Page 20 of Fractured Fates
“Seven.”
“Seven? Is that all?”
“Not a morning person, huh?” I ask, strolling back to my cup of coffee.
“Usually I am up with the roosters. But today … shit I’m stiff.” She throws back the covers and stretches some more and I have to look away.
I catch my friend’s eye as I do and I know what he’s thinking.
The girl is pretty, with those big eyes, curved cheeks, and pink pouty mouth: dark hair all messed up like she’s been rolling around in bed for hours.
She’s also ten years younger than we are and his assignment. The sooner we hand her over, the better.
Which is why we need to get moving.
Her legs catch on the chains as she attempts to swing them from the bed and she scowls at me like she would like to murder me. Silently, I lift my hands and the chains melt away.
“I’m going to check the bikes,” I mutter, turning towards the door.
“Those bikes can drive themselves – I’ve seen it. They’re in tip-top condition. What do you need to check?”
“That they’re still there.”
Of course, she’s right. Once I’ve ascertained that the bikes are still parked out of sight around the back of the motel, there’s nothing else to check, apart from the gas levels. But you couldn’t pay me to spend another minute in that room, watching as she moves around the place, humming under her breath in a way I’m sure she isn’t aware of, the sweet perfume of her scent filling the air.
Out here the air stinks of gasoline and piss. It’s a thousand times better.
I kick at the dirt until finally, my friend comes marching around the corner, the girl trotting to keep up with him, her stinky pig cradled in her arms like it’s a goddamn baby.
“Ready?” I ask, climbing onto my bike.
“Ready,” he replies, taking the pig from the girl and placing it in the box at the back of his bike. Then he slides onto the bike, the girl following after, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist. He squeezes her hand with his left gloved one and I raise my eyebrow at him a second time. He glares back at me, revving his engine and shooting away before I’ve had a chance to lock her to the bike.
I mutter a string of obscenities under my breath and follow after him.
I glare at him again when we stop for a late breakfast a couple of hours later and he orders the girl another bumper helping of the most expensive dish on the cheap diner’s menu.
He doesn’t do wrong and he also doesn’t do emotional attachment. It doesn’t go well with the job. But I’m beginning to suspect he’s making an exception here. The idea makes my head ache.
My friend simply scowls right back at me, the message clear as day – if you dare say a word …
I’m not going to. Not in front of the girl anyway. We can pick this to pieces once we’re back in Los Magicos and the girl is the council’s problem.
We skip lunch, stopping to pick up a burger from a truck by the side of the road in the late afternoon. After that the broken roads give way to smoother ones and we start to pass through more towns, eventually reaching the sprawling suburbs of the city.
The eyes of the little cat on the back of my friend’s bike grow wide. She’s never been anywhere but non-magical dead-end towns like the one we found her in and she takes in everything with wonder and awe. It would almost be cute if it wasn’t so abundantly clear how wet behind the ears the girl is. Wet and fucking innocent. How the hell did she survive as long as she did on her own?
My friend says, for an untrained girl, her abilities are pretty efficient. He also said she couldn’t even heal a stupid cut on her arm, and she couldn’t unlock my chains, so I’m reserving my judgment on that front.
She’s got a hell of a lot to learn. And not just about fucking magic.
Finally, we cruise through the center of Los Magicos. It’s late on a Monday evening. The sun set long ago. The shops all have their shutters pulled down and the clubs and bars are closed tonight. It’s still a sight. Bright lanterns hover above the street casting it in golden light and flowers bloom in baskets along the sidewalks. Unlike the run-down businesses we’ve been passing for the last two days, here everything is gleaming, clean and new. It looks and smells like money and I’m not surprised the girl’s mouth is hanging open in amazement.
Gliding down the main street, the flags of the authorities lining the route and fluttering in the breeze, we near the Council building. It’s a huge Georgian building, with magnificent white pillars flanking the front and a huge glass dome covering the whole of the roof.
The gates at the front are forged from a bronze metal and part as we approach, the guards on duty nodding at us in recognition. We circle the building, parking up in a side lot and jumping down from our bikes.
The girl pulls the helmet from her head and shakes out her hair. It’s all rumpled from the ride and her cheeks are a vivid pink, her honey eyes sparkling.
