by Lucy Auburn
“Mateo, you know you’re taking that out of context. The Phoenix Wars—”
“What are you looking at?” Olivia asks, her voice overlapping with Lynx’s words. She glances towards the bookshelves, no doubt seeing right through him as he continues talking to Bomber about some kind of history I don’t understand. “Oh, those books are all ones you can get at the regular library. All the secret books are in the top level. But don’t worry, once you’ve started classes you’ll be able to go there.”
“Great,” I mutter, tuning out the demons’ conversation. “I just love stuffy books.”
Though I say it as a quip, and Olivia laughs, the sad truth is I really do love books. A lot; way too much in fact.
They’re one of the worst things I lost in the fire, and I haven’t been able to keep a collection since. When most of your stuff is stored in old storage rooms and on rooftops, paperbacks don’t exactly hold together well. I’ve got a couple of ebooks on my old cracked smart phone, but reading on it is like begging for a headache. I miss the smell of a freshly-cracked spine.
Not enough to stick around here and walk through Lynx to get my reading fix, though.
Following Olivia out the door, I spin on my heels, give the demons my best fuck-you smile, and subtly flip them off as I close them inside.
I really, really hope I don’t see them again.
The last thing I need is to be a crazy homeless person.
A few hours later, I’ve got a full stomach, a bunch of bread rolls stuffed into the pockets of the dumb uniform they gave me, and a few rare books strapped to my legs underneath the uniform’s skirt. The books are bulky, but I once walked out of a grocery store with a fully cooked chicken clamped between my thighs; I can work it.
A girl should always know what her thighs are capable of pulling off.
Swinging my purse over one shoulder and the happy face reusable bag over the other, both filled to the brim with stolen toiletries, golden candlestick holders, and literally anything I could find that wasn’t nailed down, I give my temporary bedroom one last look.
“Goodbye, comfortable bed. I’m sorry I didn’t get to really sleep in you. But this place is clearly crazy, and I can’t possibly be what they want, so I’m getting out of here.”
The only thing I leave behind is the class schedule Olivia gave to me this morning on our mind-numbing tour of this place. With words like “Introductory to Hand-to-Hand combat” and “Phoenix Fire Casting 101” on it as actual classes, it was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.
The instant I saw it, I knew I wouldn’t be able to hang around this place very long. So I figured it was best to make the most of the fact that the long hallways are empty during classes, nabbed what I could, and now have several hundred dollars worth of stuff to add to my house deposit fund.
As I slip out the doors and towards the front steps, nice and quiet, I don’t let myself look back.
I’ve long since learned that when you leave a place, it’s best not to get sentimental. Looking back means you believe you’ll be coming back—and in my experience, I never get to.
Jumping down the stairs two at a time, I mutter to myself, “Phoenix fire classes.”
Like that was something I was ever going to be able to pull off.
Since the gang of four merry students clearly followed me to the condominium building I like—there’s no way I leave a “trail” going anywhere—I decide that tonight, I’ll sleep in a location they can’t possibly know about: Sticky’s house.
Yeah, it’s just as shitty as it sounds.
As soon as I’m through the Indian grocery store (which actually does have customers during the day, it turns out) I head down the street a few blocks, pop into a public restroom, and change into my regular clothes. I also peel the rare books off my thighs and shove them into my bag, then fold the school uniform up and regretfully leave it behind the toilet.
It would’ve been nice to have another change of clothes. But it would make it too easy to find me, and besides, I’d look crazy walking around with a golden bird embroidered near my boob. It’s too conspicuous, which is the last thing I can afford to be.
In my new clothes, I make a line for the nearest public library, using the map I’ve got memorized in my head. Libraries are great places for people like me; they’re warm, they’re entertaining, and as long as you don’t act too rowdy or overstay your welcome, librarians will let you stick around. The only reason why I ever avoid them is because it sucks sometimes to find a book I really love only to have to leave it behind because I don’t have a library card, or a place to take the book home to.
Getting to the library takes at least an hour on foot, so by the time I’m there I’m beat. I perch in a quiet corner that I like, behind the shelves, and surreptitiously pull one of the dinner rolls I stole out of my purse. The librarians don’t like it if you eat near the books, but I can usually shove some food into my stomach before they notice me.
As I eat, I contemplate the problem of the demons.
I don’t really know how this thing works, but I’m starting to think that I’m not completely hallucinating them. Maybe what Richard did with the book and his creepiness really did somehow stick them to me, like a yo-yo on a string. If so, the book could also have an answer to getting rid of them.
Too bad it’s covered in blood and entrails—and probably in police lockup somewhere as evidence, since there no way those bodies haven’t been found by now.
That’s my second worry: the murder scene. I didn’t have anything to do with it, but there’s a big chance my fingerprints are around somewhere, hanging out on something. And as a foster kid, I know I’m in the system, plus I’m over eighteen now. The cops could be looking for me.
One problem at a time. My first problem: finding a new place to stay. My second: stashing all my money somewhere safe until I can get a bank account. The demons and cops can wait. If I’m lucky, neither will turn up ever again.
Since I didn’t sleep well last night, I decide to snooze off in the chair for a while. Hopefully by the time I wake up it’ll be evening, and Sticky’s place will be open for business.
“Two hundred.”
I glare at Sticky. “That’s a rip off and you know it!”
He shrugs, firm in the knowledge that he’s got all the leverage here. “You say they’re solid gold, but who’s to know? Two hundred.”
Sighing, I shake my head at him. “Fine.”
He puts the bills out on the card table in front of him, then takes the candle holders and drops them in the box next to his chair with a smirk on his face. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
Swiping the cash, I make my way into Sticky’s house. It’s a dilapidated, no doubt condemned place just begging for an electrical fire to take it out, but if you sell something to Sticky you get to stay here for free, and it’s the one place I know for certain I won’t be followed.
Behind me, the next customer in line steps up to haggle with Sticky, his voice a low slur. Most of the people who stay here come to Sticky’s for one reason and one reason only: they’re drug addicts.
Passing through the wide room in front, I ignore the smells that come from all around me. There are people sitting on dirty mattresses on the ground, passed out on couches, piled in the corners with blankets pulled up around them. Every single one of them, young and old, has a needle in their arm, something to snort, or something already working its way through their system.
Except me.
I know the dangers of this place; I know what drug addiction looks like when it takes you. I can still remember the way it felt to cry my heart out, knowing that my mother wasn’t ever going to come back. It’s my first memory; it’s the last time I ever really cried with all of me, heart and soul.
Passing through the room, I head up the stairs, and through another room full of addicts everywhere. Someone offers me a bump; I decline, pushing down my disgust. I know that it’s not their fault they’re like this; th
e streets do this to them, or their pimps, or even their first stint in prison. They chase away the bad memories we all have with the only thing that stops the pain.
Even so, I can’t be around them. It makes me angry and sad—far too sad, far too close to becoming that little girl again. So I go up the stairs one more time, down the hallway, and reach up to tug on a string to an access panel in the ceiling. It creaks as it unfolds into a rickety staircase in front of me, one that leads straight up into the beaten-down attic.
No one goes into Sticky’s attic. It’s cold and miserable because of the broken window and lack of insulation. It’s the kind of place where nightmares happen, and no matter how tightly you wrap yourself in blankets, you can’t quite keep out the chill.
So tonight, it’s exactly the kind of place I feel like staying, whether I fall asleep or not. I head up the stairs, then pull them back into the ceiling behind me. A pile of blankets and broken chairs calls to me in the corner; this is where Sticky puts things he doesn’t really want anymore, and I’ve stored things here too, things I don’t care about. Most of them are gone, but I do find two things I forgot I left here: a giant machine-made quilt, and a ratty old copy of Alice in Wonderland.
Curling up in the corner, I wrap the quilt around myself, crack open the book, and settle in to read it, surrounded by all the things I own in the world.
I don’t let myself feel sad.
You should never mourn something that wasn’t yours, and the Phoenix Academy, with its classes I’d never pass and people I don’t belong with, wasn’t mine to enjoy. Better to just forget it ever happened and focus on taking care of my own shit.
Just like Alice, I never belonged in Wonderland at all.
I don’t even realize I’ve fallen asleep until I wake up.
It’s a slow wakening, because I’ve got a crick in my neck, and half my muscles are locked up from the cold. Even though I’m covered in quilts and blankets, I find myself drawn into the fetal position, knees up against my chin. There’s no warmth or comfort in Sticky’s attic, so in my sleep I turned inward, into a little ball to protect myself.
It takes me a while to see the muzzle of the gun pointed at my head.
“Hello.” The woman holding the gun is tall, her blonde hair pulled back in a sleek perfect ponytail, the ends swishing back and forth in the breeze that drifts through the attic from outside. “My my, but what a tasty newborn you are, nice and ripe for the plucking.”
I blink up at her, loosening my muscles slowly, desperately wishing that I’d woken up earlier. “Are you going to kill me?”
“Yes,” she answers matter-of-factly, as she reaches inside her jacket and pulls something out: a black cylinder. “But let’s do it with the silencer on, shall we?”
As she screws it onto the end of her gun, I try to think, but my mind is scrabbling over and over on itself in terror.
So I do the only thing I can.
I scream my fucking head off.
Chapter 9
She smirks, clearly about to pull the trigger anyway.
And... I just keep screaming. Like an idiot, I can’t help but think if I scream long enough, someone will show up to save me. Never mind that I’m in a filthy drug den filled to the brim with criminals high off their asses.
I’m screaming for so long that it takes me a bit to realize she’s frozen. Not in a cool, badass action star way, but in that eerie way that happened in the club, and on the street outside.
The second I think about it, she comes to life. Her gun flares as she pulls the trigger; I duck and roll, groaning as my abused muscles complain. Cursing, the woman re-aims her gun at me.
I get my hands beneath me on the floor to dodge her again, heart pounding, and stare down at my fingers.
From wrist to fingertip, every inch of both my hands is glowing with supernatural energy. A reddish orange moves against the surface of my skin; a pitch black energy like the stuff of black holes or the emptiness between the stars twines with it.
Glancing up at the woman, I see that she’s pulled the trigger, but she’s frozen again. The bullet is frozen too, whirling in place as it tries to get to me a millimeter at a time.
But I can’t keep doing this. I don’t even know how I did it in the first place. I need help to get out of here, and it’s not going to come in the form of the drug-addled guests Sticky lets overdose on his bedbug-infested mattresses.
Desperately, I find myself remembering the fight last night. Creeper almost shot me that time too. Four silhouettes come to mind, moving impossibly fast, swirling with speed and strength as they protected me.
My hands open wide, orange and black glowing energy streaking up my arms to swirl around my shoulders and disappear.
I blink. And in the darkness, suddenly, I’m not alone. Four fighters have joined me.
In the same moment, I can feel time shifting, preparing to speed up again. I roll to the side; the bullet moves. The woman curses, blonde ponytail swinging as she pivots towards me once more.
“Stop fucking moving! I swear to—they told me you were a defenseless newborn!”
“She is,” a voice growls in the darkness, as a predatory warrior separates himself from the shadows. “But me? Not so much.”
Poisoner’s intense blue eyes catch the moonlight as he draws two knives from his kit and squares off with the blonde woman.
In response, she raises a hand—the one not holding a gun—towards him. Her palm swirls with some kind of energy as she snarls at him, “Obey my will, demon of darkness. Bring me the heart of this phoenix.”
With a smirk, he slashes her palm—and his knife connects, drawing a red line of blood in her skin. She hisses, stumbling back, then aims her gun at him and pulls the trigger.
But a sword descends from the darkness and cuts through the muzzle of the gun, sending the bullet flying into the wall behind Poisoner instead. The man holding the sword steps into the moonlight, and his two other companions join him.
Prowling forward, Choker stares at the woman intensely, energy swirling around him as he looks into her soul.
“Obey my will!” she shouts, dropping the gun and raising her hands. “Damnit, something is tethering you here that I can’t break.”
I back away from the fight, eyes darting between the two groups, uncertain what happens now that the four demons are corporeal.
“Dark heart, dark soul,” Choker announces. “She’s murdered at least a dozen innocent souls, without mercy or regret. We’ve been given the power to interact with the mortal plane once more so we can take her out.”
“Let’s do it,” declares Swordwielder, and a deadly dance commences.
The blonde woman pulls her own sword from its sheath on her back and squares off with them. While the demons are fast and brutal, she’s strong and quick as well. One moment they’re bearing down on her, sword on one side, knives on another; the next moment, without even a blink, she’s somehow traveled across the attic and is attacking them from behind.
It’s like time obeys her will instead of the other way around.
Swords slice through the air. Choker uses his black cord to trip her ankles up; she falls, rolls to her feet, and kicks him in the face. He grins as he spits blood, and Bomber pulls out the dark muzzle of a gun, aiming it at her head.
But she’s fast. Before he can pull the trigger she’s up, lightning fast, and punching him in the face. She grabs his arm and pulls the gun from his grip, pivots and shoots Swordwielder in the thigh.
As he goes down, their leaders yells, “She’s a Grim! Trap her.”
The three remaining fighters converge and go at her one by one. Choker trips her, slows her down, somehow keeps her from flitting across the room; Poisoner slashes at her, his knives leaving angry welts behind; Bomber punches her in the middle so hard that she falls to her knees, collapses on the ground.
As they tie her up, Choker holding her arms back, Poisoner drawing a knife to no doubt do what he did last night, she looks up—and into my e
yes.
“You’ll regret this,” she says to me, venom in her words, hatred narrowing her gaze. “I don’t know what clan you’re from, but they’ll shame you for this. Killing one of yo—”
Her words are cut off in a gurgle of blood as Poisoner’s sharp knife slashes across her throat and leaves her voiceless, then quickly dead. They drop her body on the ground, and I scramble back, shaking all over, certain I’m going to die again.
I won’t plead. I saw where that got the Fern Valley kids. But I do wish that they’d get it over with quickly.
So I quip, “You know, if it’s up to me, I’d prefer Poisoner kill me.” They stare at me, like they forgot I was here. I motion with my chin towards the blue-eyed, angry one. “You know, Sebastian. Seems like poison would be a good way to go.”
Swordwielder sounds irritated as he says, “That’s not how it works.”
Choker mutters, “You don’t know our names?” He sounds genuinely hurt somehow, which is weird from a professional strangler. “We introduced ourselves just hours ago. I’m Lynx. Ly-nx.”
“Yeah, I gave you nicknames during the whole ‘murdering my shitty friends’ thing.” But I guess if I’m going to plead with them for a quick death, I should be all personable about it. You know, like someone with manners. “Ezra.” His green eyes seem to look right through me when I say his name. “Since it seems like you’re in charge—”
Bomber, who doesn’t seem like a Mateo, scowls and interrupts. “I don’t remember there being an election.”
I look over his way. “So, are you in charge now, Bomber?”
He cocks his head at me. “Oooooh, I like my nickname.”
“Shut up, Mateo,” Ezra mutters. “Dani, we’re not going to kill you.”
A shudder goes through me as he says my name, and I hate myself for it, because it’s not just disgust I’m feeling. There’s something else, something that wants him to look at me and only me.