consumed me is only exacerbated by it. I’m nervous ... I was shit scared of Nessa seeing me like this, and though I don’t care about Emily like that, I’m still nervous. “I brought the sander in case you need a top-up.” She revs it. “It’s electric. Why, uh ... don’t you turn around?”
I still don’t move. She stops walking.
“Roland, you’re making me nervous ...”
I hear her take a step—probably backward, if she’s smart—and I exhale heavily. I turn and glance up at the buildings, triple-checkingthat there’s no one at any of the windows and no one walking on the sidewalk, and, relieved to know we’re alone out here for now, I drop my hood back. Exhaling shakily, I carefully lower my gaze to Emily, who stands so much shorter than I now do. I must be a foot taller than I was when I went to bed last night and fifty—eighty—pounds heavier of solid muscle. I feel like a dense goddamn boulder.
Emily looks at me and sees me, and the sander tumbles from her grip. It hits the ground powered on, the sound grating as the sander revs against nothing. She doesn’t reach for it. She just stares up at me, frozen.
“Well,” she finally says, smacking her lips. Her gaze moves up and over my face, my hair ... my horns.
“Well?”
“This is unexpected.”
“No shit.”
“Why don’t you come inside, and we’ll have a ... Roland? Roland, are you okay?”
No. I’m not. I shake my head.
My vision starts to darken around the edges, and when I take another step toward her on feet that have elongated and flattened out at the front, thick pads like a dog’s forming on their undersides, decorated by massive talons that scrape over the concrete, I fall.
