by Ryals, R. K.
"Are you counting yet?" Conor whispers to Will.
Will smiles.
"Already on four . . . . "
There is a scream from inside the house. I jump, my body instantly ready to bolt. Conor is prepared, his arm still tight around my waist, and he pulls my thrashing frame more tightly against his chest.
"Calm down, Darling. That's just Roach scaring the hell out of my mother. He was in his gargoyle form, which means once he reverted back to his mortal form, he was naked as the day he was born. And, Lord knows, you didn't want to see that on my front lawn."
Will is laughing now, his face red as he leans over, his hands resting against his thighs. My body is in flight mode. Even if I want to laugh, it isn't happening.
"Conor Philip Reinhardt!" a woman yells hoarsely.
Conor flinches. His initials are C.P.R.? Seriously?
The house's large, white-framed front door slams open, and I find myself staring at a tall blonde-haired, intimidating woman in a black business skirt, buttoned up navy blue-collared top, and black two-inch heels. She is scowling . . . until she sees me. One glance in my direction, and her mouth forms a silent "o", a hand coming to rest delicately over her lips. Her gaze moves between Conor and Will.
"What is that?" she asks as Conor prods me from behind.
We are moving toward the house now, my eyes taking in the woman as we approach her. She is so . . . put together. Her blue eyes are sharp, and her hair seems afraid to move. Realistically, she has to be in her forties, but she doesn't look a day over thirty, if that much.
"This is Conor's escort job," Will supplies as we finally reach the porch. I find a semblance of dirty humor in the situation. Escort does not sound appropriate.
Conor's mom looks me over skeptically. I am pretty sure I don't look human.
"This is Emma Chase, Mother. Emma, this is my mother, Beatrice Reinhardt. Bea," Conor says firmly, his tone laced with warning. Bea's gaze moves between us before taking in the solid grip Conor has on my arms. I am shaking.
"Is she injured?" Bea asks.
Both Conor and Will shake their heads. Bea sighs, moving aside as she opens the door wider. I catch a glimpse of stained concrete floors. Large potted plants stand like sentinels on each side of the door. Roach, wrapped in a silk, pink robe that only comes to his knees, stands crossly about a foot behind Conor's mom. I hear Will snigger. I don't want to go inside the house.
"It's going to be fine, Em," Conor whispers into my ear. Bea watches us thoughtfully. I don't move.
"Oh, for God's sake!" Bea exclaims before stepping outside and pulling me effortlessly out of Conor's embrace. My heart rate goes through the roof, and my skin warms.
"Hurt me, and I'll kill you," Bea says sweetly when I start pulling at her arm.
Her words don't make me struggle any less. She is shorter than I am, coming only to my neck in her heels. It should comfort me, but it doesn't.
"It's a fight response," Roach says callously. "I tried telling your son that in Atlanta, but he felt the need to hurry off without any preparation. One of these days, he's going to get someone killed."
"Shut up, Roach," Conor growls. "There wasn't time for your medical mumble jumble. And nothing you could have done would've helped." Conor looks at his mother. "The girl's body rejects all medication."
They are talking about me as if I'm not present, and it is scary how much they know about me.
"S-s-so you are a d-doctor?" I ask, my gaze on Roach. He doesn't look old enough to be a doctor. Twenty-something, maybe. His eyes narrow.
"No, I study monsters."
I cry out without meaning to.
"You're a heartless son of a bitch," Conor says coldly.
Bea jerks me toward a staircase a few feet inside the door. The stairs are hardwood, no carpet. To the side of the stairs is a large livingroom with the same stained concrete floors as the entry.
"Enough. Both of you. Conor, take the girl upstairs, show her to the bathroom, and get her one of your shirts to wear. Now," Bea orders, her eyes hard. She lets go of my arm. "Will, you and Roach, get in the kitchen and fill me in."
"Yes m'am," Will says quickly as Conor replaces his mother at my side. He takes me by the elbow and nods at the stairs.
"After you," he says softly.
They don't leave me any choice. I start climbing. Conor follows.
"There's a shower in my room. You can use that. I'll leave my closet open, and you can take anything out you think will fit. As for your jeans, I'm afraid you're stuck with those. You might be tall for a girl, but you're skinny as hell."
I am not rolling in compliments today. Conor steers me to an open doorway at the top of the stairs, and I stop just inside the room. It is awkward for me, standing inside a guy's room. My life has consisted only of my mother and me. My sickness hasn't allowed for school. I was home-schooled instead, tutors teaching me what my mother couldn't. And what the tutors couldn't teach, I learned through books and online classes. It was a hard way to learn, but it also allowed me to get ahead. I am only one test away from completing my senior year.
"Bathroom's just through there," Conor says, his hand gesturing. "I'm going to sit outside the door." He pauses a moment before turning to me. "Don't try and run, Em. It's not safe. You're going to have to trust me."
His voice brings me out of my reverie, and I glance around the room. It is a large room, the walls tan, the floors hardwood with a king-size bed covered in camouflage pushed against the wall near a window hidden by wooden blinds. The room is clean. Too clean. The only mess is a littered desk covered in football knickknacks and a stack of books. Conor notices me staring.
"I'm not home much."
I don't say anything, and he doesn't elaborate. He walks away from me, pulls a sliding closet door open, and then exits the room.
"Don't try anything, Em. Trust me," he says before pulling the door to.
"I don't know you," I whisper as the door clicks shut.
I look toward the bathroom, at a mirror hanging over a white porcelain sink, and almost scream. There is blood everywhere. My entire face is caked with dried bloody tears, my neck and shirt front covered in the same rusty mess. My eyes are startling in comparison, the amber color almost red. I walk slowly toward my reflection, stepping onto the white linoleum carefully. I am looking at a stranger. I have to get it off!
My fears are cancelled out by the sudden desperate need to look and feel human. I tear at my clothes, pulling the shirt off urgently before shedding the rest of my attire. I turn on Conor's shower and step away from it briefly. There is a ceiling-to-floor cabinet on the opposite side of the bathroom filled with terry-cloth white towels and two bottles of shampoo. There is no conditioner.
I grab the towel and shampoo and step into the steaming water. I can't scrub hard enough. The water pouring onto my feet goes from clear to red, and I have to fight not to sob. Crying means more blood.
My toes and fingers are numb with fear even as hot water flows in rivulets down my body. It is like watching one of those horror movies where blood signals a dead body hanging just overhead. I don't look up.
"Emma? You okay?"
It is Conor's voice, and I shake myself. The bedroom door might be closed, but the bathroom door is still open. There is no more blood, but I am still scrubbing. The water is clear again. And still I scrub.
"Emma?"
I hiccup, my hands clenched around a bar of soap I have found resting in a dish on the side of the tub. I hear the bedroom door creak open from beyond the shower curtain.
"I'm fine!" I squeak.
The door closes again slowly, and I stand there. My whole body shakes. It isn't the bloody water that scares me anymore. I am standing in a stream of hot water, my body being caressed by the steaming flow, and I'm not waking up. My skin is turning pink, my fingers are getting prune-y, and I am not waking up. I WAS NOT waking up!
I lean over and switch off the water, but I still don't move. Instead, I stare down at myself, at my s
ize B chest, my too skinny stomach, my, thankfully, clean shaven legs, and my unpainted toenails. If I'm not dreaming, then . . . .
"I'm not human," I whisper.
I step out of the tub and lean against the sink for support. Water pools on the floor below, but I ignore it as I bend over, bringing my face as close to the mirror as I can. My cheeks are clean now, my skin flushed from the shower. I pull at my eyelids, examining them. Nothing looks different. Maybe I'm human after all. Maybe I had just been kidnapped by a bunch of psychopaths who belonged to some strange gargoyle cult.
"Emma?" Conor calls.
I know I have been standing here too long, that he has heard the shower shut off, and I am in danger of being found standing naked in front of his bathroom sink. I reach for the terry-cloth towel and wrap it around myself.
"I'm fine," I say.
"That word is never good when uttered by a female," Conor complains as I lean down to retrieve my discarded clothes.
I step into my underwear and jeans and slide my bra on, fastening it as I make my way over to Conor's closet. It is obvious his family has money. Most everything is brand name. Everything I own came from either Target or Wal-Mart. Medical bills have put my mother in debt.
I start flipping through his hangers cautiously, finally landing on a plain, nondescript white button-up long-sleeve shirt. It doesn't look as if it has ever been worn. That fact alone cinches the selection for me, and I put it on.
"Coming in," Conor warns.
My hands shake as I fasten the shirt, and I just manage the top button when the door swings open. Conor leans against the door jam, his gaze taking me in slowly.
"I want to call my mother," I say, my arms falling to my sides.
Conor pushes away from the door and moves across the room, his hand digging in his blue jean pocket. He pulls out a cell phone.
"Five minutes. You have five minutes, and I'm not leaving the room."
I take the phone from him.
"I want to be alone," I insist.
Conor leans forward.
"Five minutes. I stay. You have no idea how many rules I'm breaking just allowing you the call. Five minutes."
Five minutes it is.
Chapter 7
Conor
She is stronger than I expected, even with the panic attacks. She tries hiding her hands as she dials her mother's number on my phone, but I know they are shaking. I'm not sure if it is fear causing her to panic and lash out or if Roach is right. It is a fight response. I am leaning toward fight response. She has broken a doctor's rib, and she has left me with some pretty nasty bruises.
"Mom?" she says quietly into my phone.
She turns her back to me. I can hear frenzied, garbled speech from the other end of the line. Emma's shoulders shake. Her long dark hair is damp and un-brushed, leaving water marks on the white button-up shirt she has selected. It makes the back of her beige bra clearly visible against the fabric. The color suits her. Beige. No-nonsense.
"I'm okay, Mom. I . . . I don't know where I'm at . . . ."
Clean, she isn't an ugly girl, our Emma Chase. She isn't remarkable, isn't mesmerizing, but she is pretty. Quietly so. She is too skinny though. My shirt hangs on her frame, and she is awkwardly rolling up the sleeves as she balances the phone between her ear and shoulder. She isn't anything like Dayton, the girl I thought I loved. It is Dayton herself that has begun to make me doubt this.
"They've told me the same thing. D-do you think it's true?"
Her hair is dark, Dayton's is red. She prefers beige bras, Dayton prefers pink. I haven't slept with Dayton, by any means, but I have caught plenty of glimpses of her bra. She has a thing for off-the-shoulder shirts.
"I don't want to be sick, but I don't want to be a m-monster either."
There are tears in her voice, left unshed. It makes me feel like a cad. She is being faced with a life-changing moment, one that could destroy her, and I am comparing her bra color with Dayton's. And yet . . . she is the first girl in a long time I have found myself comparing to Dayton. And I don't even know her. The fact that I have spent a good deal of our very short acquaintance keeping her from killing people unintentionally and hurting herself in the process makes it that much more odd. This is new.
"Are you okay, Mom? Please tell me you're okay."
I don't want to cut their conversation short, but her five minutes are up.
"Please be okay, Mom. I don't think they are going to let me come home just yet."
I move behind Emma, my hand coming to rest on her shoulder. She jumps. I let my arm fall over her head, my free hand tapping my wrist just under her nose. Five fingers. Five minutes.
"You're okay?" she asks her mother again.
I catch snatches of conversation from the other line. Going . . . be fine. Her mother is in safe hands. We never leave the families of adopted hybrids in the dark unless they pose a problem.
"You're sure?" Emma continues stubbornly.
I try pulling the phone from her hand, but she fights me, her fist clenched as she moves with the receiver. I'd never admit it, but I respect her for fighting for the extra moments with her mother.
"Mom, I love you. No matter what, remember that I love you," she breathes as I wrestle her for the phone. She is stronger than she looks, but in the end, I win. I grab the cell phone triumphantly and bring it to my ear.
"Your daughter is going to be fine, Mrs. Chase. Just fine."
With this said, I disconnect the line. Emma looks in danger of collapsing.
"Do you feel better now?" I ask.
Her forehead is creased, and her hair a tangled, drying mess around her shoulders. It makes her look wild.
"She's not sure I should trust you," Emma says, her amber eyes meeting mine. "But she told me she hopes you're right . . . that I am what you say I am." Her shoulders sag. "She wants so badly for me not to be sick. She said they told her half-Demons can be rehabilitated."
Harrison has done his job well. He is part of our Collateral team. Collaterals are gargoyles left behind to clean up messes Escorts and Guardians leave behind. This includes dealing with families. Most of the time, hybrids are either homeless or raised by their Demonic parent, but there are cases like Emma's where they are adopted. None are as unique as hers. None have been in the system as long. And they don't have her powers. But, in these cases, families are always counseled. If it appears the family can't handle what we have to tell them, we erase their memories, and the hybrids are forbidden ever to return home. But none of this will reassure Emma.
"Some hybrids never need rehabilitated, Em. Some are never really evil. They just have to learn how to use their powers."
She looks up at me, her eyes wide.
"Powers?"
She says it breathlessly as if she hasn't considered the idea until now. I move away from her, pulling a drawer open in my desk before grabbing a hairbrush and throwing it in her direction. She catches it without blinking, her eyes distant. If we can get past her fight and flight response, she is going to be easy to train. She has the reflexes, the instincts. Hell, she has the fight.
"Most hybrids have powers inherited from their Demonic parent. Until trained, the powers are dangerous," I explain. I don't tell her she is one of the hybrids with powers. Incredible powers.
She nods, but I'm not really sure she hears me. She starts pulling the brush through her hair slowly, as if the gesture is comforting. Simple routines are familiar. They are like old friends, a trusty anchor in a sea of chaos. This I understand.
Emma keeps getting the brush caught on tangles, and she works through them patiently, methodically. I see her lips moving, and I realize she is counting. One, two, three . . . .
"Come with me," I say softly. "We have a lot to tell you, but not a lot of time."
She drops the brush as we move out of the room. The counting starts over.
"One, two, three, four . . . ."
By the time we reach the kitchen, I know it takes fifty-two steps to get there fro
m my room, and I notice Emma looks a little calmer. The counting is a coping mechanism. We all have them, I suppose.
The smell of frozen pizza and Chinese takeout overwhelms me, and my mouth waters. Mom loves cooking shows, especially Paula Deen, but she can't cook worth a damn. We subsist off a drawer full of takeout menus, categorized by nutritional value. Mom is nothing if not prepared.
"She's slated for a term, maybe more," Roach says as we enter the room.
The kitchen is made for company. It is full of white cabinets and wooden countertops, all gleaming. The floors are a burnt caramel color, stained concrete with a mosaic pattern. The appliances are all stainless steel, and there are large French doors that look out over a landscaped garden and pool. There is a rectangular, mahogany table to the side of the room. It doesn't match the rest of the furniture, and it is scarred. It is also antique. It had belonged to my father's family, and my mother and I can't let it go.
My mother, Roach, and Will are all seated at the table. Containers of food surround them. Gargoyles have an appetite, especially after a job. Roach starts to say something, but my mother stops him, motioning to us instead.
"You look much better," my mother says, her eyes on Emma. If Emma responds, I don't hear or see it. "Come, take a seat. Eat."
I move to the table and pull out a chair. Emma watches me as I step away, indicating the empty seat before taking the chair next to it. My mother is present. Even if I wasn't naturally chivalrous, I damn well better be. Eighteen or not, mom has no trouble taking me by the ear.
Emma takes her seat, her back rigid. She isn't counting anymore. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes glinting. She had seemed fine alone with me in my room, but she is sliding back into fight mode. If I touch her now, I know she will be warm, hot even.
"Has Conor told you what you are?" my mother asks sweetly as she slides food across the table. Mom is blunt. Emma nods.
