by Willa Okati
Gina took small steps, testing each stair before she went down. In front of her, a woman struggled with the weight of a heavy diaper bag and a toddler, fast asleep, curled tightly against her shoulder. Gina eyed the pair uncertainly, an itching beginning at the base of her spine. There was something... off... about this. A growing sense of unease which made her skin tingle.
Not now. Please, not now.
Her prayer went unanswered. As she watched, the woman’s sneaker skidded out from underneath her and she started to fall. Her hand grabbed at the rail, only to miss it by inches. The diaper bag went one way, and the toddler went another, leaping out of his startled mother’s arms.
Gina couldn’t have stopped herself. She darted forward faster than any human could possibly have done, grabbing the baby before he had a chance to hit the steps. He flailed in her arms, wiggly as a worm on a hook, but safe. The woman’s ass landed on the stairs with a painful-sounding thump, her head coming back in a sharp jerk which almost knocked her skull into the cold metal above.
An instant buzz of concern went up around them, the crowd pressing in to see if the mother was okay, or just plain nosy about what had happened. The woman sat dazed for a moment, then automatically reached out for her child and her carrier.
“Here,” Gina said, quickly passing over the toddler, who grasped his mother and hung on, starting to cry now that the danger was over. “He’s okay. Take him home.”
The woman’s gaze was still muddled, but growing sharper. She shot out her hand and snatched Gina by the wrist, holding her hard with the strength of the mentally agitated. “He could have been killed,” she said clearly. “You saved him.”
Gina shook her head. “I got lucky.”
“That wasn’t luck. That was a miracle,” a burly man behind them opined, joined by a rolling murmur of agreement. “How’d you move so quick?”
“Instinct,” Gina said, tucking her purse firmly against herself. “I have to go.”
The woman didn’t release Gina’s wrist. “You saved him,” she repeated, deadly serious. “You’re a hero. A heroine.”
Gina went as cold as the icy air. She scrambled up from the stairs and took several steps down, her feet sure, not slipping once. “I’m nobody’s hero,” she said, her voice shaking. Have to get out of here. “Leave me alone.”
She heard the crowd talking as she fled, their sound questioning and confused, but she deliberately ignored them. What she needed to do was get inside, where she could hide.
Where no one would look at her too closely and possibly see what lay underneath.
Where she would be safe from herself, and everyone else would be safe from her.
Chapter Two
The temperature had also grown much chillier while Gina was on the train. Although there wasn’t any moisture falling at the moment, that patch of icy rain had taken the temperature down by at least fifteen degrees. The warmth of the day’s light had completely faded as well. Gina’s neatly pressed, utterly ordinary business suit was definitely not living up to its “all-weather” advertisement. Cold seeped in through the cotton blend, sending goose bumps skittering down her arms and up her spine.
God. Getting indoors would be a good thing for more than one reason.
Gina clutched her pocketbook and took quick, sweeping glances from left to right and back again as she walked down the cracked and broken sidewalk. This definitely wasn’t the best part of town and not a smart location for a woman to be walking alone after dark... but then again, the things most people feared in a place like this weren’t what bothered her.
“Hey, lady, you got a dollar?” Gina stopped at a gap in the pavement and cut a quick look down at the man who’d asked. His few teeth were black with decay and the lines on his face seamed with dirt. The smell of cheap booze wafted off him in waves along with his blatantly fake bonhomie. “Just a li’l dollar? I’m hungry and I wanna buy a hamburger.”
Gina doubted any money she gave the man would go toward food. “I don’t have any spare change,” she said shortly, turning away.
The man spat, a deep and phlegmy sound. “You so fancy in your big business suit, got those shiny shoes on, and you ain’t even got a dollar for a man who needs food? Fuck you, bitch.”
“I told you, I don’t have anything for you,” Gina said in a low voice, glancing back at him. “Don’t call me names.”
The man struggled against the wall where he’d propped himself up. The stench of unwashed skin, filthy clothes, and garbage slapped Gina in the nose, making her wince.
“What if I just took your bag you got there?” he demanded belligerently. “Bet you got enough in there for a burger and somethin’ to drink.”
“I can’t help you.” Gina’s lips felt numb. “Leave me alone.”
“Hell if I will.” The bum fished in his pockets and came out with something short but gleaming and sharp. “You hand over your purse like a good girl, and we ain’t gonna have any trouble, okay?”
“No!” Gina acted on instinct, kicking the man’s legs out from underneath him. The knife fell from his hand as he went down, and another quick jab with her leg sent the blade skittering into the darkness beyond them. “Don’t you touch me.”
“Damn you! Why you gotta go an’ cause trouble?” The bum swore as he started rummaging through garbage, looking for his weapon. “All I wanted was a fuckin’ dollar, cunt.”
“And all I said was no.” Gina rapidly assessed the man. He was no threat, and he’d never find his knife again, not in one usable piece. She’d felt the metal snap as her foot connected with it. It’d been a strong kick.
Too strong.
Risky.
Time to move along. Stepping quickly over the break in the sidewalk, Gina marched on. She kept an even more careful watch as she moved, scanning for anyone who’d noticed the altercation. No one seemed to have.
Then again, in this kind of neighborhood, it didn’t pay to see anything out of the ordinary. Most people minded their own dirty business and turned a blind eye to anything else that didn’t concern them. Any incident would have no witnesses, no one who cared, no one who’d talk to the cops if they came around questioning.
Funny how the safest place Gina had found was in the middle of a danger zone.
Her brownstone came into view, a welcome sight as she approached. No one loitered in the way except a hooker dressed in a flashy rhinestone top, fishnet stockings run through with holes, and fake leather boots up to her calf.
“Honey,” the woman greeted her, voice raspy from cigarettes and hard living. “You too fancy for this neighborhood. You got to learn how to dress down, girl.”
Gina eyed the prostitute -- was her name Glitter? If this was Glitter’s idea of blending in, Gina figured she’d stick with her business suit. She nodded politely and dodged the woman, who grabbed a street sign and swung around as if it were a pole on a stripper’s catwalk.
“You ever have a good time?” Glitter wanted to know. “Every day when you come home, you got this look on your face like you been run over by a car. Not one of those little compacts, neither. Some big kind of truck. What is it you do for a living, mess with dead folks? You hiding from something? Ha!” Glitter hooted. “Seriously, you need to let your hair down, girl, and not just out of that tight old knot. Learn to have a little fun.”
Gina said nothing. Glitter had noticed her enough to form a pattern, had examined Gina’s façade, and had gotten way too close to figuring out what she was all about.
Danger. Danger.
“All right, no problem,” Glitter sang out in the silence, coming to a stop and posing for the few cars cruising up and down the street. “You don’t wanna have fun, I’ll have enough for both of us. Yeah, baby,” she crooned to a slowing sedan. “That’s it. Come to momma.”
Gina held her purse close to her heart and moved on, climbing the brownstone steps with a forced effort not to rush. A quick stop on the porch to make sure the runes she’d chipped into the wood were still in place
, and, after fumbling to find her keys in the pocket of her suit jacket, she opened the lock, then pushed the wide door ajar to let herself in.
Inside, the subdivided house rang with noise. Children screamed, men bellowed in deep, low voices, and women screamed back in shriller tones. The air reeked of beans and greasy hamburger meat, the oily atmosphere so strong it had coated the walls with a fine sheen. Gina grimaced as she touched her mailbox and found it slightly slick. She had never gotten used to the sliminess.
She fished out her other two keys: one for the mailbox and one for her apartment door; she didn’t need any others. Both were held together by a simple metal coil with no colorful chain dangling off the end. Some people collected keys and chains until they had a wild tangle, but Gina liked keeping things simple.
She thrust her key into the mailbox lock and wrenched the metal door open. Nothing.
Good.
Better yet, there was no one around to get in her way.
Gina relaxed a little. Things always happened in threes. She’d forgotten herself when catching the baby, her control had slipped with the bum, and Glitter had been a little too keen in her observations, too insightful. One, two, three. If the old superstition held, there shouldn’t be anything else out of the ordinary to deal with before she reached her apartment.
In her life, though, you never knew.
Safety. Get to the high ground.
Gina rounded the top of the stairs and faced down her door. Someone had been up there with spray paint again, probably the teenagers who lived in the basement apartment or some of their friends. Gang logos in bold red were interlaced with the word “bitch,” the designs going from one side of the wall to the other. Why, she had no idea. She’d never even talked to those kids.
Maybe that was the reason. They hung out on the steps and whistled at any woman who passed by, shouting out rude suggestions about what they could do to the lady if she’d stopped to listen. Gina had always swept past them.
Did their vandalism really matter, though? They probably hadn’t singled her out in their rampage. Except for the comments, which everyone got, they left her alone. This was just teens being destructive, and they were the same the whole world over. Nothing to worry about.
But her wards...?
Gina touched the red paint blasted on her door and found it to be dry. They’d coated the protective circle she’d etched in with a sacred athame, but the lines still showed through. A protection spell, one she’d been taught when she was young, used in last-ditch efforts to stay hidden from the enemy.
So far, they had cloaked her through several years of her adulthood. A little paint shouldn’t slow the lines down.
Breathing a little easier, Gina pushed her key into the deadbolt lock and cranked it open. The thing stuck in cold weather despite how she oiled it, and the thought of her key breaking off or the tumblers not turning always made her nervous.
Maybe she’d save enough for a new lock, too, and learn how to install it herself. No, two locks. She couldn’t be too careful. Things had been going well for a while. She’d gotten complacent, missing out on things like specially tinted contacts and extra locks.
Complacency led to disaster. She’d fix things.
I’ll earn some more somehow, Gina swore to herself. Extra hours. Double shifts. Overtime.
She pushed her door, wincing when it creaked and groaned, then slipped inside. Reaching for the light switch by feel, she squinted against the harsh glare of the overhead. Fluorescent and ruthless, it showed every flaw in the place from the cracked and peeling paint on the walls to the chipped linoleum on the floor.
Gina reached for a lamp and switched it on, flicking the overhead off. Dizzy relief settled over her as her apartment faded from the slum dive it was into something approaching a welcoming place to rest. The lamp had been left over from the last tenant, though, or she wouldn’t even have the shoddy thing to cast a comforting glow.
But she was home, she was warded, she was safe. Gina shook her shoulders, feeling a weight slide off them. She took a deep breath, feeling as if it were okay to relax again. A few precious hours spent by herself, a night’s sleep, and then the weekend alone.
As Gina slid out of her jacket and automatically hung it up in the hall closet covered by not a door, but a sheet on a rod, she mentally ran a check on herself.
Tired? Very. That’d be fixed soon.
Sore feet? Yes. Her shoes came off to be neatly stacked beneath her coat.
Hungry? Maybe. Gina didn’t eat much, but after no breakfast and a lunch of cheese crackers, her stomach was telling her she needed refueling.
Gina finished undressing in her hallway, putting the suit away with mathematical precision. Two other outfits, one in navy blue and one in charcoal gray, hung next to the black one. Her suitcase rested in the bottom of the closet, ready to be packed at a moment’s notice. On the shelves above, she had small, separate stacks of jeans, sweaters, and T-shirts. Below, there were a single pair of well-worn sneakers and a set of broken-in sandals next to her work shoes. Not much, but all she needed -- or wanted.
It hadn’t happened since she’d been in this apartment, but she couldn’t shake the habit of being able to grab everything and go at a moment’s notice. That could be crucial.
Gina selected a pair of clean jeans from her shelf and shimmied into them, leaving her feet bare, even though the linoleum was chilly against her toes, and chose both a white T-shirt and a blue sweater. Heat was expensive; it was easier to layer up.
Into her kitchen, then, where Gina poked her head into the cabinets and found nothing remotely inspiring. Some cereal, oatmeal, granola bars, bread, and more crackers. A box of pasta.
She paused over the spaghetti noodles. Didn’t she have half a jar of sauce? A quick peek in her rusted fridge proved her suspicion was correct.
Pasta it was, then.
Tugging open the groaning drawer underneath her stove, Gina fished out a battered saucepan. She carried it to the sink, where she had to let the water run for a long time before it stopped flowing a rusty brown, then partially filled her cooking container. Moving on autopilot, she went back to the stove, turned on a burner, and put the pot down. She neatly lined up her sauce and noodles to one side, ready for adding when they were called for.
Gina found herself faltering as she picked up the container of Morton’s salt and poured out a pinch to add to the water. Her hands were shaky, spilling crystals over the stove’s surface as she dropped the salt in. A wave of vertigo rolled through her skull, bringing the tension headache back with a vengeance and making her sway.
Aspirin. She should take some aspirin. But in a minute. She needed to rest first. Stop the room from spinning.
You’re just hungry, she argued with herself. Sit down at the table and conserve your strength until you can eat. But the kitchen chair, a metal foldout, looked both cold and unappealing.
Although she knew she shouldn’t leave the kitchen while the stove was on -- that damn thing made her nervous of explosions -- Gina found herself tottering out to the small hole which took up most of the rest of her apartment. There was nothing in there but a TV and a tray she balanced food on while she ate, and a battered sofa where she slept. The sofa was a beast of a thing, probably several tenants old, since she couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to cart something so big and bulky up or down the brownstone stairs.
Just then, it looked like the best thing in the world.
Stumbling over to the couch, covered in one of the thin, cheap sheets and a comforter she’d bought at a local discount chain, Gina reached for the stuffing-sprung arm and lowered herself into a sitting position. The room still whirled around her head, making her feel dizzy and sick.
“I’ll just close my eyes for a minute,” she promised herself, shutting her lids. Her voice sounded odd, tinny and echoing in the Spartan emptiness of her apartment. “Just rest. Put my head between my knees. I got spooked, that’s all, and it’s catching up with me.”
&nb
sp; But instead of leaning forward, Gina found herself falling back. The matted couch cushion felt soft as a cottony cloud under her head, cradling her in an embrace as tender as a mother’s.
Sleep, she thought hazily. Just a little sleep...
And even as her heart skipped a beat in fear -- what if she dreamed? -- Gina slid out of the conscious world and into what lay beyond, her mind slipping into vivid visions with hardly a hitch.
In her dream, she lay on a cold stone floor. Vast chunks of granite had been hewn with rough edges and laid side by side, fallen apart and broken over time, with dead weeds poking through the cracks. Her hair had fallen down, tangling in her eyes, and her limbs felt weak, as if she’d been running for miles.
Wake up, she told herself urgently. Come on, snap out of this. It isn’t real.
“I assure you it is very real,” a voice commented, cold and pointed as an icicle. “So here you are. The last of your line. I must say, ‘Gina,’ I am disappointed.”
She dragged the loose hair out of her face and looked up. From her position on the floor of this temple -- or whatever it was -- she had a long way to go to reach the speaker’s face.
When she did, though, her heart gave a painful squeeze and she tried to skitter back. “You,” she managed to find enough breath to whisper in terror. “How did you...”
The voice’s owner waved a languid hand through the air from his throne. His fingers were long and white as salt or death, with curved black nails more like talons than anything else. Webbing stretched between those fingers, delicate in appearance but stronger, Gina knew, than cartilage.
She’d seen men like this before.
Just like the ones she remembered -- from a long time ago -- he had a beauty she found almost ethereal. Hair the color of moonlight flowed down over a hard, slim chest, partially covering the places where his skin began to change from normal flesh to hard blue scales. His legs were strong, knotted with muscle, and though his feet were small they had the same sort of clawlike nails as his hands. His facial structure was the sort of ideal models wept over, although Gina could never imagine this man shedding a tear.
