by Amira Rain
Sitting next to them with Rocky in my lap, I began watching a movie on TV, though halfway through, I realized I hadn't been watching it actively enough to even know what the main characters' names were or what they were trying to do. After clicking it off, I perused Mark's two tall bookshelves, finding mostly non-fiction history books and biographies of notable presidents and military men, none of which really interested me.
A few framed pictures on the bookshelves did interest me, though, and while Rocky chased his tail by my feet, I picked them up one by one to look at them better. The first picture, one in a brushed-brass frame, was of an older couple, a gray-haired man and woman, embracing in front of a sparkling body of water, both of them looking at the camera, smiling. There was something about the man's strong jaw and prominent brow that reminded me of Mark, and I figured this older couple might be his parents.
The second picture pretty much confirmed this, as it was a picture of Mark in the middle, with the gray-haired man on his left and the woman on his right. He had an arm around each, and his smile radiated deep warmth and pride. If this man and woman were indeed his parents, he clearly loved them a lot, and I could see from their expressions that they loved him a lot as well. The woman wasn't even looking directly at the camera, but instead, looking toward Mark, beaming, as if she was so filled with pride that she could hardly take her eyes off her son. I couldn't blame her. Dressed in a dark suit that accentuated his broad shoulders, Mark looked absolutely dashing.
In the third picture, I had to work a little harder to pick him out. It was an outdoor group photo of a dozen or so men, all of them standing shoulder-to-shoulder, and all of them in military uniforms that I thought might be Navy, though I wasn't sure. In the front and to the right stood Mark, unsmiling, just like the rest of the men. The photo didn't look very recent, maybe taken a decade or so earlier if I'd had to guess.
Mark's form wasn't quite as muscular as it was in the present, and his face had an undefinable, youthful sort of look or glow that made me think he'd been somewhere around twenty when the picture had been taken.
After setting this picture back down, I picked up the first picture of the older man and woman again, noticing what pretty blue-gray eyes and what a kind smile the woman had. I'm sorry I tried to zap your son...and I'm sorry I tried to kick him in the jewels. I'm also sorry I'm probably still going to try to find a way to escape from him, I thought, more than a bit guiltily.
"Your kind son, who adopts abandoned animals, and who fixes lunch-slash-dinner for Angel Gifteds."
Pausing in his tail-chasing, Rocky looked up at me, cocking his head to the side, and I set the picture back on the shelf with a sigh.
"Just ignore me, buddy. Mark's got me talking to myself, sniffing his shirt, and crying on the kitchen floor. Probably nothing a good night's sleep won't cure."
While I'd been looking at the pictures, the cats had both hopped off the couch and headed down the hallway, like maybe they were going off to sleep in the bed Mark had described as the "animal bed." I was now getting tired as well. After going down the hallway to the spare bedroom and seeing that they had both indeed curled up in the "animal bed," which was completely fur-covered, as Mark had said, I made my way down to his room, with Rocky at my heels.
Not having any pajamas, I rifled through Mark's dresser drawers and grabbed a t-shirt that would do just fine as a longish sleep shirt. I didn't think he'd mind, since he hadn't minded me wearing his flannel shirt.
After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I got into Mark's bed with Rocky, wondering when Mark was going to get home and where he was going to sleep. It occurred to me that I could move the cats, launder all the "animal bed" bedding, as well as the bedding on Mark's bed, so that I could sleep in the spare room and Mark could have his own bed back, but I knew that would take several hours, and I was already so tired. Not to mention that I didn't want to wake the cats up and move them.
Hoping that Mark would be comfortable enough on the long beige couch whenever he got home, or maybe all the fur in the animals' bed wouldn't bother him, I began drifting off to sleep. I was nearly out when Rocky began stirring in the crook of my arm, then hopped out of bed, trotted across the room, and returned to the bed before hopping back up into the crook of my arm.
Through my half-open eyes, I could see in the silvery moonlight filtering in between cracks in the curtains that he had something in his mouth. "What do you have?" With a sigh, I sat up, flicked on the nightstand lamp, and saw that he held an orange-handled screwdriver in his mouth. "Now, why-"
Interrupting my question, he suddenly whipped his head to the side, sending the screwdriver flying. He then leaped off the bed, retrieved it, and brought it back to me, setting it in the crook of my arm, panting.
I sighed again, though fighting a smile. "No, Rocky. We're not going to play catch right now. It's night-night time."
After picking up the screwdriver in his mouth, he flung it across the room and went to retrieve it, and I watched him, shaking my head.
"So, this is why Mark doesn't let you sleep in his room with him. You like to play when he wants to sleep."
I had kind of been wondering.
Seeming to lose interest in the screwdriver, Rocky brought me a carpenter's leveling tool this time, dropping it near my hand, whining.
"No, Rocky. It's not playtime right now."
In the corner of the room, there was a whole pile of tools and related odds-and-ends, and I'd noticed that there were tools spread out over the whole house as well. Several wrenches of various sizes had been sitting on the kitchen counter; I'd seen a hammer on one of the bookshelves; a half-full dented red toolbox took up a good deal of counter space in the master bathroom.
Clearly, Mark liked to work on projects around the house, and he seemed to be good at it, because all appliances, faucets, and the like were in good working order; but he didn't seem to be quite as good at remembering to put his tools away.
I got out of bed and covered the pile of tools in the corner with Mark's flannel shirt that I'd worn that day, telling Rocky that playtime was all done. "We're going to sleep now."
Fat chance. Seemingly thrilled by the new element I'd added to the game, Rocky ripped the shirt off the tool pile, growling.
I made the mistake of trying to grab it away from him, starting a tug-of-war. "Let go, Rocky. Let go. You're being naughty."
The game abruptly ended with the sound of ripping fabric, and I gasped, pulling the shirt from Rocky's now-unclenched jaws.
"Oh, naughty, Rocky! Naughty!"
He yipped a few times, sounding quite happy and not at all contrite I thought, before picking up a pair of pliers and dropping them at my feet.
"All right. In with the cats you go."
Surprisingly, as if he'd just needed to be tucked in with his fur siblings, the moment I set him on the animal bed with Butterscotch and Lily-Rose, he curled right up and rested his head on his paws, eyes closing. He didn't even look up when I turned out the bedside table lamp and left the room.
Once back in Mark's room, I curled up and immediately went to sleep myself, holding part of the sage green blanket that still held a trace of his scent. Even though I wasn't quite sure how I felt about Mark, even though I was planning on escaping him sometime soon, I just hadn't been able to resist the funny feeling of comfort his scent gave me.
I slept hard that night, having only hazy, pleasant-feeling dreams for the first time in I didn't even know how long. Maybe nearly three years. My entire time with Dylan's Angel group, any time I dreamed, and the dreams were usually unpleasant, sometimes outright nightmares.
The next morning, light scratching on the bedroom door woke me around eight, and I opened the door to find Rocky staring up at me with his heart-melting big brown eyes. With a loud bark, he instantly jumped, seeming to be trying to make an attempt to leap right up into my arms, but he didn't quite make it, kind of landing on his side and rolling.
Torn between wanting to laugh and wantin
g to baby him, I immediately grabbed him up and held him to my chest. "Oh, no! Poor guy wiped out!"
Not caring what Mark would think, I kissed the top of his knotty little head, and then his side, and then his other side, just in case he might have hurt anything during his roll. Seeming to appreciate my tender loving care, he licked my face, tail wagging.
After letting him out to use the bathroom and also enjoy a little playtime with the dozen or so lion guards still in the backyard, I fed him breakfast, then we returned to Mark's room, where I showered, then dressed in another of his t-shirts and the jeans I'd worn the day before.
Apparently, he still hadn't come home, even to sleep for a couple of hours, because the covers on the animals' bed weren't arranged any differently than they'd been the night before, and while Rocky had been playing, I'd made a trip out to the living room and had seen that a forest green blanket on the back of the couch was just as I'd left it the night before, folded into a neat little square.
Once I'd dried my long, dark blonde hair with a dryer I'd found under the sink, I returned to the kitchen to make breakfast, with Rocky and the cats all on my heels. First I cleaned up the table from Mark's and my late-lunch-slash-early-dinner or whatever it had been the day before, then I started the dishwasher and brewed a pot of coffee.
I'd just filled a mug with steaming dark brew when the doorbell rang, and I jumped half a mile for some reason, for a split-second stupidly thinking that Mark might be back. But then it occurred to me that obviously, whenever he returned, he probably wouldn't be ringing the doorbell at his own home.
With my train of animals, I padded down the hardwood-floored hallway to the front door, wondering if this could be some sort of a test, some sort of a test that Mark had devised to see if I could be trusted. After all, being that I'd been barred from taking Rocky out, it stood to reason that Mark probably didn't trust me to open the front door, either. I knew his fear might be that I'd try to slip right outside, my zapping "guns," or palms as the case was, blazing. As the doorbell rang again, I paused with my hand on the knob, not knowing what to do.
CHAPTER NINE
I didn't have to wonder whether Mark was testing me in some way, and I didn't have to debate what to do, for very long. I'd only had my hand on the doorknob for a few seconds when I felt it begin to turn, then heard a voice.
"Hey, I can see you! The curtain is kind of sheer. It's just me...Christy! You want to open up, or do you want me to?"
Although she seemed familiar with me, I had no idea who "Christy" was. She sounded friendly enough, though, and I did kind of want her to open the door. Friend-starved as I was, I thought I might like to visit with her, and if she opened the door, I wouldn't have to worry about Mark calling me out later for opening the front door, if he even would.
Christy began turning the door knob again, seeming to be checking that it wasn't locked, which it wasn't, and I called out to her. "Yes! Please just, um...I guess just go ahead and let yourself in, if you don't mind!"
Right away, she opened the door and did just that, closing the door behind her, smiling. "Were you worried that Mark might be unhappy if you opened the door yourself, being that you're a prisoner and all?"
My jaw just about dropped to the floor, and I picked it back up, instantly fuming. "He actually said that? He actually said that I'm a prisoner?"
Christy, who was a tall, slender brunette around my age, somewhere in her mid-twenties, winced, looking more than a bit apologetic. "Well...he didn't say it like, 'the prisoner,' or even like, 'my prisoner,' with a flat voice. He said it like, 'my prisoner,' with a little hint of affection or something...like maybe the two of you are friends already or something?
“Or maybe like he at least has some friendly thoughts toward you or something? Even over the phone, I'm pretty good at picking up the different vocal nuances of men, and that's what it sounded like to me, anyway...he said, 'Could you please bring more clothes to my prisoner,' like with a little hint of some kind of tongue-in-cheek-ness or affection. Get what I mean?"
I did, and I found that I liked Christy as a friend already. I liked people who understood that a single thing that was said could have ten different possible meanings, or even more, depending on the way it was said. Especially when there might be some sort of possible chemistry between the speaker and the one being spoken about.
I told Christy that I got her meaning, and, offering her a little smile, I extended a hand. "I'm Paulina."
Taking my hand and giving it a firm couple of shakes, grinning, she told me she was Christy Clark, Gifted, nurse, and "occasional errand-doer for Mark," as she put it. "I kind of fell into the role, being that my husband, Nolan, is Mark's strongest fighter, best friend, and right-hand man. They were both Navy SEALs before Mark's whole big spiritual awakening thing or whatever happened to him. Then, after the Takeover, they both just happened to become shifters."
Miles beyond intrigued, I wanted to hear all about Mark's "whole big spiritual awakening thing or whatever happened to him," but before I could ask any questions, Rocky, who'd been dancing around Christy's legs, barking periodically, really kicked his antics into overdrive, just about climbing up her jeans, clearly desperate for attention.
Grinning again, Christy picked him up, shifting a large blue duffel bag on her shoulder, saying that they needed no introductions. "I'm already well-acquainted with this little guy. I already know he's a hundred percent trouble."
Especially at bedtime.
I soon asked Christy if she'd like to have breakfast with me, and she said she'd love to. "First let me dump this big duffel bag off in your room, though...it's just got clothes, shoes, some makeup, and a bunch of other odds-and-ends you might want."
I thanked her, and she said no problem.
"So, should I dump off the bag in the spare room, then, or are you still in Mark's room, like you were when I checked you over after the battle yesterday?"
"Oh, Mark's room is fine...he wasn't home last night, so that's where I slept again."
Just sniffling his blanket like a complete nut.
A short while later, Christy and I were sitting at the circular kitchen table with mugs of coffee and plates of scrambled eggs, toast, and fruit, bathed in bright sunshine that was streaming in through the windows and wide sliding glass door. Seeming to be full for the moment from his own breakfast of wet dog food, Rocky lay dozing on the floor nearby in a warm slant of sun.
After a few big bites of her eggs, Christy set her fork down and picked up her coffee mug, then said something that surprised me as much as it pleased me. "Everyone knows you're not some half-crazed, bloodthirsty Angel, you know. We all saw you out on the battlefield, specifically not zapping anyone to the point that they became easy kills.
“Some of us, myself included, even felt a bit bad for you...it seemed pretty obvious that your heart wasn't really in the Angels' cause...like maybe they kidnapped you and forced you to fight for them or something."
Now her last few comments had made me more uncomfortable than pleased.
Like she'd done, I put my fork down and picked up my coffee, choosing my words carefully. "You're right that I've always tried to just defend and never set anyone up for a kill...but the Angels have never forced me to fight. I've always done it out of...well...."
"Out of what?"
Avoiding her eyes, I wished I hadn't said what I had. "Love. But it's just really complicated. I don't think I can explain it right now."
Raising her eyebrows a bit, Christy took a sip of her coffee. "Oh. So...do you mean that you and Dylan Darringer...."
"No." I shook my head, having no trouble meeting Christy's eyes now. "No, nothing even remotely like that. I don't love any man right now, least of all him."
Looking a bit confused, with her head cocked just a degree to the side, Christy opened her mouth, as if she was going to ask something, but then closed it and shook her head. "Never mind. I could ask you about a thousand questions right now, but I tend to ask too-personal, too
-fast questions sometimes, and I've been told that it's not endearing, so I'm just going to stop. You just tell me whatever you want about the Angels or your involvement with them at your own pace, and only if you feel like it. Okay?"
Liking Christy more and more, I gave her a small smile and said okay.
After both drinking some coffee and getting back to our food, we talked about "Gifted things," like how many there were in North Haven, and how many of those were levitators and zappers.
Christy told me that she herself was a levitator. "And I thought I was a pretty good one up until yesterday morning, when I tried to levitate you, but couldn't. What was up with that? Do you have some kind of a special anti-levitation force-field or something?"
Spearing a bite of cantaloupe, I laughed, shaking my head. "No. Well...maybe. I really have no idea. Levitators have just never had any effect on me. It's like I'm just immune to being levitated or something. I've always considered it sort of an added gift on top of my zapping gift."
