by Lucy Auburn
So I intend to use it.
Three rounds later, the couple is gone, replaced with two drunk sisters. Creepy guy has gotten up from the table too, though I feel him somewhere behind me, watching; I have the feeling he’s going to return at some point, though what he wants from me I can’t quite tell. He’s hiding it well, even from someone like me.
He’s been replaced by a casual better to my left, a man with a bargain suit on that does nothing to hide his muscles. He’s quiet, easygoing, and very drunk underneath the held-together impression he gives on the surface. I’ve named him Bob.
Hoodie guy has lost a lot of money to me, but he doesn’t seem to care. I can’t sense any distress or anger coming from his direction, just that same affable relaxation as before, which bugs me. Even criminals don’t like losing money. Especially criminals.
But I don’t have time to dwell on it; based on my calculations, about forty-five minutes has passed, and I have maybe thirty minutes of reading people before the ability will just fade away like it was never there. I’ve got to make as much money as I can before then, and I’m betting the drunk sisters are a good place to find it.
“A thousand dollars!” Drunk sister number one doesn’t seem to get what a small blind is.
“Two thousand,” Number two declares, giggling and swaying on her seat. At least the game can’t go up much from here, because of the rules at this table: $2,500 limit. I’ve only got $2,500 myself right now from all my previous winnings.
The game goes on.
Bob gets a good hand; I can feel it. Drunk girls have to whisper to each other about whether or not they’ve each got something good; the dealer puts a stop to that, clearly annoyed. Hoodie guy isn’t feeling his cards, whatever they are, but yet again he isn’t worried about it.
By the time we hit showdown, it’s just me, Bob, and the second drunk sister. The betting is up to $2,500, which is everything I have. But I know I have the best cards.
The feeling I get when I put down my full house—three queens, two fours—is exhilarating. Bob sighs; he’s got a losing flush, and drunk sister has a losing straight. She pouts and whines at her sister, but I’m all smiles, ear to ear.
I’ve done it. I turned my one thousand dollars into a lot more.
“Thank you for the game,” I tell the table, getting to my feet. “I think I’ll cash out for tonight.”
The dealer gives me what I need to do just that, unfazed by the amount of money. And why would he be, when in the back they’re no doubt hitting millions of dollars? Ten thousand is nothing in comparison.
But to me, it’s everything. It’s seed money for a deposit on Sara’s house. It’s hope, a promise that I could have a home if I just keep working at it.
If I stick around here, I could make even more money.
The only problem is, that would get more eyes on me. I already don’t like the creeper, and I’m worried the drunk sisters might get a little crazy if they’re fleeced for even more money. Better to leave now while the money is good. So I cash out, slide my money into my purse, and do the mental calculations: three blocks to my mediocre stash place, twelve to the good one, all in the middle of the night. It might be worth it to hire a taxi to get me there so I don’t risk getting robbed on the way.
I’m so caught up in worrying about would-be thieves as I leave the gambling den that I almost don’t notice I’m being followed. But my senses are on high alert, and I catch onto the tail as I make my way through the club, clutching my purse in one hand and my phone in the other, taxi app open.
Glancing over my shoulder, I search the crowd for the tail, expecting to see the creepy guy from earlier. But it’s not him who’s following me; to my surprise, it’s affable, easygoing hoodie guy.
Maybe me fleecing him for a few thousand dollars bothered him more than I thought.
I check my taxi app; five minute ETA. I’ve just got to hold out long enough to escape in the back of some guy named Sayid’s red sedan, and I’ll be scot-free, no creeps or hoodies or demons. Maybe I’ll even use a bit of my winnings to rent a room for tonight; after everything I’ve seen, I deserve it.
Moving through the crowd, I do my best to lose hoodie guy. Though I don’t sense any ill intent from him, the last thing I want is to be followed to any of my hiding spots. I can’t afford to lose a single cent of my money before I get the chance to open up a bank account—if I can figure out a way to fake a permanent address long enough to do it.
I manage to shake the guy in the hoodie on my third turn around the dance floor, while slipping between a bunch of drunk couples basically dry humping on the dance floor. A little knot of anxiety unwinds inside me, and I feel relieved enough that I almost relax.
Until I spot him standing in the corner.
It’s Swordwielder this time, his green eyes staring right at me. The couple dancing next to him passes through his partially see-through midsection, and a pissed look crosses his face. Scowling, he stalks towards me, looking like he has unfinished business.
My heart leaps up into my throat. Am I hallucinating?
He’s just a few feet away from me when a hand reaches out to grab my shoulder, and a man says to me, “You’ve got a good poker face, pretty lady.”
Pretty lady? I blink, and Swordwielder is gone, like he wasn’t even there in the first place. Whirling around, I open my mouth to say something that’ll shake this drunken flirt who calls women pretty lady, only to freeze.
It’s the creeper from the corner earlier, the one who sat to the left of me at the poker table.
And he’s got that strange look to him, that optical illusion shimmering at the edges like the demons—only not quite like them at the same time. There’s something about the energy living just beneath his skin that feels familiar, almost like I’ve felt it in myself before.
But there’s no way in hell I’m letting that turn me into an idiot. “Sorry.” I give him an apologetic smile and shake his hand off my shoulder, then hold up my phone. “My ride is here. They charge you if you skip out on them.”
I back away from him through the crowd, doing all my usual tricks: sliding between people standing close, watching feet for where they’ll step next and dancing expertly around them, dodging trays and drinks. I time it all so that the instant I pass through, whoever is behind me will find themselves unable to follow.
Somehow though this guy has the same tricks as me. I dodge a bar girl taking a tray of shots to a booth in the corner—he sidesteps her too, like he knew where she was going to step next, just like me.
I move between two girls making out with each other for their boyfriends, perfectly timing the moment I slide between them and the offended shouts that follow me for ruining a good time. Creeper doesn’t get tripped up by their milling around; he just slides right by them too, without them even noticing.
I dodge a drunk guy with an overfull glass of beer spilling all over the floor, hoping Creeper will slip on it. He rights the beer and moves past the guy without a blink.
Each step, each slide, each maneuver, I can feel him just behind me. All my senses, all my street smarts, tell me that I’m in danger. That weird ability to read people screams that he’s got violent intentions; when I dare to glance back at him, my newly dead-then-not eyesight tells me he’s got a gun holstered beneath his jacket and a knife strapped to his waist, just waiting to shoot me.
And the worst, most horrifying part of it all is that my senses are screaming he wants to rip my heart right out of my chest and take it for himself.
What a macabre image. What a horrifying thing to go through my head. It must be some kind of PTSD reaction, I tell myself; I saw a guy get his dick straight up severed from his body, and now my mind is playing cruel, terrible tricks on me.
Living on the street too long has done things to me. Whatever senses I have that tell me people’s intentions, they’re just the defenses of a lonely, bitter foster kid. They’re not that good. There’s no way.
None of my rationalizati
ons stop my lizard brain from insisting, all the same, that this guy is gonna use that knife to take my heart right out of my chest. Maybe I really am going crazy. Maybe dying knocked something loose inside my brain.
As I head out of the club towards the street, searching blindly for Sayid’s red sedan, I feel him still behind me. Intense eyes, cruel smile, and violent intentions.
Turning around, I stare straight into his face, and give him a hesitant smile—let him think I’m a dumb girl if it gets me out of this. “Sorry, do I know you?”
“A pretty girl like you? No. I just wanted to make sure you got out here safely. There are a lot of creeps in places like this.”
So I’ve noticed. “Well, I’m safe now! So you can just head back in.” Eyes darting down the street, I spot my waiting car. He’s parked all the way at the end of the block—there’s too much traffic for him to get closer. “Gotta go.”
But as I turn and walk away from the guy, I can hear his footsteps behind me. A prickling sensation of dread goes up my spine. I find myself trying to figure out how fast I can run, where I could lose him, if anyone would run and help when I scream.
This place is full of criminals.
If I scream, there’s a good chance they’ll run over to help him.
What a bitter irony it’ll be, that I somehow survived a bizarre night full of murder only to wind up killed on the street because I walked into an illegal underground gambling den and expected to walk out with ten thousand dollars like it was nothing.
My obituary won’t have any “survived by” under my short bio; the cops will all say I was some stupid vagabond girl, probably a prostitute, who got what she had coming to her. No one will even bother to look too long or hard for the creeper, because when girls like me die, nobody gives a shit.
Suddenly I find myself wishing that someone, anyone, were here with me. Even the demons, who seemed like they could more than take care of themselves. Blinking back a foolish spat of tears—I haven’t cried since I ran away from that group home—for a second I almost think I see them in the distance: Choker with a length of cord wrapped around his solid fist, Swordwielder standing in the front blade drawn, Poisoner smirking as he sharpens his knives, and Bomber in the back getting his explosives ready.
It’s like I’ve summoned them. Impossible.
I dismiss it out of hand, and when I blink they go away. Head down, I hurry towards the car I’ve hired, hoping against hope I can slide in and lock the doors before Creeper gets his hands on me.
But I feel him moving closer.
I practically sense it as he draws his gun, keeping to the shadows, waiting for his chance.
My shoulders hunch as I imagine how it’ll feel to have that bullet tear through my body, stop my heart, and end my life—permanently this time. Throat tightening at the thought of being forced into that oblivion again, I glance down an alleyway to my right, wondering if there’s any way I might dodge the creeper and fight him off on my own.
Which is how I see him standing there, hoodie firmly drawn up over his head, a pair of what I’m sure are nunchucks held in his hands. Hoodie guy sees me looking, and holds a finger up to his mouth, eyes darting back behind me to Creeper.
“Stop.” I feel the muzzle of the gun press up against my back as Creeper gets real close, until there’s barely a foot between us. “Don’t scream—it won’t help you if you do. You’re coming with me.”
I glance ahead to the red sedan, but Sayid is giving up on me. He’s got his blinker on and is pulling out towards the street; my phone vibrates with a notification letting me know I’ve just officially been charged for skipping out on a hired ride. Even he can’t save me.
Looking back towards the alley, I try to meet hoodie guy’s eyes. But he’s nowhere to be found.
“Act calm,” Creeper says, sounding smug. “One foot in front of the other. We’re going around this building, to the right.”
Some part of me rebels—the same part of me that always got kicked out of foster homes and made a name for herself at the group home. “So I don’t get a say in this? Because I kinda wanted to stop for shawarma.”
“Shut up,” he snarls, clearly not amused by my snarky backtalk. “You and I both know that I can shoot you right here, right now, in public, and nothing will be done about it except a bit of bleach to get your bloodstains off the sidewalk. So start moving.”
Swallowing my next acerbic comment, I do as he says. My biting wit and rebellious nature clearly isn’t gonna get me out of this one; I’ll need help—or a distraction—to get away from Creeper this time.
But something has to happen. Some opportunity I can take advantage of, like when I jumped off the cliff earlier to get away from those demons. There’s no way it can just end like this. Not when I’ve finally got so much to look forward to.
I try to slow down my footsteps as much as possible to give myself time to think, to act, to do something. Sensing this, Creeper digs the muzzle of his gun into my back. “Don’t even try to escape. Keep moving—faster than that.”
Clearing my throat, I mutter, “You haven’t even told me what you want.” Though my heart twists to say it, I tell him, “I can give you all the money I’ve got. I made a lot in there—almost ten thousand. It’s yours if you just let me go.”
He laughs, a brittle hollow sound. “What you’ve got is worth a lot more than that. Keep. Moving.”
So he won’t take the money. I hope that doesn’t mean he wants other, worse things. He wants your heart, that little part of me whispers insistently, like that makes more sense. Even a black market organ can’t be worth much more than ten thousand dollars, and last I checked Creeper doesn’t have an ice bucket under his jacket—though maybe that’s where he’s taking me, some place to harvest my organs and put them on ice.
Inanely, I can’t stop myself from thinking that at least that way I’d be useful. I’d do some kind of good, instead of dying in a pool of my own blood in some dirty alleyway like the gutter rat I am.
How sad that I’m worth more to the world dead than alive.
“Oh my god.” A drunken girl’s voice gets my attention, but I don’t glance over my shoulder towards her, afraid what Creeper will do with his gun. “Ugh, I’m so sick, I can’t believe it—Sam! Sam, can you hold my hair!”
Creeper tenses, pulling me to a stop and moving close to me as a drunk girl and her put-upon boyfriend stumble towards us from behind. The drunk girl swings wildly from the guy’s arm, swaying so hard she almost falls onto Creeper.
“Hey!” He adjusts the gun against my back, suddenly tense; it feels good that we’re not moving towards his final destination anymore, but I’m worried he’s so paranoid about hiding that gun that he might just accidentally shoot me with it. “Watch your girl, dude.”
“Sorry man,” the guy says, sounding a little wasted himself.
Creeper mutters, “If you even speak English.”
The tall guy, who has East Asian features, shoots Creeper an annoyed look. I have to bite my lower lip to keep from saying something, and mentally add “racist” to Creeper’s list of features, next to “creepy” and “is planning on killing me to harvest my organs or something similarly nefarious.”
“I speak English just fine,” the guy says, coming to a stop with his swaying girlfriend to stare in Creeper’s face. “You’re the one with the problem, dude. We’re just having a good time.”
Creeper’s hand loosens on my elbow, and my heart pounds as I realize this might very well be the distraction I’ve been hoping for. We’re not far from the alley I saw the hoodie guy in, which let out onto the other side of the block; if I run fast enough I just might be able to get away. Unlike Creeper, I’ve lived on these streets long enough to know where I’m going, even in the dark of the dead of night.
“Sorry about that, I just got riled up.” As Creeper holds his hand up in a peacekeeping gesture, a fake smile on his face, I calculate the distance between me and the alleyway. I prepare to run.
; And then I meet the drunk girl’s eyes. For a moment something flashes there, an intense, very sober expression. Then she subtly, deliberately, shakes her head.
It throws me for long enough that I miss my chance; Creeper grabs my elbow again to hold me tight. There’s no way I can get out of his grasp, avoid the gun, and run fast enough to escape him.
The conversation is still going. “Don’t worry about it, dude,” the boyfriend says, even though what Creeper said was super offensive. “We all get a little testy now and then. And I’m sure that gun you’re holding isn’t helping things.”
His words are so shocking they take a moment to penetrate, but the instant they do Creeper pulls the gun away from my back and swings it out to point it at the drunk couple, no doubt to kill them—right before he kills me.
I blink as my senses do something they’ve only ever done once before, inside the club when I felt danger: slow down time. The drunk couple duck away from the path of the gun impossibly fast, and while before they looked normal, suddenly they’re flickering at the edges like they’re anything but.
I spin on my heel and tear my arm out of Creeper’s grasp. He doesn’t move to stop me—he barely moves at all, because somehow he’s frozen in time, like most of the world.
Except the drunk couple, who are moving almost as fast as me, dropping down towards the ground and... flickering? Glowing? What the fuck.
Then hoodie guy is there again, popping up from behind a car. He pulls me towards him and says, “We’ve got this, phoenix—stay safe and out of the way.”
I’m so confused that I let my senses go, and time goes back to normal again.
Creeper pulls the trigger. The gun goes off; it fires right into the distance, where the drunk boyfriend was—but isn’t anymore.
So he moves the gun, points it right at drunk girl’s head, and takes a second shot.
Chapter 5
The bullet goes wild again, somehow. Drunk girl moves impossibly fast, and I amend my internal name for her; she’s definitely sober with moves like that. My eyes can barely track her movements, she’s shimmering at the edges so much.
