by H. D. Gordon
I pushed my bangs out of my face, tucking them under my hood. “Yeah, well, it’s my fun activity, so don’t try to steal it.”
Nick didn’t laugh at this half-joking statement, and I could tell that my icy mood toward him was taking its toll. So it more than surprised me when he came forward and took my hands, same as he had the night before, when he’d shown up on my doorstep.
As mad as I was at him, there was nothing I could do against the affect this had on me. Under the light of the stars and moon, his thick red hair stood out in stark contrast to the city behind him, his brown eyes deep and dark. Nick Ramhart stared down at me from his taller height, his large hands clutching mine.
In that moment, I realized that it was not anger I truly felt toward him, but hurt.
As this occurred to me, I thought I just might prefer the former. Being angry was easier.
“I’m sorry,” Nick said, his voice so low and yet so encompassing. “Aria, I’m sorry for not finding you sooner. I’m sorry for how things turned out. You have a right to be angry with me, but please believe me when I tell you none of this was supposed to happen. I should’ve helped you when you wanted to assist the Sorcerer Queen. I should’ve been there for you.”
A lump the size of a boulder formed in my throat, and I could hardly breathe as I looked up at him. So many emotions tore through me, and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep my wits about me. In all the years I’d known him, I’d never seen Nick Ramhart apologize to anybody for anything, even when we’d both known he was wrong.
It seemed I was not the only one who’d changed.
On the street below us, the rumble of an approaching motorcycle cut through the air, and I knew the sound of it well enough to know that it belonged to Thomas Reid. In the past few months, I’d secretly spent many a night waiting to hear the rumbling of its engine, waiting for Thomas to come home from wherever he’d been.
I pulled my hands out of Nick’s and my eyes away from his stare. Adjusting the hood on my head, I said, “Come on, the others will be waiting.”
Then I swung over the edge of the building and in through the window that had become my private entrance to the abandoned warehouse. After a moment, Nick followed my lead.
A moment later, we were standing on a landing above the warehouse, and twenty feet below, Samantha Shy and Matt Brown were staring up at us with eyes as wide as saucers.
I jumped down from the ledge and landed on the warehouse floor. Nick followed in the same fashion. Sam blinked at us both as if we were unicorns.
“Holy cannoli!” she exclaimed.
Matt stood over by the monitors that showed a live video feed of the outside of the building—an upgrade my two genius friends had seen to themselves. “Thomas Reid is outside,” Matt said. “I guess I let him in?”
I nodded. “Yes, let him in.”
Matt did as I’d asked, pushing a button on his phone that released the lock on the warehouse door. A few seconds later, Thomas Reid joined us.
I rubbed my hands together, amazed just at the people who were gathered in this space.
“What’s going on, Aria?” Sam asked.
“This is Nick,” I said, “He’s a Peace Broker.”
Sam’s demeanor, bless her little heart, iced over instantly. She crossed her thin arms over her chest and pushed her glasses up higher on her nose to get a good look at Nick. “Oh,” she said, “and what does he want?”
“You told these humans, too?” Nick asked, his tone clearly disapproving.
Again, anger flared in me, but I didn’t get a chance to respond, because Sam beat me to the punch. “Yeah, well, maybe your opinion would matter a little bit more if you guys hadn’t kicked Aria out onto the street,” Sam said.
My eyebrows shot up, and I suppressed a laugh. A glance at Thomas’s aura showed it was tinged with gold. Samantha Shy was a funny creature; she was scared of her own shadow, but here she was talking crap to one of the most badass Peace Brokers I’d ever known. For me, no less. I found this made me love her all the more.
But, having my new friend fight with my past friend would get us nowhere, so I held up my hands. “He’s here because there’s a dangerous Warlock on the loose and they need me to help catch him,” I said.
Sam was not prepared to drop it that easily. “Pfft,” she replied, her lips slightly pursed. “Oh, now they need your help? Where were they four months ago? Where were they when you needed them? If you ask me, I say send this guy on his way, Aria, and leave those bastard Brokers to clean up their own mess.”
Nick’s mouth opened for response but I shot him a look that warned against it. If I’d been uncertain of Sam’s love for me before, I knew it now. I didn’t have to read her aura to know that her guard was up in defense of me.
“It’s not that simple, Sam,” I said.
“What’s not simple about it?”
I wrung my hands, realized I was doing it, and dropped them to my sides. My next words made goosebumps break out over my arms, and I was glad I was wearing my jacket, so that my companions were not privy to them. Of the four other people present, Thomas Reid was the only one who really knew the affect this was all having on me. He was the only one who knew how truly scared I was, who had witnessed my screams in the middle of the night.
“Whether I agree to help Nick or not, it doesn’t really matter if we search for the Scarecrow.” I said, and swallowed, a bitter taste filling my mouth. “Because when he’s ready, the Scarecrow will find me.”
CHAPTER 14
The conversation lasted much longer than I would’ve liked, and though my black mask was burning a hole in my pocket, by the time the five of us had finished discussing everything, it was time to head home and rest for the night.
Despite the civility that everyone exhibited, the interaction didn’t get any less awkward as time wore on, and when I crawled back out of the warehouse window and onto the roof, I was more than ready to be done with people in general for, like, the rest of forever.
Apparently sensing my reluctance to be around anyone at the moment, Nick took a different route to wherever he was staying while he was in Grant City. Knowing the Brokers, they’d set him up with a nice hotel and rental car. He was a prized operative, after all.
Unlike me, whom they’d cast out as though I was little more than a mutt that had wandered into the yard.
With more effort than usual, I pushed these thoughts away as I travelled above the city. When I heard a scuffle going down to my south, I almost ignored it, but then my conscience got the best of me.
Diverting from my path home, I used my sharp ears to pinpoint the source of the commotion, and set off toward it. A welcome rush of adrenaline filled me, and I pulled my black mask out of my pocket, slipping it over my face and pulling my hood over my head once again.
A handful of seconds later, I was perched on the roof of a squat brown building, overlooking a dark alley. The smell of rotting food in the dumpsters below no longer made me gag, as it had when I’d first arrived in Grant City, but my nose wrinkled anyway.
Beneath this smell was the strong stench of body odor and alcohol. Reaching into the hidden pocket of my jacket that contained my magical staff, I removed the weapon and held it out before me, whispering the incantation that caused the staff to grow to its full length.
In the alley below were a man and a woman, and as I sat above, the man backhanded the woman so hard that she let out a wail and crumpled to the ground instantly. The noise this strike made set my teeth on edge and fire to my blood. I hopped down into the alley and spun the weapon around in my hand.
My appearance surprised the two people involved in the scuffle. The man was dressed in a leather jacket and gold chains. His dark hair was oiled to the point where it shined in the moonlight, his knuckles adorned with thick gold rings. Continuing his obvious obsession with the metal, his top four front teeth were also bejeweled with gold and diamonds, and the bulge in his waistband told me that he was carrying.
The woma
n, on the other hand, was as scantily dressed as I’d ever seen, her breath puffing out in clouds in the chilly air. She was on the ground, her back up against one of the buildings and her short skirt riding up her long legs. Black mascara ringed her eyes, smeared with still-falling tears, and her lips were painted a red that was bright even in the shadows. Heels that looked high enough to break ankles were strapped to her feet.
I noticed all of this in a matter of half heartbeats, the dynamic between the two clear as crystal. There was no need to read auras.
“Who the hell are you?” asked the pimp, but as he took in my mask and hood, realization came to his dark eyes; he’d heard of me. He reached for the bulge under his jacket.
A sharp rap on his knuckles with my staff knocked his hand away. “Don’t do that,” I said.
Because he obviously wasn’t the fastest of learners, he reached for the weapon again, and this time I caught him across the jaw with my staff. He hit the pavement in much the same way the woman had just a moment ago.
Blood spurted from his gold-clad mouth, and while he took a second to regain his mind, I pulled the gun out of his waistband and tossed it aside.
“You stupid bitch,” he spat, and I could tell that this was something he said often to pretty much all the women in his life. The female prostitute—since we might as well call a spade, a spade—sat in stunned silence, her eyes swelling and scarlet that was not lipstick on her lips.
Whether it was all the things going on in my life at the moment, or something else entirely, I’m ashamed of what I did next, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself.
No, I’ll be honest. I didn’t want to stop myself.
I grabbed the man by his shirtfront and stared down at him. “What’d you call me?” I asked, my voice deeper, scarier somehow even to my own ears.
The pimp licked his lips, glaring up at me with dark eyes. “A stupid bitch,” he repeated, slower this time.
Then my fist was slamming into his face.
Over and over and over again.
I fell into some sort of angry haze, each strike flowing into the next. I felt the man’s nose crunch beneath my knuckles, felt the warm rush of blood splatter against my face, and more rage than I could ever remember feeling in my life.
What cut through this stupor was the screaming of the prostitute. She flung herself onto my back, shrieking at me to stop, and I threw her off of me as though she were nothing more than a rag doll.
“Stop it!” she cried. “You’re gonna kill him! Stop it! Stop it!”
These words washed over me like a bucket of cold water, and I slammed back down into reality. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” I heard myself mumble, and then I fled the scene as though I were the criminal.
Maybe I was, I thought, as I scaled the side of a building and took once more to the rooftops of Grant City. By the time I made it back to my apartment building, I was panting like a dog. Rather than taking the stairs, I climbed onto my fire escape and in through my fourth-story window.
Once inside, I stowed away my staff, mask, and jacket in my trunk, and locked the thing up. Then, I went into the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror.
My reddish-brown hair was a wild mess atop my head. My cheeks were flushed and emerald eyes gleaming. Small smatters of blood were on my face, and my knuckles were stained scarlet as well. As I gripped the dingy sink, I saw that my hands were shaking.
I showered in a sort of trance, cringing as I watched the blood circle the drain and as the hot water burned the cuts on my knuckles. Once I was done, I pulled on some sweatpants and a t-shirt and sat atop my bed, knowing there was no point in attempting sleep.
I’d lost control on that man tonight, and I was still not completely in control right now. I found myself wandering back over to my trunk and removing my staff. I felt slightly safer with it in my hands, but not much.
The Scarecrow would indeed be coming for me, and I needed to be ready. Based on my most recent behavior, this was having a bigger affect on me than I’d realized. With a hitch in my chest, I went over to the door and slid down to the floor in front of it, my back resting against it and the staff resting over my lap.
Convinced there was nothing else to be done, I hung my head and waited. I felt as though I were sitting atop pins and needles, as though an anvil was poised over my head. I said a weary hello to the darkness, my longtime friend.
I nearly jumped out of my skin when a small knock sounded on the door behind me. Climbing to my feet and standing on my tiptoes, I told myself to get a hold on my fear. Then I peered through the peephole.
After a short pause and glance at the clock—it was close to two a.m. now—I opened the door. My neighbor, Thomas Reid stood there with an AK-47 clutched in his large hands.
My eyebrows hit the ceiling. “I don’t like guns,” I said, and my voice came out smaller than intended.
“Should I put it away?” he asked.
Thinking of the Scarecrow, I shook my head. “I guess not.”
Without waiting for an invitation, Thomas Reid pushed his way inside my apartment, making my heartbeat kick up in pace. Closing the door behind him, he sat in front of it in much the same way I had, the large weapon laying across his lap, his back against the door.
After a few moments of silence, where I just stood like a buttwipe looking down at him, I said, “What are you doing?”
Thomas gave me a look like this was a stupid question. “Get some sleep, Aria,” he said.
Whether it was because I was a good little soldier, or because Thomas Reid had a particular affect on me, I did as he asked. Pulling the covers back on my bed, I crawled beneath them and then bent my head so that I could see Thomas where he sat in front of the door. He’d leaned his head back against it, and his hazel eyes were closed.
“If that gets too uncomfortable,” I said, letting the words come before I could stop them, “you can sleep beside me.”
Thomas didn’t lift his head or open his eyes. His mouth did not pull up in a smile, but I didn’t miss the touch of gold that reached his aura, nor the way the sight of it made the butterflies reappear in my stomach.
“Good night, Aria,” was all Thomas Reid said.
I closed my eyes, letting out a long sigh. “Good night, Thomas,” I whispered.
And with him watching over me, I slept better than I had for what felt like years.
CHAPTER 15
Three days passed, and there was no word or sign of the Scarecrow. Nothing that suggested that he was even in Grant City, save for the knot tied in my stomach.
In those three days, I discovered that anticipation was one of the worst emotions there was. The waiting was driving me mad in a way that was wholly unfamiliar. I felt embarrassingly unequipped to deal with it.
By the 23rd of December, the fourth day with no show of the Scarecrow, I was beginning to entertain the possibility that perhaps the crazed Warlock would not be coming after me. I offered myself the supporting evidence that ten years had passed between now and when I’d seen him last, and that his targets were always children, and I was no longer a child.
Rather than relieve me, this last thought only increased the need I felt to see the Scarecrow back in his cell at The Pen. Even if he wasn’t coming after me, he would be coming after someone, and that someone would likely be a child. People like him had a sickness that simply could not be purged.
For the first time in four months, I felt like a Peace Broker again. With Nick Ramhart in town, this feeling of nostalgia for my past life only increased, and I began to feel as though it was somehow my responsibility to apprehend the Scarecrow, despite the fact that it clearly was not. I was not an operative. I was not a Broker. The policing of rogue and dangerous supernaturals was no longer my job. I didn’t owe them, or the supernatural community, anything.
However, my conditioning was such that I knew I would be unable to rest until the Scarecrow was back where he belonged. As the saying goes, you can take the beast out of the jungle…
“Dude, are you okay?” Sam asked as we sat at a table in the school cafeteria.
We usually had our lunches outside in the courtyard, but today was a particularly chilly and gray day. Apt weather, I supposed. It matched my mood.
I dipped five French fries in a glob of ketchup and shoved them all in my mouth in one bite. Around the fried deliciousness, I said, “Should I be?”
Sam pushed her glasses up on her nose, fiddling with an apple slice but not really eating. “I guess not,” she answered. “I’m on edge myself, and there’s not even a psychopath Warlock after me.”
I barely heard her say this, because I was listening in on a few of the conversations going on around the lunchroom. There were some words being used that had caught my attention. Namely, masked and maiden.
Sam quieted, noticing my shift. “What’s going on?” she asked, glancing around the cafeteria.
“Have you been on social media this morning?” I asked, my blood suddenly ten degrees colder.
“You know I hate social media. I avoid it like the plague. It’s evil.” Her face began to pick up on the concern. “Why? What’s going on?”
“Apparently there’s a video,” I said, the words sounding far away to my own ears.
Sam was already pulling out her iPad, her fingers sliding over the screen. A handful of seemingly long seconds later, she said, “Oh my God.” Her blue eyes came up and met mine. When she spoke next, her voice was so low only someone with super ears would be able to hear it.
“Aria, the other night when you saved that girl from that burning building, someone caught you on camera.” She paused, and my heart paused with her. “And the video has gone viral.”
My tongue had grown to the size of a tomato in my mouth. An instant sweat broke out over my brow. “How many views?” I asked. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer, but I had to.
In answer, Sam passed over the iPad. I looked at the screen to see that the video had been viewed over a million times on YouTube, and my fingers shook slightly as I hit the arrow that would make it play.
