by Tamar Sloan
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Brielle,” Frank says, standing and extending his hand.
Brielle shakes it in return, hoping to hell her palm isn’t sweaty. “Trust me, the pleasure is all mine.”
The couple chuckles at what was apparently a charming remark on her part, and she blushes.
“I’ll leave you to your meeting,” Sister Agatha says, bowing slightly before she leaves the room.
“Please, sit down,” Beatrice invites, gesturing to the armchair opposite the loveseat.
Brielle sits, only vaguely noticing that the cushion is too stiff from lack of use. The drawing room is only used for one thing—meetings between adoptees and potential parents. Children are not allowed to lounge in here, and it’s kept in pristine condition, looking as close to a cozy living room as it can despite the dark wood-paneled walls and hardwood floor. This is also the only room in the building with curtains on the large central window, a seafoam green to match the paisley furniture and the ancient rug.
The Pierces seem to look just as nervous as she feels, Frank tapping his fingers on his lap and Beatrice bouncing one leg.
“I’m not entirely sure how to start the conversation,” Frank confesses with a laugh.
Brielle chuckles, releasing some of her own nervous energy. “I know what you mean.” She bites her lip. “Well, what do you do for a living, Frank?”
“Ah, excellent question.” He claps his hands. “I’m an investment banker with Sinclair Trustees, and Beatrice is a real estate agent slash freelance interior designer.”
“Yes, so if this is a good fit for all of us, you’ll never want for anything,” Beatrice says warmly.
Brielle nods with a smile, appreciating the reassurance even though that’s the furthest thing from her mind.
“Why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself,” Frank says, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. “Your hobbies, talents and goals for the future.”
His mention of talents invites the memory of her disastrous date with Tristan. She’s not going to make any big confessions with them as she did with him.
She adjusts her position on the armchair, crossing her legs. “Well, I love to cook and bake. I often help in the kitchen around here when I can, so I’ve learned a lot about classic American cuisine. Perhaps I can make you both dinner sometime?”
Frank and Beatrice exchange doe-eyed smiles, then turn back to her.
“That would be wonderful,” Beatrice says, putting her right hand over her chest.
Brielle’s smile widens. This is going well!
“And I’m very good with small children,” she adds. “I spend a lot of time in the nursery.” Babies and toddlers have little sense of guilt, so she rarely gets visions while caring for and playing with them. Not to mention they’re too young to follow the gossip of the older kids, who never play with them anyway, so she’s always welcome there. “So if you have any, I can be a big help.”
Beatrice’s smile falls, and before Brielle knows what hit her, a vision flashes. Beatrice and Frank are sitting in what looks like a doctor’s office. “You have a uterine tumor,” a man in a white lab coat informs Beatrice. “We’ll have to remove it before it gets much larger. And I’m afraid, as a result, you may not be able to have children…”
The vision vanishes as abruptly as it had come, leaving behind a guilt that Brielle doesn’t quite understand.
She tries to mask her facial features so the Pierces don’t think she’s just had a stroke.
Frank puts his hand on Beatrice’s left knee, looking down at his lap as he says, “Unfortunately, we’re unable to have children. That’s why we’re adopting.”
Beatrice casts her gaze to the floor, a look of shame weighing her brow downward.
“I’m so sorry,” Brielle says sincerely. Now she understands. Beatrice feels it’s her fault that she can’t give Frank a baby. Brielle wishes she could comfort her in some way. “Are you sure you want to consider me and not one of the younger children? Maybe a baby?”
Wait, what is she saying? The guilt has the wheel.
Beatrice shakes her head. “To be honest, we’re getting a little too old to keep up with a baby.” She offers a half-hearted laugh.
“We knew when we came here that we wanted someone older,” Frank says. “Most people want a baby, so we’re sure they’ll have no trouble getting adopted without our help. Our life is more suited to a teenager, and we feel teens are selected less often and would need a home more. Would you agree?”
His words ring so true they sting Brielle’s eyes. Babies and toddlers don’t stay here long. The older a child gets, the less likely they are to be adopted. As she grew up, watching child after child get picked, she knew her chances were dwindling. It’s why Brielle has all but given up.
“That’s very generous of you,” Brielle says. “I know I’ll never be able to replace the child you couldn’t have, but I hope I’ll be able to make a pleasant addition to your family. If you’ll have me, that is.”
“We hope so, too,” Beatrice says.
After a silence, Frank changes the subject to the kind of TV Brielle likes to watch, and they bond over a shared interest in Stranger Things and other shows.
The conversation moves easily from shows and movies to travel interests to favorite foods. At some point, it strikes Brielle that she feels very comfortable with them. There’s no tension in her body anywhere, and their postures are more relaxed as well. No matter how much she tries to tamp it down, hope swells in her chest.
A ding has Frank reaching into his pocket for his phone and glancing down at it.
“Man how time flies,” he says, stuffing it back in his slacks. “We’re out of time for today, but this has been a really nice chat.”
“I know you offered to make us dinner, but how about we take you out later this week?” Beatrice offers.
“We don’t want to be too hasty about this decision, for both our sakes,” Frank says. “We want to make sure you like us as much as we like you.”
Brielle’s lips are spread so wide it makes her face hurt. “I would love nothing more than to join you for dinner.”
“Excellent!” Frank claps his hands again. “Friday night, say 5 o’clock? We’ll pick you up?”
“Sounds perfect.” Brielle’s heart is so full of joy, it could burst inside her chest.
Frank and Beatrice stand to leave, and Brielle follows. Beatrice closes the distance and wraps her arms around Brielle in a motherly embrace. Surprise is quickly replaced by a slow warmth that radiates throughout her limbs. They’ve moved beyond shaking hands to hugging, and Brielle loves it.
When Beatrice withdraws, Frank comes in for a hug too, and Brielle delights in fantasies of many more such embraces. What would it be like to be able to call him “Dad”...
They say their goodbyes and the Pierces exit through the front door.
Sister Agatha walks up beside Brielle, her eyes twinkling. “That seemed to go well.”
Brielle’s smile is still painfully yet joyously etched on her face. “They invited me out for dinner on Friday,” she manages to say without squealing.
“I’m happy to hear it. Seeing as you may not be around much longer, would you help me set the tables for dinner?”
As Brielle goes around the tables in the dining hall with silverware and napkins, all she can think about is the upcoming dinner with the Pierces, getting adopted by them, going on family outings with them. Her excitement is so overwhelming, she bounces on her heels as she makes her rounds, and nothing can take the smile off her face.
A hand lands firmly on her shoulder and turns her around. Her eyes fall on Marie, who looks angrier than usual.
“What did you do to me?” she hisses.
Despite her confusion and sense of violation at Marie’s rough handling, fear stabs at Brielle’s gut. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb!” Marie spits. “You cast some kind of spell on me, didn’t you?”
Marie leans forward, her lip quivering. “You did something to me yesterday, when you told me to tell Sister Agatha about the wine. Ever since then, I can’t think about anything else. I couldn’t sleep at all last night. I keep reliving that night, and all I can see when I close my eyes are the things Sister Agatha will do when she finds out. She would ground me, make it so I can never leave. She might even black ball me from getting adopted, like she did you.”
Brielle puts her hands up in a calming gesture. “Marie, it’s really not that big of a deal. I mean, yeah, you shouldn’t have snuck your boyfriend into the church, but Sister Agatha wouldn’t interfere with your adoption chances as punishment. I bet she’ll even go easier on you if you just tell her how bad you feel about it.”
The vulnerability Marie had briefly displayed vanishes, and she stomps her foot and clenches her fists. “I didn’t feel this way until you used your magic on me. You’re making me obsess about it until it drives me insane!” Her eyes mist over and she looks like she’s on the brink of crying.
“You can’t honestly think—”
Marie points her index finger at Brielle’s face. “Don’t! Just make it stop, or I swear I’ll find a way to prove you’re doing this and make sure you can never do it to anyone else!” She spins around and storms out.
Brielle stands motionless, staring down at the table she hasn’t finished setting. Marie is crazy, right? How can she accuse Brielle of putting some kind of hex on her? It’s not her fault that Marie’s obsessing about something she did that she clearly regrets doing. And now Marie is threatening to interfere with Brielle’s plans.
Just keep your head down, Brielle. Tread lightly. Stay out of everyone’s business and you’ll get through this.
But even as Brielle shakes her head and continues placing forks and knives on napkins, she can’t help but feel guilty.
It seems guilt is a tricky business, even when you know you’re innocent.
9
Tristan
“Show yourself, you bastards,” growls Tristan, taking a few steps further into the center of the parking lot.
Skins stay invisible till the last moment, knowing if someone is seen fighting off non-existent opponents it would raise too much attention.
But that doesn’t mean they don’t make the most of their advantage.
Tristan holds still, slowing his breathing. He simultaneously loosens his joints and locks his muscles. They’ll get close before they reveal themselves.
But there’s a reason he’s meeting them out here in the open. The parking lot is layered with gravel. They won’t be able to approach him silently.
There’s a scrape to his left. A crunch behind. Two always come from the front. That’s at least four.
Adrenaline floods Tristan as he spreads his legs, finding his center of gravity.
The blow he was expecting still slams through him like a hammer. His head snaps to the side, the punch landing him squarely in the jaw. Tristan absorbs the pain and the punch, gritting his teeth. A trickle of blood oozes from his lip.
Now he knows where the first one is.
His arm whips out, dealing a punch of his own. There’s an oomph and a man materializes before him, two more taking shape. There will be another behind him.
A leg flies out and Tristan ducks, his own foot shooting out to sweep the Skin he just punched. As the man crashes to the ground, Tristan leaps up, throwing all his strength into the uppercut that smashes into the next Skin’s jaw. The man launches into the air, arcing backward before slamming into the ground.
“That’s two down,” Tristan growls.
The Skin on his right roars, his eyes black with fury. He leaps at Tristan, his fists at the ready.
As he’s about to connect with Tristan’s chest, Tristan grasps his meaty fist and jerks. The man’s launched forward and Tristan kicks his back so he spears into the hard ground.
“That’s three,” Tristan pants, wiping the blood from the edge of his mouth.
He expects the man when he grabs him from behind, letting him yank his arms back. The Skin’s hands are like hot steel, the power of Chardis flowing through him. Tristan’s tendons scream as they’re stretched, but he waits.
The Skin will never see the flip coming. A twist and leap, using the man like a fulcrum, and Tristan will have the upper hand again.
Except Tristan doesn’t register the blow to his solar plexus coming. He goes to double over except the Skin behind him holds him up. It leaves Tristan open and vulnerable when then next one slams into him, wrenching out a groan. And the next.
And the next.
Pitch. There’s a fifth guy. And he’s figured he could stay invisible while his four friends were making a ruckus.
The final Skin appears, his broad face twisted with a grin. “Surprise,” he sneers.
The next punch slams into Tristan’s face, and it feels like it hammers his brain. For a brief moment, pinpoints of pain dance before him. He lets himself sag, wincing when the Skin holding him jerks him upright.
The Skin who pummeled Tristan steps forward and grips his chin. Leaning in, he shoves his face close. “How many are there?”
“Technically thirteen seeing as there are two Geminis,” Tristan drawls out, every word tasting like blood.
The crack across his face doesn’t surprise Tristan, but it still stings. He grins, knowing the blow was driven by frustration.
“How many Zodiacs are here?” the Skin shouts.
Tristan allows himself two panting breaths. Two shallow gulps of oxygen, hoping it’s enough for his battered body to do what needs to be done next.
“Just me.” Tristan winks. “Unless you have some royal blood no one knows about.”
The Skin steps back, glancing over Tristan’s shoulder. “Once we’re finished with him we’ll bring his sorry ass in. Chardis will know how to get the answers we need.”
The gap is all Tristan needs.
He pushes up from the ground, his legs kicking out hard and connecting with the Skin’s jaw. The man’s head snaps to the side with a crack a second before his body crumples to the ground.
But Tristan doesn’t have time to see whether he’ll be getting back up, he maintains the momentum he gained when he launched off the Skin. He backflips through the air, arching over the Skin who was holding him.
By the time Tristan’s landed, the Skin has spun around, his hands raised and ready to fight. Even as he does it, though, his feet shuffle back.
Tristan straightens, knowing he’s about to flee. Especially once he realizes three of his comrades already have.
The Skin looks around, his face twisting in a snarl when he sees he’s been abandoned. He glares at Tristan. “You won’t always win,” he spits before sprinting off.
“Says the guy running away,” Tristan shouts after him.
He straightens, cataloging the bruised ribs and face that feels like mashed potato. The sooner he gets home to heal, the better.
He steps up to the Skin still lying in the gravel. Although he’s the one who inflicted most of the damage, Tristan doesn’t take any pleasure from seeing the sharp angle the man’s neck is at.
Before Chardis swallowed this man’s soul, he could’ve been anyone. A postman with a family. A staunch vegetarian. A brother, son, father. Maybe all of those.
Swallowing the blood still flooding his mouth, Tristan turns away. There are a lot of things that suck about the war he was born into, but killing Skins is at the top of that list. He jogs back to his car, pretending pain isn’t screaming at him to never move again. The Skins will be back. They never leave their dead behind. They don’t want any questions asked.
He’s glad the drive home is short. Tristan can already feel his face swelling, and breathing is becoming difficult. Each inhale has his ribs feeling like they’re cracking all over again.
As he opens the front door, he hears Tess call out. “Zarius, is that you?”
She gasps when she sees Tristan in the hall. “Tristan! What happ—”
She stops herself before she finishes the question. It’s obvious what happened. Skins happened.
Tess goes to touch him but Tristan holds a hand up. “Maybe after the nanites?”
Her arms dropping, Tess nods. Face tense, she turns away. “I’ll get them.”
Tristan lowers himself into a chair in the kitchen, waiting while Tess goes down to the basement. The nanites are kept in a safe along with any other alien technology that arrived with him in his pod.
Like the gems.
Tess rushes back a few moments later, placing a box on the table. “How many?” she asks as she takes out a vial.
“I thought there were only four.”
Tess arches a brow. “You were taken by surprise?”
Tristan looks away, glad his face is purple and blue so she can’t see his flush. “I’m thinking we keep that between the two of us…”
Tess holds out a glowing vial, the color within shifting from orange to yellow and back again. “Here.”
Tristan extends his arm and she expertly injects it. Tess has done every first aid course under the sun. “Thank pitch for microscopic, bio-engineered molecules, huh?”
In a few hours it’ll be like the fight never happened thanks to the accelerated healing the nanites will busily carry out.
Tess remains where she is, watching him closely. “Tell me what happened.”
“I went back to the school and ran into Cassandra. I sensed them after she left.” Tristan frowns. “I killed one.”
Tess clasps Tristan’s knee. “He would’ve tortured and killed you without blinking if given the order.”
“And he would’ve done it with a smile, but it still doesn’t make it any easier.”
“I know,” Tess sighs. “We just have to remember their humanity no longer exists thanks to Chardis.”
Tristan straightens as he remembers something else, hissing as pain spears through his chest. “Before I finished him, he asked me how many Zodiacs were here.”
