by Jeff Sampson
And I leaped.
I don’t know how high I jumped—a story, at least, so maybe fifteen feet. All I know is that it was as close to flying as I’d come, and the rush of wind through my hair, the feeling of liquid lightness, made my mind giddy. Then skin met steel, and I caught the rusted grating at the bottom of the catwalk, the thin strips of metal cutting into my fingers. Tensing my arms, I swung myself up over the railing and onto the fire escape. My heels dropped through the open grating, but I kept my balance.
From there it was easy going—stairs led up the next few stories to the roof. I clambered up them, the steps quaking beneath me and my shoes clanging loudly. The distant thumpa-thumpa-thumpa of the music seeped through the walls.
Finally I reached the roof. I climbed a little ladder, pulled myself over the small brick wall, and found myself in the middle of some sort of private party. There were couches up there, fashionable yellow-patterned love seats and high-backed wicker chairs. I saw a pair of women, one with a boyish haircut and the other with a long braid, cuddling up in one of the love seats, murmuring sweet nothings in each other’s ears while taking sips from glasses filled with some sort of neon blue alcoholic beverage. On an opposite seat, beneath a tall potted fern that shaded them from the yellow spotlights, a man and a woman made out and groped each other. I could smell the lust wafting off them.
Ignoring the two couples, I strode to the door leading inside the club. The short-haired woman gave me an appreciative leer as I passed, before a scowl from her date sent her back to murmuring sweet nothings.
Finally I was in.
Immediately the music enveloped me, the thumpa-thumpa-thumpa joined with a bright swirl of electronic notes and a wailing vocal. I followed a stylish spiral staircase down to the floor below. The place was packed, men in formfitting shirts sprawled on couches next to women in outfits even more garish and revealing than my own. Whoever wasn’t sitting was standing where they could find room, and everyone huddled together to talk and laugh. The music was so loud that I couldn’t hear a thing anyone was saying. I saw a flight of stairs against the front wall leading to the ground floor.
Taking the keys from my teeth and clenching them in my hand, I shoved through the milling twentysomethings, catching snippets of conversations, smelling the alcohol on their breaths. They gave off such heat, these people—their bodies radiated with sexual tension.
Their energy was amazing, intoxicating. I could feel it seep into my pores, soaking into my blood. But there was something off about it. I knew I needed companionship, needed to be surrounded by others—but a new urge called out from the deep recesses of my brain that I hadn’t fully explored. Hide from these, it said. Find your fellows.
The thought didn’t make any sense. I bumped into dancing, laughing people, and I felt like this must be the place I needed to be, even if that stupid, instinct-driven side of me tried to say otherwise. I felt like I was constantly sniffing and searching for someone—or maybe it was several someones—who my body would decide fit me perfectly. That night I was irritated by that side, refused to give into it. Why couldn’t it just leave me alone and let me be happy with whoever I decided for myself was “the one”?
Again, I shoved down the urges. Winding past the people milling on the stairs, I finally made it to the ground floor. If I thought the place had been crowded upstairs, downstairs was even worse—people were everywhere on the dance floor, grinding against one another and raising their arms into the air, stomping to the beat of the music. Well, some of them were, anyway. Others had a serious case of White People Dancing Syndrome and shuffled along as though they were hearing a completely different song.
How anyone danced at all I didn’t know, because they were packed in so tight that they seemed to become one large, writhing mass of sweaty flesh. In the center of the dance floor two chubby girls danced around poles on a little platform, the DJ at his turntable behind them. Their girlfriends and some guys whooped it up as the two made a spectacle of themselves, with no one seeming to remotely care.
I sniffed the air—over the smell of sweat, of hormones, and of booze, the cheap cologne and cigarette smoke of Fauxhawk stood out. From my vantage point on the stairs, I caught sight of him. He sat at the bar on the opposite side of the room, sipping a clear drink that could have been water but most certainly wasn’t, while his crop-haired friend occupied himself with a girl on his lap.
I shoved through the dancers. No one seemed to care in the least that I was squeezing past them, that our bodies were so wonderfully close. Everyone here was as free as I felt, and I laughed, the sound lost to the endless thumpa-thumpa-thumpa and the stomping of feet. Glassy-eyed and slurring, people pawed at one another like animals. Their smells were flustering; scents that were usually kept secret flooded the air like a gas.
And yet . . . none of it was quite right.
I emerged from the crushing sea of people by the bar. Fauxhawk caught sight of me as I appeared, then smiled and waved me over.
He said something as I came close, but even with nighttime hearing I couldn’t make it out.
“What?” I shouted near his ear.
“Hey there!” he shouted back over the music.
“Hey. Blaze, right?”
“Miss Webb?”
I nodded, then grabbed his hands. “Want to get tangled up in me?” I purred.
He laughed. “What if I burn you up?”
“You’re corny!” I shouted.
“So are you!” He winked. “But it’s all good. I like that.”
I pulled him off his stool by his hands and started to lead him toward the dance floor, but the keys were cutting into my palm. I should have brought a handbag.
Holding up my pointer finger to Fauxhawk, I shouted over at the bartender, “Hey, you got any string or anything?”
He leaned close. “What drink?” he shouted.
“String!” I shouted back. I held up the keys. “I want to hang this from my neck.”
Nodding to show he understood, he grabbed a box from beneath the bar. Bottles rattled inside, and it was held closed by twine. Using a pocketknife, he snipped free the twine and handed it over.
“Thanks, man. You rock!” I shouted at him.
He smiled blankly at me, then gestured to his ears to show he hadn’t heard.
“Thanks. You—!” I shouted louder, then turned away. “Forget it.”
Quickly stringing the key ring on the twine, I tied the makeshift necklace round my neck and tucked the keys under my dress. Then I grabbed Fauxhawk by the hand and led him to the edge of the dance floor. “Now let’s dance!” I shouted at him.
He didn’t hear me, but he didn’t have to. The song changed to something that sounded remarkably similar to what had been playing when I came in, the lights flashed, the crowd cheered. I spun around and let the thumping beat take over, thrusting my hips and throwing my hands in the air, tossing my hair and sweating horribly, but not caring. Fauxhawk grabbed me by the hand and spun me, then put his hands on my waist and pulled me in close. He ground his body into the back of mine, and I reached my arms back to wrap them around his neck.
Everything about this was something my normal daytime self would never do, even more so than drinking at the party. This was way better than the high school stuff, I decided. People here were looser, less self-conscious. No wonder so many other kids got fake IDs.
I could feel Fauxhawk’s heartbeat against my back, could feel the hot lash of his breath against my neck. I was in complete and utter control of him, dominating and muddying his mind more than alcohol ever could. I could sense his rationality fading away as his want for me grew.
He spun me toward him and put his face close to mine. His stale cigarette breath filled my nostrils.
“So, baby, you want to come back with me?” he said into my ear. “Me and Bobby over there have our own place not too far, we could take the party there.”
I laughed. “No, no,” I said. “I’m just here to dance.” I tried to pul
l away from his grip, to get back to dancing. He wouldn’t let go.
“Come on,” he said. “You got me bad, Miss Webb. You got me all wrapped up here, got me squirming.”
I sniffed him again. His stench was ordinary, stale, unappealing. Once more the urge to find the one with the right scent flushed over my skin. I’d been close enough to someone so damn perfect that his scent was now permanently etched in my brain. Someone cute but otherwise only serviceable—like this guy—couldn’t compare. It was maddening, but it made my answer easy.
“I can’t,” I shouted into his ear. “You don’t smell right.”
He started breathing harder, faster, pulling me in close and putting his forehead to mine. “Don’t play me, baby. You know what you’re doing, but we all hate games. . . .”
God, this guy was repetitive. I dug my fingernails into his chest and shoved. Surprised by the force of my push, he tumbled backward against another dancing couple, then glared at me.
“What the hell!” he bellowed.
“I said no thanks.” I rolled my shoulders back. “Besides, I’m only sixteen. You’d totally get arrested.”
His face went blank. “What?”
“It’s true.” I turned away, calling back, “I’m getting bored. I’m sure you can find someone else around here who’s actually legal.”
Leaving Fauxhawk standing there stunned, I shoved through the heaving bodies toward the stairs.
Back up on the top floor, I stretched my arms and legs in the relative roominess. The bass-filled music didn’t seem quite as loud anymore and the people here were more subdued, off in their own private worlds.
“You know you’re not supposed to be in here.”
The voice was right next to my ear. I spun around to find a blond vision behind me—Deputy Jared in a tight red T-shirt. In his hand he clenched a bunch of flyers.
The dancing, the heady sensations, everything here was good—but not as fulfilling as I’d hoped. Something was missing. Maybe Jared could fill that emptiness.
“Well, hey, fancy seeing you here,” I said as I moved in close. I grasped him around his waist and pulled our chests together. The echoes of his heartbeat pulsed through my body, almost in time to the beats of the music blaring around us.
He wasn’t fazed at all. “Seriously. Emily, right? Aren’t you sixteen?”
I sighed and stepped back, almost bumping into a pair of women walking by. They stumbled but just laughed before wandering off.
“And aren’t you off duty?”
He smirked at me. “Right. Well, I don’t know how you got in, but now I’ve got to escort you out. It’s my civic duty.”
I rolled my eyes and walked past him. “Come on, don’t be such a Boy Scout. Why don’t you dance with me? It’ll be fun, I promise.”
He followed as I wound past chairs and other club patrons, then stepped in my way. “You know, Emily, I heard some things about you.”
“Oh?” I said. “Awesome things, I hope.”
He rolled and unrolled his flyers as he regarded me. “Well, I heard that you are a nice, quiet girl who likes to stay home and watch movies on Friday nights. And yet here you are, out on the town alone, dressed like—” He gestured at me, his flyers flapping. “Well.”
Find the one who smells right. Find the others.
The thoughts came unbidden, bombarding my brain, pulsing to the club’s beat that endlessly assaulted my ears. Not even Jared could keep away these urges. Especially not if he was going to insist on being so insufferably good.
I inhaled, taking in more of the sensual odors surrounding me. My head went woozy.
I needed to find someone else. Immediately.
“Right, well, I can take care of myself. Now, if we’re not gonna dance, I’m going to—”
He put a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I get it, Emily, really. I don’t want to get you in trouble. I did a lot of stupid things when I was sixteen too. It’s just been really hard seeing kids not that much younger than me getting hurt lately. There’s a murderer out there, you know.”
I arched my brows. “Is that why you made photocopies of the police reports and passed them around like salacious reading material?”
“No, I just thought maybe it’d hammer home how dangerous it can be out there.” Trying to guide me forward, he turned so that we were side by side. “Come on, I’ll take you to your car and make sure you get home okay.”
“Yeah, no, I’m good, but thanks anyway.” I freed myself from his gentle grip, bumping him in the process. His stack of flyers—all emblazoned with a Bubonic Teutonics logo—went fluttering to the floor.
He dropped to his knees to pick up the flyers, and I started to walk off to find a non-police-officer guy to have fun with.
And then I smelled it. The musk.
It wasn’t quite the same as Patrick’s wonderful scent, but it was close enough, like Dalton’s had been. Someone was nearby who was like me. Someone male, someone who smelled different from everyone else in the club.
It was like I’d been dying for a drink and someone just walked by with a pitcher of water.
I’d resisted the urge all evening, but I couldn’t do it any longer. I didn’t know exactly what I was going to do with him when I caught him. But it didn’t matter—every part of my brain was screaming at me, demanding I seek out the source of the scent.
Sniffing at the air, I made my way past the couches to the spiraling staircase that led to the roof deck. Behind me I heard Jared calling my name, but he couldn’t see where I’d gone, so I ignored him. Up on the roof I found that the couples had left, replaced by three guys laughing with one another while talking about things I didn’t particularly care about. Ignoring them as they catcalled at me, I strolled to the edge of the building, nostrils flared, following the scent trail.
Down. He was down there, in the alley. And close, too—his smell even overpowered that of the rotting garbage in the Dumpster.
I vaulted over the side of the building, not worrying about using the ladder. I landed on the fire escape below with a loud, metallic ring. Then I half ran, half leaped down the stairs to the bottom fire escape, put both hands on the edge, and flung myself over.
I landed in a crouch in the alley. The aroma was strong now, so wonderfully strong, but I couldn’t see him. Still sniffing, I marched forward, past the Dumpster.
It was as though I was standing right on top of him. My fingernails dug into my thighs in anxious anticipation—this wasn’t the right one, but perhaps he was one of the “fellows” I’d felt compelled to seek out. Oh, but he would do. We could dance all night, and Fauxhawk and Jared and everyone else would just fade away.
He wasn’t there. He had to be there. Needed to be there.
But I couldn’t see him, even as his musk swirled around me, slid into my nostrils, dug into my brain, drove me to keep searching.
My heel stepped on something hard, and glass crunched. I crouched down and discovered a broken vial lying there, thick, clear liquid in a puddle around it. A biohazard label was affixed to the part of the vial that wasn’t shattered. I sniffed again. The smell was incredibly strong, making me light-headed, like I’d just drowned myself in a vat of perfume.
The smell was coming from the puddle. From the broken vial.
“What the—”
There was a shuffling behind me. Immediately I stood up and spun around. A dark, shadowy figure stood there. He was tall and slender, a long overcoat hanging to his knees, a wide-brimmed fedora hiding his features.
“Emily Webb?” the figure asked, his voice deep and gravelly, almost as though he was disguising the way he really sounded. “Daughter of Caroline and Gregory Webb?”
“What?” I asked again. “How did you—”
I couldn’t finish as his odor hit me. The man’s stench was overwhelming; he smelled like a laundry pile that had spent the summer fermenting in the boys’ locker room. I gagged, even as I realized that this smell had a feeling. It felt like . . . fear? No. Nervous
ness?
“Yes,” the man grunted, his tone flat and emotionless. “You’re her.”
The man raised his arm and pointed his finger at me. No, it wasn’t a finger jutting out of the man’s dark sleeves. It was the barrel of a gun.
A gun.
My heart thudded, and a flurry of thoughts flooded my mind in the moment before the man pulled the trigger: Leap at him, duck, scream for Jared, runrunrun. The thoughts were a din of incomprehensible noise, and I froze, my legs heavy and dead and unable to take me away.
I began to open my mouth to speak, to say something to make the man stop whatever it was he was going to do. Instead I felt my lips curl into a snarl, baring my teeth.
And the man pulled the trigger.
Chapter 13
Not Now
Flame flared from the gun’s muzzle, flashing like the strobes inside the club. The flashes were followed by two small, almost unimportant pops.
And though my mind was frozen, turned to mush by fear at the sight of the gun, some unknown instinct screamed Move! in my brain, and I flung myself to the side.
I swear I felt the breeze of the bullets fly past my head like a pair of flies buzzing close to my cheek. Somewhere down the alley, the two bullets hit a wall with two little clinks.
I rolled, and found myself crouching beside the stained Dumpster. My chest heaved, my heart burned with anger—he’d tried to shoot me. Someone was trying to kill me!
Steady, clicking footsteps as the man walked purposefully around the Dumpster to finish what he’d started. No, my mind raged. You will not hurt me. You will not hurt me!
I grabbed the edge of the Dumpster. Something damp oozed between my fingers, but I didn’t care. Tensing my arm muscles and with a primal scream, I shoved. The Dumpster creaked in protest, then spun away from the wall.
The man yelped. Another flash as the Dumpster careened into him, another pop as a bullet fired uselessly into the air. The Dumpster banged against the brick wall on the opposite side of the alley.
