by Alex Hayes
I start breathing again.
Once her back is turned toward me, I remember why I’m here. To photograph celebrities.
She’s not a celebrity. Except to me, maybe. No, more like an obsession.
I track each line of guests entering the building and snap pictures of notables, until I pick up a distant song. An ambulance siren.
Damn it.
My eyes seek out the girl unconsciously, and my heart rate elevates. Just the sight of her has excitement building in my chest.
She turns in my direction again, chin lifted, as if she knows my eyes are glued to her. Strange.
The siren song gets louder, and I feel a new tug, a call to action.
I’ve got to go.
But first, I need to upload these images for Azera to review and hide my camera.
After kicking off a sync between camera and phone, I spread my wings and flap hard until I’m hovering above the tree. Once clear, I take off into the air, circle and drop onto the nearby rooftop where I left my clothes. I tuck my camera beneath them.
Once the sync completes, I start an upload to our cloud drive so Azera can handle the photos, then I take off in the wake of the sirens.
16
Rowan
A sense of excitement makes me look up, and I see Con. Well, sort of.
I know where to look because of the tug from his crystal.
But he’s invisible. Well, almost.
The streetlamp light catches faint glimmers of a birdlike form, the way sunlight glances off cellophane.
I gasp as he takes to the sky. He looks like an angel hovering.
How can anyone be that ethereal? That beautiful?
My throat tightens and clogs. That has to be Conithar. I sense his feelings, his excitement and concern. His caring. Those aren’t the emotions of a murderous beast.
I lean into Idris. “I need to follow him.”
Idris detected Con’s presence too. He said he’d felt its light tug a few times but couldn’t be sure how close Con was at the time.
“Car keys?”
His brow shoots up. “You want to take my car?”
“Unless you want to drive me.”
His lips part as an internal debate plays out. “I’ve gotta say hi to Malcolm, let him know I showed up.” Idris frowns. “Why do you want to follow him, anyway? I thought you were afraid of the guy.”
“I was… But like falling off a bike, you’ve got to get back on, right? Besides, my crystal wants me to go.”
Idris sighs, then smiles. “Yeah, I get it.” He hands over the keys. “Just take care of her, okay? She’s my baby.”
I chuckle. “Not for much longer. Not your only one, at least.” I step out of the line before he can make a comeback. Or worse, tell me to go catch an Uber.
I’m not worried about losing Con’s bearing, but eagerness and hope pushes me to hurry.
As I head down the well-lit alleyway to the main parking garage, I revisit my feelings at our first meeting. I’d been terrified. But let’s face it, I’ve been on edge for months. Ever since the Evatenon attacked me. The persistent headache. The jumpiness. The terrifying dreams.
Is it any wonder I flew into a panic?
I consider Con’s present form. A delicate and invisible birdlike creature. Hardly frightening, unlike the Bruce Lee guy.
How did Con figure out how to shift into something invisible?
I haven’t shape shifted into any form other than human and Livran. There’s something spooky about the idea of turning into a dog or a horse.
But whatever Con’s current form, he’s no earthly being. Idris once told me that shape shifting requires touching the creature we want to shift into, at least once. Meaning, Con must have run into such a being on our home world.
Mr. Scrim said practiced elders could shift to look like inanimate objects, which is amazing. Especially to someone who thinks shifting into a golden retriever is freaky.
The BMW’s lights flash as I approach the lot.
Despite how busy the streets are, I don’t fear navigating them. I haven’t had my license long, but I packed a thousand miles of driving in while traveling cross-country with Mr. Scrim.
I swallow at the memory of our lost carer. If he were still with us, we wouldn’t be in this mess, unable to contact the others. And my horrible reunion with Con wouldn’t have happened.
Driving out of the garage, I follow the insistent tug from a guy who’s traveling, quite literally, as the crow flies. Not easy considering Los Angeles’ complicated grid system, where many streets are one-ways or lead to dead ends.
Soon I’m trapped in gridlock, but judging by the intense tug on my crystal, Con isn’t far.
Maybe it’s time to hit the streets on foot.
I find a space edging a no-parking zone and squeeze the Beemer into it. Once I’ve checked the vehicle is secure, I head off in the direction of that tug.
Traffic in the whole area seems to have ground to a halt, and the pull of Con’s crystal leads me toward flashing lights, toward the scene of an accident.
What’s Con doing here?
I’d be afraid for him if I wasn’t picking up his emotions. He’s not fearful or in pain. Although it’s hard to define his exact feelings at this instant.
Surely he isn’t a rubbernecker. Or worse, an ambulance chaser.
Cops block my approach, redirecting pedestrians along an alternate route. I slip down a side street not much wider than a garbage truck, hoping to get closer to the accident without being noticed.
The alleyway is filled with trashcans and the stink of rotting vegetables. Pinching my nose, I weave between what look like puddles in the darkness, glossy patches that could be oil or leakage from garbage barrels.
A door slams behind me, making me leap into the air. I try to slow my racing heart while hurrying my pace.
The pull of Con’s crystal guides me back to the flashing lights. He’s definitely near the accident scene. What could he possibly want here?
My bond mate is invisible. Even so, I make him out, as I did at the Performing Arts Center. Light from an overhead streetlamp deflects off his wings.
And interestingly, the more I focus on him, the harder he is to see. The effect must be like staring at a faint star in the night sky, easier to spot when you don’t look directly.
Con bends over a man lying on a gurney. His fingers rest on the guy’s shoulder.
I remember the flowers Conithar repaired for me when we were toddlers. Then realization strikes. Con’s fixing him. He’s saving that man’s life.
His near-invisible head jerks up, and he seems to look at me.
I stare right back. I see you, Conithar. I know what you’re doing.
“Hey, you!”
My heart leaps, sending my hand flying to my chest.
A cop strides toward me.
Blinking, I battle my desire to scream and run.
The Evatenon who chased Mr. Scrim and me across the Midwest had assimilated a police officer, taken his form and stolen his vehicle. That same Evatenon later returned to his monstrous blue form and tried to steal my life force by assimilating me.
My headache spikes and my stomach churns.
The cop gets closer. “Sorry, miss, but you need to leave the area.” He’s tall, broad-shouldered and frowning. But at least he doesn’t have glowing violet eyes.
Relax, Rowan! He isn’t a four-armed alien monster.
I act confused. Easy, because I’m a mess of tangled nerves and maxed-out stress hormones.
The dark-haired officer escorts me away from the emergency vehicles. And Con. As I’m led away, I glance over my shoulder. The man on the gurney is sitting up, talking to one of the paramedics.
Because Con just saved his life.
I sense Con’s movement and speed. He’s in the air. Flying right over my head.
And then he’s gone.
The cop turns his attention to a small crowd forming on the other side of his blockade. I pass the onlookers and tap out a h
urried rhythm with my heeled shoes all the way back to Idris’s car.
Vehicles are being diverted away from the area by another cop. I reach the Beemer, climb in and wait for the officer to signal me out of my spot, then make a U-turn into the flow of traffic.
Stopped at a red light, I contemplate whether to return to Idris or follow Con. Then I realize the pull of Conithar’s crystal leads back toward the Performing Arts Center.
17
Connell
Standing behind a dumpster in an alley a few blocks from the Performing Arts Center, I drag my jeans over feathered legs and wonder how the hell she followed me to that accident.
All this time I’ve thought myself invisible. Completely invisible. Now I’m not so sure.
Somehow, the white-haired lady with the stroke knew I was there, and now, this girl. She looked right at me.
I shift back to human. The early evening cool hits me in an instant. I shove my head into my T-shirt and shrug into my jacket.
Somehow she followed me while I was invisible. And if she can do that, who the hell knows how many others can.
I need to understand what is going on before I get caught. The last thing I need is attention from the police. Or worse, the media. Like I don’t know the damage an inopportune photograph could do to a person.
I’m going to have to talk to her.
As I round the building, a silver-gray BMW pulls up to the valet stand outside the Performing Arts Center. I recognize Idris Williams’ vehicle, and I feel a tractor-beam tug from my crystal.
The lines into the theater have disappeared. The only people in the vicinity are security guards and the paparazzi who’ll stick around until everyone leaves.
I pause in front of a window to smooth back my hair and tie it, then adjust the camera on my shoulder and up my pace toward the Beemer.
A black wedged heel appears in the gap as the driver’s door opens, then a long leg, followed by another, and the rest of the girl’s shapely figure emerges.
She sure is a looker. At least, I can’t stop looking at her.
I shake away my bemusement and step up behind her as she accepts a valet tag and heads toward the theater entrance. “We need to talk.”
To my surprise, she doesn’t react, at all. Like she was aware of my presence.
“Okay,” she answers, uncertainty edging the word.
“There’s a coffee shop on East Twelfth and San Pedro called Java Brew. I’ll be there at five p.m. tomorrow. Will you meet me?”
Her chin lifts and her face turns my way. Her gaze meets mine. Thin bands of deep blue circle light-swallowing blackness. “Yes.”
Nervous exhilaration jets through me, and a measure of fear. The feelings are disembodied. Like they aren’t mine. Similar to the sensation I felt in my apartment when this girl freaked out and ran.
“I’ll see you then.“ My words sound like an order, but I don’t temper them.
She approaches an attendant as I veer away from her into the street.
“That fella bothering you, ma’am?” the uniformed man asks.
I throw a glance over my shoulder.
The girl pulls a ticket from her clutch. “Uh, no.” She sounds surprised by the question, like she didn’t realize the guy had me pegged as a paparazzo.
I don’t say a word to Azera about my meeting with mystery girl, mainly because she’d try to talk me out of going, though I can’t deny a little payback plays into my decision. If Azera is so set on connecting with Ryker, why shouldn’t I seek some company of my own?
Slowing my car at the intersection of East Twelfth and San Pedro, I check my watch. Ten minutes to five.
The lights change. Twenty yards up the street, I pull the Taurus into the first available space.
A soft hum rising from my crystal tells me she’s here. I’d thought it was a warning when I first picked up that vibration. Like an alarm. But now, the sensation seems pleasurable.
Azera spoke of sirens, beautiful creatures who lure sailors to their deaths. Did they go down smiling?
Java Brew is on the second floor. I head upstairs and through the glass entry. The smell of fresh-ground coffee and sugary pastries hit me as I swing, without conscious thought, in her direction.
The couples chatting over their cappuccinos and families with strollers and laughing toddlers dissolve as I tunnel in on the heavy dark-red curls falling over her shoulders. Her face is like porcelain in the side light angling through the windows.
The perfect subject waiting to be digitally frozen in time.
My fingers itch for the camera in the courier bag slung over my shoulder. Not because of my paparazzi instinct. No, this is something purer. An artistic impulse. A photographer presented with the photo op of a lifetime. That singular moment when subject and light come together and create something sublime.
Or maybe it’s the twisted desire to have a life-size portrait of this girl posted on my bedroom wall.
With effort, I resist the urge to point a lens in her face.
Her eyes remain stuck to the wooden café table in front of her. No distractions. No phone.
Nah, because her phone’s nestled, warm and safe, in my jacket pocket.
I wish I felt as determined to talk to her now as I did when I proposed this meeting. Instead, nervousness billows inside me, and all I want to do is disappear into a crack in the tiled floor.
I stop behind the empty chair across from her and get ahold of myself. “Hi.”
Her eyes blink like she’s a princess waking from a hundred-year sleep. Another portrait opportunity that will never be realized. Her lips ease into a hint of a smile. “Hi.” Her voice is soft, hesitant.
So are the feelings curling in my chest. Separating and reforming like the vapors of a magic potion.
“Okay if I sit?”
She nods, though barely. Uncertainty reverberates off my breastbone.
Yeah, I get it. These are her feelings I’m picking up. But how the hell?
I park my butt and straighten my shoulders. “I’m Connell Kurēn. Nice to meet you… Officially, I mean.”
“Con,” she whispers. “Rowan Bren. I… It’s nice to meet you…too.”
Wish she sounded like she meant that. She’s a bundle of nerves.
Like I’m not? God, I wish I understood what’s going on here.
“I wanted to return this.” I dig in my pocket for her phone. “You left it in my apartment.” I slide the device across the polished wood of the café table, wondering where my hard-assed paparazzo bravado went.
Her fingers wrap around the phone. She meets my gaze. “Thank you.”
I shrug. It’s not like I did her any favors, considering she ran out of my place like an axe murderer was on her tail. “I need to apologize for scaring the hell out of you the other night.”
“I…I overreacted.” She glances away and back. “I’ve been kind of jumpy lately. I wasn’t expecting you to approach me quite so…” She lets out a breath. “Enthusiastically.”
Was that a joke?
“I’m not sure what I expected really, but…it wasn’t that,” she finishes.
She’s disappointed, but I’m not sure why.
Because of my reaction that night? Or because of me, period?
I tilt my head. “Maybe we should start over.”
Her smile progresses from a hint to a whisper. “Sure.”
I wonder about her injuries—the ones I didn’t finish healing—but asking might be awkward. I need more information first.
I relax my shoulders, trying to act more confident and laid back, like the older guy I appear to be. “Mind if I ask a question?”
A guarded nod comes back in answer.
“What were you doing outside my apartment building in the first place?”
Her shoulders tense. “Trying to get up the nerve to ring the doorbell.”
So she knows someone who lives there. Or thought she did.
But why so nervous about it?
A frown threaten
s, but I push it away. This girl doesn’t need to be scared by me again. I try to sound nonchalant. “Whose doorbell?”
Her discomfort magnifies. “Yours.”
“Why?”
Her eyes lock onto mine. “Because I came here—to LA—to find you.”
I blink. This girl—this devastatingly attractive young woman—came to LA to find me.
“Do you remember a man called Mr. Scrim?” she asks.
My jaw tightens. The only Scrim I know is the asshole who kept dumping me in foster homes that were neglectful at best and abusive more often than not.
Please don’t tell me this chick works for him. He knows my legal age, that I’m not quite eighteen, even though I look well over twenty.
I study her face. Pale skin. Cheeks tinged with red that matches her lips. She can’t be more than eighteen herself.
“I knew a social worker called Scrim,” I say cautiously. “He placed me in several homes when I was younger.”
Rowan sighs. “Me too. Not all of them great. Not any of them, actually.” Sadness weighs on her features. “I’m not sure how he found such awful places.”
My frown won’t be put off this time. “Not through official channels, judging by their quality. My last one was a doozy.”
“He said you ran away. Over a year ago.” She looks down at the table. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come find you.”
Which makes no sense. “Why’d you want to in the first place?”
Her hands sink into her lap. “He separated us. Hoped to protect us.”
“Protect us?” I stare at her.
“By hiding us.” She pulls in a deep breath. “But now we’re grown up, it’s time for us to come back together.”
I narrow my eyes. “And who would us happen to be?”
“All the kids Mr. Scrim was assigned to take care of.”
Take care of? That’s the biggest joke on the planet. I hardly ever saw the guy. The only time he appeared was after a desperate call to get me out of some viper’s pit. Then he’d turn around and dump me into another. “Did you ever feel like you’d been taken care of? Because I sure as hell didn’t.”