“We don’t want trouble,” one of the guys stuttered. They grabbed their fallen friend and dragged him to a car. Seconds later, they’d peeled out and my illusion collapsed. My knees hit the pavement next to the guy I rescued, and I swayed as I attempted to stay upright.
“We need to go. They’ll be back,” I muttered, forcing myself up and pulling on him.
“What the hell?” Is what I think he said, but it was difficult to tell through his split and swollen lip. He helped me get him up, but I could tell movement was painful for him. We weren’t far from my apartment, and I wasn’t going to make it any further tonight. Not without sleep. I had never tried to cast an illusion that powerful when exhausted. It had taken more out of me than I realized. I tugged him forward, even as I used him to support myself. We must have made an interesting sight, leaning on one another as we shuffled to my apartment.
“That was incredible,” the guy said. At least that was my interpretation, based on his busted lip and the slight slur that made me think he had a concussion.
“Uh huh,” I managed to mutter, desperately wanting to curl up on the concrete sidewalk and sleep. But I knew those guys would be back with friends. Their pride would allow nothing less. Years of dealing with pricks exactly like them had taught me all I needed to know. It was probably time to move. There would be no way to avoid them on their own turf, and I knew this neighborhood belonged to them. Playing it smart and avoiding situations like this had kept me alive for years.
I couldn’t stop my swell of disappointment at the thought of leaving. This was the first time I had been able to get a place and attempt to make it my own. The guy next to me shifted a bit, supporting more of my weight as I swayed. Gratitude trickled through me. I wouldn’t regret saving him. Too many times I had watched people turn their backs on situations like that one out of fear or apathy. More than once, I had been the one they’d turned their back on.
“Here.” I stopped in front of a shabby building, ignoring the intercom system that allowed you to buzz each apartment, since it had never worked that I knew of. He shoved the door open and looked at the flight of stairs.
“Guess you don’t have a downstairs unit, huh?” My mouth quirked in an attempt to smile, but the thought of climbing three flights of stairs almost had me collapsing right there. I shook my head and held up three fingers. He nodded grimly and readjusted his hold on me. Somewhere along the way, I had become the one needing help, more so than the guy I was rescuing. The climb up those stairs was a special form of torture. I could hear him breathing heavily as we made it onto the landing, and I hoped one of those broken ribs he had didn’t puncture a lung. He pulled me to the door on the left, but I stopped him. I indicated the right, and he shook his head. I was persistent though.
“There’s nothing there,” he argued, gesturing at the blank wall. I blinked at my door, surprised my illusion had held in my current state of exhaustion.
“Trust me,” I muttered, opening the door I never bothered to lock.
“Whoa!” he said, as I walked through what appeared to be a wall to him. He followed me in, his eyes enormous, as he saw the door and the apartment.
“Shut the door,” I barked, making a beeline for the mattress on the floor. I didn’t bother getting between the sheets, instead collapsing on top of the five-dollar comforter I’d purchased at the Salvation Army. “Don’t die. Don’t touch anything. If you’re still here in the morning, I’ll explain.” My words were muffled against the bed, but he heard me, because he said, “Oh, I’m not going anywhere.” I groaned at the thought, but sleep wouldn’t be denied any longer, and my eyes slipped closed.
The light shining brightly in my eyes woke me the next day. I blinked, disoriented. My bed faced the west, so the sun wouldn’t wake me up in the morning, so I couldn’t understand why it was shining in my eyes.
“Sleeping Beauty finally wakes.” My hand clutched the knife under my pillow at the unexpected male voice, even as the prior night came rushing back. My head dropped to the pillow, and I rolled over. “I was hoping that was a bad dream.”
“Me too, but even I couldn’t dream up a white woman saving my black ass with voodoo,” the voice sang above me. “Coffee?” My eyes blinked open at that. He held a cup out to me, and I got my first good look at him.
He was ugly.
There was no kinder way of stating it. His eyes were swollen shut, and the rest of his face was puffy and misshapen. His skin was oddly discolored, and I honestly doubted his own mother would recognize him at the moment.
“Damn. You look like Quasimodo,” I told him, wincing slightly in sympathy. “Can you see anything?”
“I made coffee, didn’t I?” My lips twitched at his words. The split and swollen lip garbled his words, amusing me. I could tell he rolled his eyes at me by the movement of his head, even without being able to see his actual eye roll. I sipped at the coffee and was pleasantly surprised at the taste. He saw my surprise and shook his head. “You have to clean the coffee pot occasionally.” I tilted my head and raised my mug in acknowledgement.
“So you’re a voodoo priestess?” he asked me excitedly. “My grandmother always warned me about the voodoo, but I didn’t believe her. She came from New Orleans and they different down there,” he said, with a flutter of his arm. I was beginning to see why this particular black man was targeted by my neo Nazi loving neighbors.
Out of his excited chatter, I had one question.
“What’s voodoo?”
“Seriously? Did you just crawl out from under a rock?” There was no disguising the indignant tone in his voice at my apparent ignorance. “What is voodoo?” he repeated to himself, mocking me. He looked at me. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” I raised my eyebrow at him, wondering if he was done with his little rant. He sighed heavily. “It’s a religion that is also a form of witchcraft.” I nodded slowly. I could see where my actions from the night before would give him the impression I was a voodoo priestess. It was also going to make it more difficult to persuade him he had imagined what really happened.
“Oh, don’t even think about it, girlie. You passed right on out last night, but I remember clearly what happened. You conjured those gorgeous pieces of man flesh to protect us.” He waved at my apartment door. “And don’t forget the disappearing door. Felt like I was in a Harry Potter movie.” I opened my mouth to deny it and watched as he shook his head. “Nu huh. I checked again this morning. There is no door that I could see. So whatever you got going on here is not exactly normal.”
I snapped my mouth shut before I caught a fly. Maybe I was still exhausted, but I couldn’t figure out a suitably convincing lie to tell this strange man that had unexpectedly invaded my life.
“I can’t believe the door illusion held,” I finally muttered. His head tilted back, as he realized I was going to tell him.
“It’s not voodoo. Whatever the hell that is.” He frowned at me, but I only shrugged. I didn’t know about religion or witchcraft. All I knew was, from the time I was twelve I could make people see things that weren’t really there. Twelve years later, and I still didn’t know the how or why of it, but I did know to keep it a secret—for my sake as well as those that exhibited a bit too much curiosity about me. “They’re illusions.”
Suddenly, the door crashed open, and the three assholes from last night spilled in. My apparent savior jumped in front of me and screeched, “Get out, you crazy freaks!” I admired the fact that he called the violent criminals freaks, instead of me. As one of them stepped forward, my new found friend gave an incredibly girlish shriek and flung a dish towel at him. The dish towel flew straight through him and landed on the floor. As I dropped the illusion, I heard him gasp.
“Holy shit.” He looked at me in awe that quickly turned to anger. “That was terrifying.” He swatted at me. “What the hell was that? I made you coffee!”
“Figured you needed an example,” I told him nonchalantly. I pulled myself up from the mattress. “You should know exactly what
I’m capable of. If I wanted, they could have beaten you again, and you would have felt it. Some illusions are as dangerous as the reality they portray.” My warning seemed to have an effect on him, as he turned away from me. I ignored my disappointment. Friends were something I couldn’t afford in my life.
He spun back around surprising me. He shook his finger in my face as he said, “Don’t do that again! If we gonna be friends, I have to trust you, and if I never know what’s real then how am I gonna do that? Huh?”
My mouth opened and closed like a fish caught on dry land. I finally shut it and stared at him in shock. “Well, I know a cat ain’t got your tongue, so are we chill?” I nodded mutely. This was the first time I had ever been forcibly friended by someone, and my first friend would be someone so completely and utterly alien to me.
“Good.” He looked around my tiny studio apartment at the ratty old mattress on the floor, the complete lack of any other furniture, and the single chipped mug he’d served me coffee in. “I would say pack your stuff up, but nothing here is worth packing.” My look was both offended and questioning. “You can’t stay here. I’m taking you home to my momma,” he replied, as if it should be obvious. I shook my head at his assumption. I knew I couldn’t stay here any longer, but going home with a man I had just met didn’t really fall into the category of the smartest thing I had ever done, either. We stared at each other, a contest of wills, with neither looking away, until I finally gave in with a muttered, “Fine.” I could use the opportunity to move on. It didn’t mean I had to stay.
“Perhaps I should know your name if you’re going to introduce me to your momma,” I told him, grabbing my backpack to throw my clothes into. Some part of me always knew I would have to leave in a hurry. It had been that way for so long; the habits were ingrained into me. He gave a sideways glance at my worn backpack, and I wondered about his life. Where was he from, that hauling everything you owned in a backpack was unusual? It had been a way of life in foster care, and the simplest way when living on the streets.
“Garvin Mouton,” he answered me, and I frowned.
“Marvin?” I asked, thinking I misunderstood him and his split lip.
“GARvin,” he enunciated. “Like Marvin Gaye?”
I blinked at him. “That would be Marvin. Not GARvin.” I responded sarcastically.
“I’ll let my momma explain,” he answered, with an airy wave. I shook my head, wondering what the hell had just happened to my life.
I slung my backpack over my shoulder and took a last look around. I thought this would be the beginning of a different life for me. One where I didn’t constantly have to move around, a place I could put roots down, maybe take the time to find my sisters. I sighed and hitched the bag holding my worldly possessions a little higher on my shoulder. Maybe next time.
“Are you going to tell me your name?” Garvin asked, glancing at me. I looked at him and debated telling him the name I had been given by the state when I was put in the foster care system. Somehow, it didn’t feel right, so for the first time in eighteen years, I uttered the name I had been given at birth.
“Sinclair Davis.”
Chapter Three
The sun was peeking up behind the tree line, as I finished my run. I slowed to a walk, as I watched the sky brighten. My breathing steadied, as the clouds turned to pink in the morning glow. I lived in an old carriage house that was on the edge of Garvin’s property. When I had rescued him that night, I had no inkling he was wealthy. Garvin lived on a massive plantation that looked as if it belonged in Gone with the Wind. After we left my apartment behind, he decided I should live here. It was nicer than any place I had ever lived, so he didn’t get any arguments from me. Over the years, it had become my haven.
I unlocked my door, and Serafin ran to greet me. Her loud purrs followed me into the kitchen. My distant hope that the run would erase the unsettled feeling I woke up with had disappeared. Instead, it seemed as if the past I had ignored for so long was now demanding to be heard.
The kitchen was dark as I entered. It was rare for me to leave a light on. But even in my distracted state, I sensed his presence.
His shriek bordered on girlish, and I laughed as he cowered in the corner.
“Turn it off! Oh my God! Why is it always clowns with you?” He flapped his hands at the clown looming over him, but wouldn’t get near enough to actually touch it. My laughter was uncontrollable by now, and I had difficulty concentrating. The illusion disappeared, and Garvin stomped over to me.
“Seriously. Clowns?” he demanded to know.
I snorted again, as the laughter eased. “Because you’re ridiculously petrified of them?” I told him sarcastically.
“That’s why you shouldn’t use clowns!” he said, tapping his foot and glaring at me.
“Then you shouldn’t try to sneak up on me in my own damn house.” I countered, poking him in the belly. He giggled, unable to stop himself. I’d discovered this weakness not long after we met, when his sister did it to him. Apparently, no matter what the circumstances were, a poke in the belly garnered a laugh from Garvin. I shook my head at him and went to the fridge.
“One day I’ll surprise you!” he told me, getting bowls from the cabinet. I glanced at him and said, “Mmhmmm.” We had played this game for years, and he had yet to best me.
I set the cereal on the table and arched an eyebrow, daring him to comment. He rolled his eyes and poured the Apple Jacks in our bowls. It was my favorite cereal, and the only one I kept in my cabinet. He knew this, but still felt the need to ask what kind I had, as if it ever changed. There was only one kind.
The one I liked.
Period.
“So …” Garvin started, and I knew I wasn’t going to like where this conversation was headed. “Grandma was happy to see you yesterday.” I blinked, waiting for it. “OMG!!! He was so cute. I think we should find him. He could be the ONE,” Garvin gushed, the words spilling out of him as if they could no longer be contained. I smirked, since this was what I’d been expecting. I checked the clock on the wall. He’d lasted longer than I expected. “Come on. Those blue eyes. That chiseled jaw. There was no denying the chemistry. And that swagger!” He fanned himself, as I shoveled cereal in my mouth. “You know what that swagger means!” He gave me a look, nodding his head in a weird circular manner. I bit my lip to keep from smiling, because that would only encourage him. I shook my head as if I had no idea what it meant. And knowing Garvin, I probably didn’t know what he meant.
“Oh you know.” He winked at me. “He knows how to drill.”
I choked, spewing milk and cereal out of my mouth.
He tisked at me. “If you act like that, you’re never gonna find out.” I shook my head at him, wiping up my mess.
“I will bring the clown back,” I warned him, as Serafin jumped on the table, startling Garvin. She lapped at the spilled milk, and he scooted further from her. He made the sign of the cross toward my cat, and I sighed.
“She is not evil!” I grouched at him, aggravated at his insistence that Serafin was evil, because she was black. “You should feel a kinship with her.”
Garvin huffed at me, as I smiled at him. “That is so racist, it’s not even funny.”
“No. What’s racist is you thinking she’s evil because of her color!” I said, falling into our familiar argument.
“Oh, that’s just icing on the cake!” Garvin replied. “And the least of the reasons I think she’s evil.” He wagged his finger at me, and I was tempted to rip it off. “You’ve given me plenty of reason to believe she’s a minion of Satan.”
At this, Serafin looked up at him and hissed. She leaped at him, and he jumped back and almost fell out of his chair. She landed lightly in front of him, her tail up and twitching before she leapt to the ground and sauntered out.
Garvin pointed wildly between the spot she’d been at and where she’d gone. “See! That’s what I’m talking about.”
I laughed lightly, “Maybe she didn’t like be
ing referred to as a minion of Satan. It is a bit offensive. If you were nicer …” I trailed off, as he gaped at me.
“She found ... she followed you ... she …” he stammered wildly. I smirked at him, “Cat got your tongue?”
“Ugh!” he finally cried and went back to his Apple Jacks. I understood his natural fear of Serafin. She did tend to do things that were out of the norm, even for a cat. For the past twelve years, she had been my only constant. It didn’t seem to matter how many times I moved or where I went, she would show up a couple days later, blinking at me with her huge green eyes.
The first time I was forced to leave without her, I had been inconsolable. I thought she was gone for good. A cop had picked me up off the street one night and taken me to child services. They’d stuck me in a halfway house, for lack of a better option. Serafin had only been with me for six months at the time, but I had come to rely on her comforting presence. I’d cried myself to sleep, positive I would never see her again. The next morning when I woke up, she was curled next to me on my pillow. I was twelve at the time and so relieved to see her, I never stopped to think about how she’d found her way to me. I’d been taken fifty miles from where I had left her and locked in a room at the halfway house, but she’d still managed to make her way to me.
The same thing happened when I left that crappy apartment with Garvin. Serafin showed up two days later, purring on the front porch of my new accommodations and scaring the crap out of Garvin.
He insisted she had something to do with my ability and called her my familiar. I laughed away his assumption and never admitted to him that he might be close to the truth. No matter how deeply I buried the memories of my mother, I couldn’t stop the occasional flicker of remembrance: the night we fled our house, the circle in the woods, and other moments that I’d blocked of her burning herbs and chanting. I no longer ignored my instincts. But the memories, I held at bay. It would do me no good to recall the sweet baby scent of Quinn, or the bedtimes squished under my mother’s arm, listening to her read us stories. I had to wonder now about the stories she’d told us, the ones that seemed like more than just your standard fairy tale.
Unbound (The Trinity Sisters Book 1) Page 2