by Lucy Auburn
“Think what it looks like, Barry!” she’d insisted, glaring daggers at me. “This is why I didn’t want a girl.”
I was only ten years old; didn’t even have boobs yet. But the paranoid bitch thought her husband would somehow be led astray by my boyish hips. She got rid of me, and worst of all, he let her, acquiescing to her crazy demands.
But I never forgot what it felt like when the engine roared to life beneath me, or all the things he taught me. It was one of the few times I’ve felt loved in my life.
All those lessons come in handy now as the demons run straight towards me, death on their minds. I turn the key; I push the kickstand up. Slowly, the engine roars to life beneath me, and I yelp as I put my hands on the foot pedals, desperately hoping I can keep the thing upright long enough to steer it onto the open road.
Just as I’m starting to get the hang of it and peeling away, Swordwielder’s legs pump twice as fast. He stares at me, face determined, sword bared in front of him.
He’s coming right at me. He’s got the thing positioned to slice me right in half.
I try to steer away, but—I’ve barely got the hang of this thing. I’ve never actually been the one in charge of where the motorcycle goes; Barry always did that for me. So though I try to dodge him, I just wind up leaning even more towards his sword.
Which is now aimed right at my throat.
My eyes widen; he stares at me, jerks a little, like he’s rethinking the whole murder thing—but it’s too late. The bike kicks forward and the sword hits me right where my head meets my neck.
I scream, ridiculously, because—there’s no pain. My head is still attached. I’m still alive. Somehow the sword went through me.
And the fucking bike is going even faster, straight towards Choker and Bomber.
They try to dive out of the way, but I’m too much of an idiot to steer the bike around them. Yelping, desperately hoping this thing can run over a demon or two and keep going, I hang on for dear life.
The bike tires hit them—and they just go through, like the demons are nothing but smoke, without a solid bit of flesh between them.
Just like that I’m on the open road, nothing between me and escape.
Well, there’s Poisoner. But he’s standing by the side of the road, eyes staring at me intensely, not even bothering to dive for me. As I pass him by, I can’t help but take a long look at him, curiosity and fear warring inside me.
The moon shines through him like he’s partially invisible.
It didn’t do that before I died.
But I don’t have time to figure out these freaks. I’ve got stuff to do, a hundred dollars in my pocket, and hair to shampoo before an important appointment tonight.
Like I said, I’m homeless.
And before tonight got completely ruined by a weird party, a possibly-drugged beer, something about entrails, and a severed penis, I had an appointment with a shady guy who runs an underground gambling ring.
I’ve got six hours to make as much money as possible, and I’m not going to let a little near (or actual) death experience ruin my plans.
Chapter 3
It’s good that I ran into the Fern Valley kids, I reflect morbidly as I point the hose right at my head. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to steal the money I need to buy in to tonight’s game.
The hundred dollars was the last bit of what’s now $1,011, minus the $2.50 for the sauna I’m currently making use of. Normally full of Greek and Korean immigrants, it’s pretty dead this late at night, which is for the best considering how much blood, dirt, and ocean water I’m currently washing off at the pre-sauna station.
Once I’m something approaching normal dirty and don’t look like I was involved in a series of dog fights, I step out past the partition, fully naked except for my flip flops. There are three old ladies steaming in the hot scented water of the sauna, but they pay me no mind, chattering away among themselves.
I’m lucky that I’m homeless in California, and not the middle of nowhere, Idaho. Without bathhouses, YMCAs, and a number of gyms, I’d be too dirty to integrate into society at all. Places like this, with their steam rooms and pools full of hot water, make it possible for me to loiter outside rich condominiums waiting for good trash to root through.
Not that I kid myself that being white and young doesn’t also give me an advantage. Based on my unblemished skin, hazel eyes, and teal-tipped shiny brown hair, I give the impression that I’m a college student instead of a vagabond. People trust girls like me; they think we belong, wherever we show up. So they never notice when our skinny hands make their way into a purse or coat and pull out half their belongings.
Eyeing the old ladies, I consider whether or not they might have designer bags hidden away in the lockers up front, then dismiss the thought. Tonight, I’ve got something important to pull off; I can’t afford to get the cops pulled on me, even if I usually talk (and cry) my way out of it. I’ve got to have clean hands—and clean hair—to get through this.
Sinking deep into the steaming hot water, I massage the grit out of my scalp and wipe the makeup from my eyes. I stay under for as long as I can stand it, until my lungs feel like they’ll burst and my skin is hot all over. Then I bob up out of the water, breathing deep, droplets falling off everywhere.
And stare straight into Poisoner’s startling blue eyes.
A scream tries to make its way out of me, but I strangle it down. He’s standing there, on the other side of the pool, arms crossed with a lascivious smirk fixed on his face—and two eyes staring right at my breasts.
But I didn’t hear him come in, and the other women aren’t reacting to his presence at all.
I blink, and he’s gone—as if he wasn’t here at all.
It must be my imagination. I tell myself that over and over again, even as a chill shivers across my skin despite the hot water. One of the older woman has noticed my nervousness, and she’s looking at me suspiciously, no doubt trying to decide if I belong here.
I don’t want to overstay my welcome; I’ve gotten as clean as I can in here. The next step is the showers on the way out, which is where I can wash my hair fully, take my makeup off, then reapply in the mirrors.
Pushing out of the pool, I pad over to one of the chairs, grab the makeup bag I left there, and head out before the steam makes me hallucinate more.
I know I look young, even younger than my actual nineteen, so I do my best to seem blase and bored as the bouncer checks my fake ID. Twenty-two year old women don’t act like little girls with their hands caught in the cookie jar, so neither can I, since that’s the age I’m faking.
“Go in.” The guard hands me back my ID, and whether he believes it or just doesn’t care, it doesn’t matter. I’m in.
I’m one step closer to finally living my dream.
There was one place I ever really felt loved: my foster mother Sara’s house, which I moved to when I was almost fifteen. She was kind even when I was a brat, grateful even though I threw tantrums, and loved me despite the fact that I did nothing to deserve it.
When she was diagnosed with Stage IV breast cancer, she told me tearfully that she couldn’t even take care of herself, so it wouldn’t be fair for her to take care of me. I didn’t beg her to keep me or cry because I wanted to stay, even though it was tempting; by that point, I knew begging and screaming didn’t work. I let the social worker take me somewhere new, and Sara promised she would keep in touch.
She did. But I didn’t.
Now she’s gone, and we haven’t even spoken in two years.
The one thing I want—the last thing I could ever afford—is to buy her house. It’s been up on the market for three months; small and humble, it’s not the kind of property that’s desirable to most people. But to me, owning it is a dream.
Except homeless girls don’t have credit, much less money.
Which is why I’ve done as much pick-pocketing, scrimping, and saving as possible the past few months. Everything I’ve stolen has gone
straight to one of my hideaways; I haven’t bought a single meal or slept on a bed that cost me money. No hotels or motels, no pizza, not even new shoes when mine got a hole in the right heel.
Now it’s the night of the twice-a-month underground gambling event run by Vito Moray, mobster at large, and I have the thousand dollars to buy in to the small tables. It’s all I need to get me started, and bit by bit I’ll gamble and bet until I’ve got enough money that they’ll have to let me buy Sara’s house.
I can feel eyes on me as I enter the club. The dress I’m wearing is the slinkiest I could find; I stole it off an Instagram influencer while she was drunk face-down in a hotel room, door wide open to let me in. It clings to every inch of skin. It’s not the kind of thing I normally wear, but for tonight, I wanted to blend in.
I’m not used to being the center of any kind of attention, though. The way people are looking at me makes me uncomfortable; it sends my pulse hammering and my senses to the brink. I feel like my skin is sensitive, like my eyes are seeing better than normal.
I washed off all the blood, but I guess what happened tonight is still affecting me. The sword through Leila’s stomach, the way Amanda’s head looked with her neck broken, Richard bleeding out from his mangled crotch—it all flashes through my mind in an instant, and I blanch.
Reaching out to grab onto the wall, I try to focus on the present, on the crowd around me. I’m not done yet, after all; I still have to get through the bouncer at the back, who keeps the general public from stumbling into the illegal underground gambling going on.
But for some reason, though I try to concentrate, my senses are betraying me. My eyes tell me that at least a dozen people in this crowd aren’t what they seem; my lizard brain insists I’m in danger, even though the worst thing happening right now is drunken dancing and sloppy makeout sessions.
Some part of me, the crazy little part of me that died and came back to life, is saying: not all these people are human. They look human, but they’re something different entirely. That one over there can turn into a snake; that one feasts only on liver and turns to stone in sunlight; that’s a hunter and he’s here to trap you and tear your heart out of your chest, just like those demons did to Richard—
I force the little voice down into the madness. Heading towards the bar, I search the menu for the one drink I can afford. “Shots of whatever is cheapest, please!”
The bartender gives me a once-over, then grabs a bottle from down below. Before he can pour it, through, a man to my left murmurs, “Make her a Manhattan, top shelf. On me.”
I glance over towards the man, to thank him like any vagabond would, only to freeze. I don’t know why, but when I look into his eyes I see two colors: the normal brown they appear to be, and the piercing gold they are deep below.
Again, my crazy new brain is telling me he’s something inhuman. This time, it says that he can turn into a leopard, and even worse: he works for the hunter in the back of the room, the one who stares at me the way a man one million dollars in debt looks at a billion, as if I’m his bloody salvation.
I push it down and smile at the man, forcing my eyes to see him as he is: normal, human, hitting on me obnoxiously. “Thanks.” Taking the drink, I down it in one go, hoping that the liquor will help me forget all about dying. It’s bitter and strong, making me cough. “That was—good.”
He chuckles. “How would you know? You drank it too quickly.”
I give him a wan smile, flip my hair over my shoulder. Normally I’m better at flirting for free food and drinks, but—the last handsome guys who looked at me were bloodthirsty monsters. “I’ve actually got somewhere to be.”
“Ladies room?”
“Somewhere else.”
As I slip into the crowd, he reaches for me, but I twist out of the way before his hand can connect. He’s determined, though, pushing through a couple to try to get to me, and it makes my heart beat like a frightened rabbit.
I want to get away from him.
I don’t want him to take me to the guy in the corner, the one he keeps glancing towards, like he takes orders from him.
So I do—something. Something I don’t quite understand, except that suddenly my senses are heightened. I can smell every shitty perfume and cologne in this room, can feel the crunch of sticky things I don’t want to think about beneath my heels, and can hear shouted conversations beneath the loud pumping of the music.
But the weirdest part is how everyone around me freezes. No—they’re not quite frozen. But they’re moving so slow they might as well be.
Somehow, I’ve done this, and it makes it possible for me to lose the guy. I slip through twerking asses, wild elbows, and hands holding shots to down. Soon enough I’m all the way across the room, standing in front of the bouncer to the underground gambling game, and I sigh in relief.
The instant I do the room starts moving at regular speed again. Everything from the beat of the music to the press of the crowd kicks up, just like before.
“Where’d you come from?” The bouncer is looking at me with a furrowed brow. “You weren’t in line.”
I glance back; there are three startled-looking rich guys behind me, all of them clearly hoping to buy into the game. But when they see my cleavage, they all switch from being disgruntled to leering.
“You boys don’t mind if I skip in line, do you?” They practically elbow each other out of the way trying to say they don’t. I turn back and smile at the bouncer. “If it’s okay with them, then I’d like to buy my way in.”
“What level?”
“Bronze.” It’s all I can afford.
“That’s a thousand.”
I hand over the money, ignoring the bouncer’s arched eyebrow at the fact that it’s all in small bills, except for Taylor’s hundred dollars, may he rest in shit. Probably assuming I’m a stripper, the bouncer stashes the cash, puts a bronze band around my wrist, and waves me through the door.
Just like that I’m in.
It’s time to turn my one thousand dollars into a whole lot more.
I’ve only bought into the smallest games that happen back here. There’s an entire floor filled with blackjack, poker, and what appears to be a game of knife-throwing that I try not to look at too closely given what I’ve just seen tonight. A door at the end of the room opens up into another, higher stakes room, and of course there’s a bouncer standing in front of it.
This place is basically a labyrinth of increasingly muscular bouncers and rooms with criminals in them.
But the small stakes room is more than enough for me; that thousand dollars is all I have, after all. As I walk through the various tables, scoping out the best place to start placing my bets, I can feel eyes on me. There’s a slight simmer of danger here; half these people are crooks and mobsters, and the other half are probably blue-collar criminals here to spice up their boring lives. More than one of the betters here is willing to get a little bloody in a fight.
Thankfully, though, I don’t spot anyone who shimmers at the edges like those demons did, so I relax. I do catch my share of creeps, courtesy of the cleavage-revealing nature of this dress, but that’s typical; all I have to do is be ready to slip away from them just like I did out there on the dance floor.
I decide to start with a game of poker, which is winding to a close at one of the tables with a dealer. A couple of players withdraw from the table to get another drink, complaining about the money they’ve lost, and I slide into third position, where I won’t have to add to the blind or make the first move. The dealer checks my bracelet, gives me my chips, and shuffles the cards as we wait for a fifth player to show up.
While we do, I study the other three people at the table with me. Two look like a married couple in their fifties, happily set in their ways; probably accountants for the mob or something else charmingly small time like that.
The third is a young man who’s woefully under-dressed for tonight, from his hoodie to his jeans, but he looks confident, relaxed, like he’s do
ne this a thousand times before. When he spots me staring he raises his glass to me, arching an eyebrow and tilting his head. Something about the look on his face makes me want to smile and start up a conversation, but I resist; no doubt he gets people’s defenses down by getting them to talk to him.
Before he can try to do just that to me, a fifth player sits down at the table, to my left in fourth position. And he makes my skin crawl.
It’s the guy from earlier—not the one who reached for my shoulder, but the one in the corner who seemed to be telling him what to do.
And he shimmers at the edges like there’s something off about him, just like the demons.
Chapter 4
There’s no time to figure out who he is or what he wants, though. Sliding my affable, neutral poker face into place, I listen to the dealer’s brief explanation of the rules and try to calm my beating heart. I have no idea who this guy is, but I can lose him just like I’ve lost others before—first, though, I need to make some money.
Which is where this weird skill I have comes in.
I can read people. Not in that, “if someone puts their fingers to their mouth they’re lying,” kind of way you see on TV shows. It’s more instinctual than that, and I have to concentrate a little to use it. But I can tell what people want, what they need, and most of all, what they intend to do.
It’s a subtle kind of feeling, like, he’s scared or she’s excited. But it’s enough to give me an edge at the poker table, and I intend to use it tonight.
The bets start. The dealer deals out cards. A community card goes down. Things get rolling.
And I can feel how each member of the couple wants to bet, how the hoodie guy is playing his cards, and even what creepy corner guy is up to.
It’s not the sort of thing I can do all night, but for the next hour or two at least, I’ll be able to bet like nobody in this place.