by Sophie Davis
One of the regulars, a woman in a lacey neon green bra and matching spandex microskirt, always brandished a whip and promised unimaginable pleasures to anyone daring enough to enter The Vixen’s Lair. Another, a beautiful olive-skinned man, stood on a fire escape wearing nothing more than a black bowtie and leather pants. He inexplicably tossed white rosebuds to select passersby. Twin beauties stood outside the Olympus Club with long black hair, smooth tanned skin, and piercing bright blue eyes. Like sirens, their song was hypnotic, inviting men and women alike to, “Climb the mountain, want no more. Join the gods and feel the roar. Ecstasy like never before.”
I’d seen the spectacle so many times now that these things no longer seemed odd or outlandish. I had no firsthand knowledge of what happened inside the Vixen’s Lair, and doubted my imagination was sufficient to guess. But I wasn’t naïve. It was a sex club. And not the vanilla kind. I assumed that the Olympus Club was along the same lines. Either that, or a den of mind altering substances. Or maybe just a general lair of iniquities. The rosebuds were a conundrum I had yet to puzzle out. I also wasn’t bold enough to investigate.
The clientele on Tiber was as wide-ranging as the people who worked there. So I wasn’t shocked when James directed the hovercab to drop us off at one of the street’s busiest intersections. I had, however, been surprised when we exited the apartment to find a hovercab waiting for us in the first place. Brushing off my protest and offer to walk, James had insisted that the small expense was worth our safety. Since the attack behind the Circus of Wonders, my friends and I had become increasingly more vigilant, but using hovercabs instead of walking was a new measure that had me feeling more anxious than usual. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself. My overly analytical brain suggested that maybe the anxiety was due to the-date-that-wasn’t-a-date with James, but I ignored that voice.
The seedy clubs and scantily clad people—both employees and patrons—of Tiber Street were beyond foreign to me. Especially considering the fact I’d spent seventy-one percent of my life sequestered at an academic institution in the Maryland wilderness, surrounded by a dense forest and high fences.
Yet, walking down Tiber with James by my side, I felt almost normal for the first time in….maybe ever. This was exactly what I imagined that normal teenage girls back home did. What Alana and I had wished we could do. Albeit, maybe in more mainstream neighborhoods. Somehow, I was able to stuff all of my worries into a compartment at the back of my mind, lock the door, and hide the key. Now if only I could turn off my Higher Reasoning and stop analyzing everything James did and said. Then the night would’ve been perfect.
Case in point—the bowtie wearing male model tossed a rosebud to James with a sly wink as we passed by. My companion deftly caught the flower, and without missing a beat, turned and presented it to me. I blushed stupidly, while grinning like an idiot, and muttered, “Thanks.”
I twirled the short stem between my thumb and forefinger and inhaled the beautiful fragrance. It didn’t smell like any other rose I’d ever encountered.
“What’s the deal with these?” I asked James. “I always see a guy up there tossing them to people, but I don’t know what they mean.”
James laughed humorlessly.
“They’re a device of sorts. That bloke,” he nodded over his shoulder towards Mr. Bowtie, “his job is to seek out the right sort of person and invite them to the do inside. He does that by distributing the roses to certain people, which permit one to enter for the night.”
In dark jeans and a navy button-down with thin vertical silver stripes that made his eyes come alive, James was undeniably attractive. But so were half the other people strolling Tiber. And the flowers weren’t exactly flowing freely.
“So, you’re the right sort of person?” I joked, nudging him playfully.
James smiled. “Apparently so. I get a rose every time I’m down here.”
“Really?” I quirked an eyebrow. “Never pictured you as the club-going type. So tell me, what goes on inside?”
James shrugged. “Not a clue. Never cared to find out.”
“Aren’t you curious?” I asked.
“No,” James said shortly. He suddenly put his arm around my waist, with his hand in the small of my back. It would’ve been a butterfly moment, except he’d evidently done so only to propel me up the street more quickly.
Worried I’d offended him, or made some social gaffe by asking, I studied his profile for signs of agitation.
Slight puckering around his mouth. Adams apple bobbing up and down too fast. Posture rigid. Fingers digging into my skin might leave bruises. Yep, definitely agitated.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No, no,” he assured me. “We should just hurry a bit round this part. These places,” James paused and made a circling motion with his index finger, evidently meaning the entire surrounding area. “These are all owned by the fecking Poachers. The arseholes pad their pockets with the billions of Globes spent behind their doors, all the while paying their employees a pittance. And that paltry wage is only if you’re one of the scant lucky few. Most aren’t compensated at all.”
Even if disgust hadn’t laced every syllable James uttered, I wouldn’t have made further inquiries. From my talk with Honora I understood what James was reluctant to say aloud: the employees were Talents, captured by the Poachers and forced into servitude.
Suddenly, I was no longer hungry.
I silently cursed the hovercab driver. He’d insisted on dropping us where he did, citing traffic. Looking at the steady stream of passing cars, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was really because he either didn’t want to drive past the Poachers’ area, or because they were paying him off to drop charges nearby their clubs.
As soon as we passed the block he’d indicated with his gesture, James dropped his hand from my back. The place he’d touched abruptly felt cool, missing the contact. Sneaking a glance up at James, I was pleased to find him staring back. When my eyes met the platinum of his, he winked down at me and smiled, radiating warmth. I had a good feeling that we could salvage the evening.
The restaurant that James chose for dinner was The King’s Pub, a hole-in-the-wall tucked between a high-end fashion boutique called Ladies Who Lunch and the Madonna Theater. It reminded me of a much more upscale version of the Giraffe. For the most part, the women were dressed in couture gowns with ridiculous fox fur stoles, and the men in suits. Judging by the sheer number of guys wearing argyle, the pattern must have been the current ‘in’ thing in London gentlemen’s fashion; the diamond pattern covered most of the men’s jackets and pants. So weird.
Thankfully, James and I weren’t the only patrons sporting more casual attire. Others around our age were similarly dressed and the maître d’ who greeted us didn’t bat a sparkly fake eyelash when James said, “Two seats, please.”
Once settled at a small table, we were handed leather menus with a gold crown inscribed on the front. I opened mine as the host said, “Your attendant will be over presently,” and then disappeared.
“Oh! They have an entire section on their menu of American foods!” I exclaimed. The couple at the next table glanced over. Okay, maybe I was a little too excited, but I’d been longing for the comfort of foods I’d grown up with for weeks.
James’s cheeks colored slightly, giving him a ruddy complexion, and I immediately regretted the outburst.
“That’s why I chose it,” he muttered. “I thought you might like a taste of home.”
My jaw dropped slightly and I felt like every muscle in my body was frozen as I stared at James in surprise. I was basically full-on gaping at him, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself.
Finally, I snapped out of it. My lips curved into a grateful smile and I looked down at the menu I held in front of me, not trusting myself to speak, not even to thank him. Tears prickled behind my eyes and I desperately needed water.
Where is the damn waiter?
I was genui
nely touched by James’s gesture, his thoughtfulness. But I abruptly felt tremendously homesick.
When I’d first arrived in London, the differences in culture and cuisine had been glaring, and all I’d wanted was something—anything—that resembled home. After making the mistake of eating in Lindy’s, a well-known American fast food restaurant that was also over here, and getting choked up while trying to order a number five, I decided that even the smallest reminder of home was too much for me to handle. Reluctantly, I embraced the otherness of London. And while there were things I’d never get used to—cricket, for instance—I’d ended up enjoying immersing myself in their traditions. Now, though, the longing for my mother, my friends, and my school burst forth from where I’d shoved it all down, engulfing me in nostalgia.
Thankfully, before I could make a bloody fool of myself, as my new countrymen would say, the waiter appeared to take our drink orders and spout off the nightly specials. I barely heard a word he said, but managed to feign interest by nodding at the appropriate moments. When the man finally left to retrieve our drinks, water for me and I was pretty sure beer for James, I stared pointedly down at the menu, avoiding any and all eye contact with my dinner companion. If James thought my behavior odd or rude, he didn’t let on.
“Let’s have it, then,” James said once our food order was placed and we’d been sitting in awkward silence for what felt like an eternity. He took a long sip of thick, chocolate brown ale and made a hurry-it-along gesture with his free hand.
“Have what?” I asked, confused.
“Your question. By my estimate, it’s your turn in our little game. So let’s have it. Ask away.”
I’d nearly forgotten that last night’s tête-á-tête, which had resulted in me pouring my heart out all over James and the futon, had started out as a game of twenty questions. I mentally weighed my desire for a glimpse into the enigma that was James Wellington against my reluctance to share any more details about myself.
Sensing my hesitancy, James said, “I’ll even give you, let’s say, three freebies, since I might’ve gone out of turn a time or two last night.”
“I don’t think it counts as a giveaway if you owe it to me,” I laughed.
James shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. Four questions then, all in a row. Does that sound sporting enough for you?”
Just like bringing me to a pub with an American foods section on their menu, James’s thinly disguised offer to, at least partially, lower his barriers and let me in was touching. He was no more eager to relive his past than I was, yet he’d brought up the game and was now submitting himself for possible interrogation. Of course, my melancholy probably had something to do with his kind gesture, but it was sweet that he cared enough to draw me out. That brought a bittersweet smile to my lips. If I asked the questions I really wanted the answers to, the evening would quickly turn somber. But the opportunity to peel back several layers of the James-onion was too good to pass up. Besides, talking about his troubles meant temporarily forgetting my own. And he was offering to do just that, for precisely that reason.
“Plenty sporting,” I agreed, grinning.
I opened my mouth to ask my first question when James held up his index finger in the universal gesture for ‘hold on’ and drained three-quarters of his beer. He set the glass down, blew out a breath, and said, “Alright, go.”
I went for broke and asked the question that had started this game, careful to phrase it in such a way that James couldn’t dance around the answer.
“What happened between you and Jaylen Monroe to make you hate him so much?”
James snorted. “Should’ve seen that one coming. Where to start…. Well, for starters, that prig is the reason I was tossed from school. We got in a scuffle and, being the whiny prat that he is, Monroe went on about it to the headmaster. Next I knew, I was given the boot.”
Something about James’s story rang a bell. What had Honora said about James being kicked out of his posh boy’s school? Oh, right.
“Didn’t you electrocute him during your scuffle?” I asked.
“Not on purpose,” James said defensively. The twitching at the corners of his mouth made me think that maybe it had been a little bit on purpose. “And he was fine. I just gave him a bit of shock is all. Of course by the time his father, the Duke, was finished with the headmaster, the story was that I’d nearly fried him and he was fortunate to be alive.” James shook his head. “Wanker.”
The waiter returned with our dinners. My stomach lurched as he set the all-American cheeseburger and fries down in front of me. I’d wanted to order something else, something British so I could keep my homesickness in check for the evening, but I’d been worried about inviting questions or offending James. I didn’t want him to think me ungrateful. In fact, cheeseburgers weren’t exactly ordinary fare at the McDonough School, not like the chicken pot pie that was on the menu. I’d avoided that, to keep from blubbering through the main course. In name alone was the meal I’d chosen ‘American’, and therefore only a vague reminder of home.
I nibbled one crunchy end of a French fry and considered what to ask next. There was more to the Jaylen saga than James was letting on. Did he blame Jaylen for getting caught by the Poachers? Jaylen was the reason James was kicked out of school, which, according to Honora, was what caused James’s parents to disown him. Being disowned was how James had come to live on the streets and be captured by the Poachers.
Of course he blamed Jaylen. I would have too. So I understood why James’s hatred ran deep. Very deep. But it was also more than that. A ten-year-old’s tattling betrayal would probably have lost its edge after a decade, even when the consequences were so dire. Yet the anger between them was white hot. I was putting my money on something else, maybe something more recent, between the two guys.
“Come now, Kenly. I know you have more burning questions in that big brain of yours,” James said after several minutes of silence.
“I do,” I admitted. “A lot, actually.” I took a deep breath, bracing myself. “Were the Monroes the Poachers who caught you?”
James swallowed the bite of cod he’d just put in his mouth without chewing. The fish stuck in his throat, and he started coughing. He pounded himself on the chest, but that only appeared to lodge the food in farther. Color began to rise in his cheeks and the little air escaping his lungs was coming out in gasps. Other diners turned to look and someone called out for a doctor.
Without thinking, I acted.
Stupid.
Using Telekinesis, I summoned the piece of fish.
The tense atmosphere, the staring, and my sudden panic evidently intensified my powers. The offending bit of food flew across the room.
And so did James.
Waiters jumped out of the way to prevent being knocked over. One woman dove underneath her table, screaming. James smacked into the far wall, sending old paintings and framed photographs crashing to the floor. The silence that followed was deafening.
Every single eye in the room was on me as I slowly rose to my feet, gaping in horror at what I’d just done. I wanted to run to James, but my muscles rebelled, rendering me immobile.
“Bloody hell! You filthy Chromes don’t belong in here,” an angry voice boomed.
I turned to see a heavyset, bearded man in a dirty white apron and hairnet brandishing a spatula like a sword. He waved the kitchen weapon at me as he stalked towards the table.
“Shove off, girlie! Hear me? We don’t serve your kind. And you, too,” he hollered over his shoulder to where James was struggling to his feet.
“Get out!” one of the other diners shouted.
“Yeah, get out!” another yelled.
“Get out. Get out. Get out, Get out.” The chant became faster and faster.
The collective feelings in the pub couldn’t have been more apparent. Fear and revulsion rolled in waves, thick and discernable as the early morning London fog. I’d never even had someone dislike me before, let alone despise me. Loathe my ver
y existence.
I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to melt into a giant puddle on the floor. I wanted to use my powers to smash every dish in the room. I wanted to turn invisible and run.
“You’re unnatural!” came the cry.
“Inhuman!”
“An abomination!”
And then I got pissed.
Feeling uncharacteristically reckless, with an overwhelming desire to do something impulsive, I opened my mouth to speak. To let them know exactly what I was. Indeed, I was something to be feared. But also to be respected. Not just Talented. Created.
Don’t be stupid, a voice inside my head screamed. You have not survived this long on your own by giving in to your impulses. Be smart. Be safe. Be free.
The fury inside of me was begging to be set free, to consume everything in its vicinity. Unleashing it would’ve caused a gratifying inferno. But letting these ignorant people be my undoing would’ve been beyond disgraceful.
“Are you mental?” James cried, suddenly at my side. Throwing an arm around my waist, he dragged me towards the door.
I let myself be pulled to the door, torn between apologizing profusely and defending my actions. If it weren’t for my dislodging the fish, James probably would’ve been purple by now, rolling around on the floor of the restaurant.
The angry shouts followed us out onto the street. The man, I guessed he was the pub owner, was hot on our heels, still slashing the air with his spatula and hurling insults. Between his thick accent and the unfamiliar expressions, I could only speculate as to the meanings of a lot of his words. It seemed like a safe assumption that most were profanities.
“I spot you near my pub again and you’ll be sorry, you will! Your kind ain’t welcome round here!” the pub owner hollered.
I expected the man to give up the chase once we were through the entranceway, but he was relentless. As James and I ducked and dodged the crowd on Tiber Street, so did the pub owner.
