by Jeanne Allen
Lucas hands me a drink, vodka cranberry by the looks of it.
“Besides, age is not important to us Phósopoi,” Lucas teases, like that should be an obvious conclusion.
My nose scrunches up. “Why?”
Lucas looks stricken for a second before smoothing over his expression. He forces a laugh. “We’re obviously too sexy to worry about such trivial things.”
While all of the Phósopoi I’ve met have been abnormally attractive, I also know Lucas definitely meant to say something else. Tension builds in the air around our little table. The longer I stay quiet, the heavier it becomes.
There’s no way I’ll be able to have fun if we keep bringing up mutant-related topics, so I push away my questions and down my drink. Lucas grins and chugs his as well, his action clearing the air like a popped balloon.
We talk, drink, and laugh for about an hour before I jump up and pull Daisy with me, my feet itching to dance. The rest of our motley crew watch me for a second before realizing my intention and follow behind us.
Daisy rolls her eyes as the guys circle us on the dance floor, glaring at anyone who dares to get close. Even Andrew seems somewhat protective, though he has no Bond with either of us. My chest tightens at their cavemen-esque posturing, but I push away that, too. There’s no place in my agenda tonight for feelings.
None at all.
We dance for a long time, the hours sneaking by as we lose ourselves to the heavy bass and flashing lights of the dance floor. Dancing is one of the few times I let my guard down and allow myself to go with the flow. I don’t usually dance at a hot spot like the Library. I prefer getting my fix at the live music nights at the Kitty Kat. But tonight, I open up and let the music drown out all of the worries and questions buzzing through my mind for the last week.
My new friends seem to have similar ideas. We dance like teenagers. Lucas and Daisy challenge me to a 90’s style dance battle, and I pull out my best moves.
In the middle of a particularly impressive attempt at the pizza maker, several groups of scantily-clad girls inch closer, eyeing my boys like animals in the wild who stalk their prey. I want to rip out the eyeballs of the girls fixated on the muscles peeking out of Lyle’s shirt or Sebastian’s brilliant baby-blues. They dare lay their eyes on what is mine?
Sharp pain shoots through my palm where my nails bite through the skin, clearing the dizzy haze of irrational anger. I force myself to turn away from their perusals, focusing on Lucas who grins. He gestures at Daisy, who tries to entice Sebastian into joining our dance-off.
Everything changes when one of the other girls grabs Lyle’s arm and attempts to goad him into dancing with her. A week ago, this girl would have intimidated me. Wearing a small white dress that shines next to her golden skin, she exudes power and sexuality. With wavy hair a stunning shade of jet-black, her dark eyes are framed with lashes that rival Lyle’s.
The old Rose would have let it go and admitted defeat against such a beauty. But as soon as she touches Lyle, something primal replaces my usual sense of self-preservation and decorum.
Before I can form a thought, I shove her away from him and say, “Back off.”
I don’t even recognize the voice I use. Who is this girl? I’ve never confronted someone like this in my life, least of all a Queen B.
The girl spits something along the line of “Crazy bitch,” but I’m not listening.
To my surprise, Lyle smiles at me adoringly, like I did something cute instead of crazy. “Seems like my girlfriend doesn’t like you touching me.”
He chuckles, and the rest of our group cracks up as well. I turn around to eye them, and all I receive are wide smiles and a wink from Sebastian.
“Now get lost.” Lucas’s voice is pleasant, but something dark enters his eyes as he stares at the girl.
She gives us all one last what the hell look before scampering off.
This isn’t normal, I tell myself. Of course, it’s not normal. Mutants are the antithesis of normal.
This time, I let the voice get to me. I’m someone who thrives on predictability. I like control, especially with my own emotions. After eighteen years of bouncing from foster home to group home to foster home again, I need to know what to expect from people and from myself. Sometimes, in those years before the system placed me with Mary at fourteen, the only things I counted on to be predictable were my own emotions and reactions.
I got really good at controlling myself.
The pure chaos and involuntary nature of my reaction to that girl, and my reactions to the guys in general, mess with my equilibrium. It leaves me off-center, like my world’s axis tipped, and I’ve had no time to adjust.
Before I full-on hyperventilate, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. Daisy offers to go with me, but I decline. They all must realize I need some time alone because no one protests.
Halfway to the bathrooms, I realize I need fresh air. My breathing comes in erratic gasps. If I don’t calm down, I might pass out. One look at the sticky club floor has me searching frantically for an exit.
Near the bathrooms, I find a back door probably meant for smokers. I push open the heavy metal door and step into the alley.
Taking a deep breath, I lean against the brick wall of the warehouse. Bliss from being alone for the first time in days preoccupies me enough that I miss the click of the door shutting. Nor do I notice the figures that detach themselves from the shadows.
“Well, well. Looks like they finally loosened your leash, little one.” Silky smooth and inherently creepy, the voice comes from the man who walks toward me, still shrouded in shadows.
The way he draws out his S reminds me of Parseltongue from Harry Potter.
I should probably be terrified for my life, but I have time for literary comparisons? Grimacing, I shake away my trailing thoughts before they distract me from the approaching danger.
Three of them slink closer. The aura flowing ahead of their slow advance screams predator. As they pass the light from the street, their features come into view. The set of their jaws are beast-like in their intensity. With identical long limbs, sharp and angular faces and long blond hair that falls to their shoulders, they must be brothers. Even their movements seem to be in sync.
In a moment of clarity, I wonder if they share the same brain as well. Their connection seems so eerily inhuman, like the rest of them.
Clarity also brings the knowledge that these creatures are who, or what, the boys have been trying to protect me from. I want to run, scream, do something. Anything. But I remain frozen, unable to move my limbs. Even my vocal cords seem to be stuck in place.
The light catches their eyes, a dull gray color rimmed with an otherworldly red. The one who spoke traps me with his stare; I have to consciously break contact.
He slowly smiles, his eyes full of secrets and his face smug with them. “Oh, bad kitty. You can’t move. It’s one of the few advantages of this affliction. Our one weapon.”
Reaching out, he grabs my arm. I manage a whimper as he brings it up to his nose. He takes a deep whiff, groaning in ecstasy at whatever scent he finds there. His smile turns lethal.
“Well, not the only advantage. This…” He licks my arms from wrist to elbow, pausing to savor the taste. “This is definitely a bonus.”
My mouth dries up, as if even my saliva wants to hide from this creature.
The other two creatures crowd in, practically drooling as they ogle me. It’s not sexual in nature, or maybe it is, but that’s not all it is. I can’t understand why, but they look at me like drunk college students look at Taco Bell.
I get my answer soon enough.
The leader regards me with false compassion as he strokes my arm, massaging it hard enough that it will be bruised tomorrow. “Be prepared, kitten, this is going to hurt. I could kill you and spare you the pain, but unfortunately for you, I like my food fresh.”
Quicker than I can react, his teeth grow long and sharp, and he bites into my arm. Agony shoots through me, mor
e intense than anything I’ve experienced before. And I’ve endured more than my fair share of violence. White-hot flames take over my senses, overloading everything until I don’t even know where I am anymore.
The only thing that exists is pain and those glistening white teeth, dipped in red like tiny swords on a battlefield. I watch in dazed horror as the world slows down, and those teeth descend again, tearing away another piece of my arm. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realize he’s eating my flesh, chewing and swallowing it like a steak. But he’s not drinking my blood.
Not a vampire. I observe, almost clinically, I feel like I’m watching someone else’s life. Nothing about what is happening seems real. Lucid zombie? The voice in my head ponders, completely unaffected by the numbing pain that locks down the rest of my senses. Good to know absolutely nothing dulls the sharpness of my brilliant wit.
Logically, I know I’m going into shock, but I’m not lucid enough to care. The edges of my vision gray, and the world starts to fade away, but not before those teeth inch toward my mangled arm again.
Then the teeth vanish.
In the same instant, I roll my head back and see Jackson behead the creature that was eating me. Jackson stands before me, his back to the light spilling into the alley from the street. A halo forms around him. A warrior angel. He holds a large blue sword, dipped in dark liquid too thick to be human blood, like it’s always been there.
In my encroaching delirium, I ponder if he was born holding that sword.
With a jerk, I fall toward him, powerless to stop my descent. The sword clatters to the ground, and the warmth of my Kladí wraps around me. From my vantage point so close to the ground, shadows dance on the street as the other two creatures slink away.
Before I can warn Jackson, my vision grays more. He lifts me into his arms, careful to cradle my bitten arm. The last thing I register before I black out is Jackson pulling me close and running.
Chapter 7
I wake up to pain. And yelling.
“She’s hurting! Do something!” Lucas shouts.
“I’m trying! This is the best I can do without the Bond. You try to regrow muscle!” Pain fills Lyle’s voice.
He is lying next to me on my bed, in my groggy, pain-induced state, I barely feel his hands on my arm. Burning crawls through the bones of my arm and up into my shoulder. The sensation is too intense to register more than the slight pressure of fingers gripping the place where the monster took his meal. More heat pours through my destroyed arm, and my tendons prickle like they were doused in fire ants.
A whimper escapes when Lyle grips harder. I’m too mentally and physically exhausted to cry out with more vigor.
When he increases pressure again, my eyes fly open, and I resist the urge to crawl away from whatever Lyle’s doing to my arm. Trying to distract myself from the torture, I observe my surroundings.
I’m in my room at the guys’ house.
Widening my scope, I notice Sebastian sitting next to my bed, his hands gripping the side of his chair. Our gazes lock, and I allow myself to get lost in those baby-blues for a moment. So enamored with the calming quality of their color, it takes me a minute to notice tears fill them.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers.
I try to tell him it’s not his fault, but the words won’t leave my throat. I manage a small sigh before the pain intensifies, and I forget all about Sebastian.
Like in the alley, the pain takes all my focus. Thankfully, two ragged breaths, and one more involuntary whimper later, it ends. The pain disappears the instant Lyle removes his hands.
Now that I can think past the pain, I notice Lyle’s hands glow, but the soft blue light fades quickly the farther they get from the place he healed.
And he was healing. I stare at my arm in awe, where no sign remains that I was gnawed on like some kind of walking chicken nugget. No visible scarring either; just the same pale skin I had before we left for the club.
Lyle’s Gift must be healing. Helpful.
Doors slam open interrupting Captain Obvious. Jackson barges into the room, livid. Jackson’s prince mask is back, but it comes with a new feature of glinting emerald eyes and rigid body movements.
Looks like we’ve updated to Pissed-Off Ice Prince.
I struggle to sit up in the bed. Though my arm is healed, but the rest of me aches.
I get myself halfway propped up before he starts yelling. “What were you thinking? I told you to stay with the others!”
He reaches over the side of my bed to shake my shoulders. For a moment, I forget who Jackson is. Angry, cold eyes bore into mine. Hands shake my shoulders, reminding me of other hands, smaller shoulders.
You like it, don’t you? You like what I do to you.
No. Not now. Not ever. Not again. No.
“Don’t touch me!” Without even a thought, I lace my words with Willpower.
Jackson flies across the room, landing with a thud against the wall.
It’s been ten years since I used that much Willpower, but I recognize it. I remember the sickly-sweet aftertaste that now coats my tongue, the odd beauty of my Will swirling around me. I’ve never asked if other Agoras can see their power like I do. It appears to me as a blue mist, barely visible in the dull lights of my room but still shimmering in lazy loops around my arms and shoulders.
Horrified, I stare up at my Kladí, their eyes flashing between awe, fear, and everything in between.
My skin prickles and pinches, and I retreat into my center. It’s something I used to do to cope. When things got to be too much, I shutdown. Ignoring the outside, I focus instead deep within where no one can see me or hurt me.
Distantly, I register more voices joining the fray, but I can’t understand what they say. Jackson draws to my eyes, like a fly to the light. His face no longer wears the mask of cold indifference. Now, his sun-kissed skin pales a shade closer to my Snow White complexion. Shaking hands reach out to steady himself against the wall.
Is he scared now that he knows what I can do? By the shocked reactions of the others, the Agora power doesn’t usually throw people across rooms.
I ignore the inner-voice, allowing the sounds of my Kladí to wash over me. Muffled voices reach me, like hearing through water, too muddled to decipher meaning. I lean into the vibrations, shutting out the words and focusing on the timbre and resonance of their individual pitches.
Waves of sounds wash over me as my men continue to talk in quiet voices, soothing away some of the scars I keep on the inside. The longer I remain unresponsive, the more strained and worried the voices become. But still, I remain in my center, removed from the situation but still aware enough to know when they leave, kissing my head or squeezing my hand goodnight.
Before he leaves, Jackson’s eyes find mine. They’re filled with pain and remorse that I would respond to if I hadn’t retreated so far into myself. As it is, I barely notice the tracks of tears down my cheeks. The prince pauses and opens his mouth, but stops himself at the last second from speaking.
He knows I won’t respond, not now anyhow. I can’t. I’ve retreated so deep inside myself I feel like I stare through someone else’s eyes.
Breathing out slowly, he offers me a silent promise before turning to leave, hitting the light before leaving the door cracked.
I don’t have nightmares that night. I don’t have dreams, either. Just blackness—
And then the smell of bacon and a light tap on my shoulder.
The crusted remnants of tears make it difficult to decipher more than the general shape of Lyle standing at the side of my bed as I try to crack my eyes open. Stretching them wider, I see he holds a tray piled with what I assume to be breakfast.
Wiping my eyes, I blink at him, then offer as much of a smile as I can. Sometime during the night, someone changed me into a loose shirt and sleep shorts before tucking me under the blanket. The dress I wore to the club is nowhere to be seen.
Guilt hits me with a sharp pain in my chest. I hope whoever change
d me washed it. Otherwise, I’ll have to buy Daisy another dress. Mental calculations run through my mind of how much a new dress will set me back on my next paycheck. That line of thought is replaced as a new realization surfaces through my groggy brain, not once this morning did I care that one of the guys undressed me, or that they touched me last night.
Anxiety clogs my throat as these thoughts whirl through my mind. When have I ever let someone touch me so much, even taking off my clothes? Not since… Not in a long time.
Yet, as soon as it appears, my worry clears. Somewhere along the way, I started to trust these guys more than I’ve ever trusted anyone. The epiphany scares me so much I push all its implications back into a corner of my mind, I can ponder them when I’m less emotionally drained.
Through my emotional spiral, Lyle patiently waits for me to wake up enough to fully acknowledge him.
I manage to give him a healthier smile, motioning for him to give me the food. He sets the tray on my bedside table and stands next to it, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot.
My head tilts up to see what’s wrong, which is a mistake. His eyes tell the story he can’t seem to give voice. We met less than two weeks ago, but already I know what upset my mother hen.
Lyle hates when anyone he cares about are in pain, even minor scrapes and bruises cause him to flutter around like, well, a hen. Yesterday, he caused me more than a little pain when he healed my arm. Hunching my shoulders, I steel myself the moment he opens his mouth to speak.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
I want so badly to comfort him, to tell him it’s not his fault. I need to take away the guilt and self-hatred in his eyes as much as I need my next breath. But I can’t. I’ve finally been broken. The scale has tipped and until my equilibrium is restored, I can’t. The words won’t form, and my mouth runs dry with the absence of them.
When I don’t respond, he leaves quietly.
Soon after, Lucas comes in, frowning at my untouched tray. But, for once, he says nothing. I’m also grateful he doesn’t use his Gift to force me out of my shell. Instead, he sits by my bed and holds my hand, telling me hilarious stories of the trouble he and Lyle got into as kids. Mostly, Lucas got into trouble while Lyle watched.
