Flight

by Lindsay Leggett

  Chapter Twelve

  Days pass like minutes, and drone-like I trudge through my new daily routine. Days spent scouting for the band of rogue Harpies that have shown no evidence of themselves, cryptic meetings that provide no answers, and the constant, vague avoidance of any real authority in the Corporation. I have private meetings with Myra, where she remains elusive, and my efforts to convince Tor to broaden our search are met with almost casual shrugs and a wait and see attitude. So I distract myself; I go out with Shelley to shows and try to ignore the goings-on of the small Corp resistance in our kitchen, I train with Grier and some of the other members of the task force, working harder each time to obtain that effortless fluidity my little manual preaches, and I push through my paperwork with efficient, but precise speed.

  But I still can’t push the ragged Harpy from my mind. Not a single file I’ve scoured has offered any evidence, and even the mention of going through back-files set Tor on a tangent like I’ve never seen. Something’s going on. Rupert was right in his suspicions, but what? I can’t come to any conclusions with my current information, and I’ve measured and jotted down the entirety of the old city. There is nothing but rusting metal and the vacant wind blowing in from the dead-lands.

  So when I enter our meeting room one morning and find it empty, only a portion of me wonders why; the rest is relieved that I don’t have to suffer another report of nothing, nothing, nothing. Tor’s the only one in the room, jotting down a few quick notes at one of the desks. He turns as he hears me shuffling, and offers me a friendly lopsided grin.

  “The meeting was cancelled?” I ask, slinging my bag onto an empty desk and pulling up a chair beside him. He carefully piles his papers together and slips them into a pocket folder, safe from anyone’s eyes but his, part of me notes. Am I really that suspicious?

  “The full-moon festival’s tonight, remember? No one wanted to work today, except you of course, but I would suspect nothing less,” he replies.

  I nod my head in realization. This one night of the year the Holo-sky morphs into a dazzling array of stars and a large, bright yellow moon. The streets will be packed tonight, as everyone waits all year just to see it. Compared to the real moon, though, it’s nothing, just a simple projection trying to imitate life.

  “Is there anything you want to go over?” I ask, gesturing toward his papers. He shakes his head and pulls them closer toward him, protectively.

  “I think we all deserve a break, you especially. Will I see you out there tonight?” he responds.

  My mind wanders back to the last full-moon festival we were at. We were together, and bought spun candy and strolled through the streets wrapped in each others’ arms. When the moon turned full and the fireworks began he’d kissed me in the middle of the crowd. My hand rises to my lips, remembering that kiss and that night, and the person I was then.

  “I might make an appearance,” I reply casually.

  His face falls slightly, but he tries to cover it with a grin. Badly.

  “You should meet me somewhere. By that little bakery you like, maybe. What do you think?” he says.

  I inhale softly before replying. I don’t even know what to say. “This is hard, Tor. I want to see you, but every time we’re alone it all comes back. It’s not easy for me,” I say finally.

  He takes my hand in his, softly rubbing my fingers like he used to. “Just meet me, okay? We can just go for a walk, talk about normal things, get used to how things are now. Please?” he says again.

  I want to pull my hand away but I don’t. I want to say no, but I don’t. His eyes bore into mine, and it’s as if I’ve been transported back to the past. The warmth of his breath tickles my cheeks, and he moves his hand up to my neck, cradling it and pulling me in closer. Our lips hover across each others’, my eyes flicking from his mouth and back to his gaze. He kisses me softly, and our lips melt into each other like they were never apart. I feel myself kissing back firmly, knowing inside that though he hasn’t changed, I have dramatically, but for once I just want to let my thoughts slide and just feel. I grip my hands around his neck and hear the vibrating buzz of a cell phone. I’m expecting him to ignore it, but instead he pushes me away and he reaches for it hurriedly, letting me fall backward in the process. He answers it quietly as I regain my balance, and his face blanches.

  “Hold on a minute.” He holds his hand over the receiver and looks at me apologetically. “I need to take this. I’ll find you if you don’t find me,” he says. Then he shuffles out of the meeting room, but not before grabbing every scrap of paper from his desk and making sure I don’t follow. I stand alone in the room for a few minutes, my hand grazing my lips, trying to sort out the atomic blast of emotions that’s just hit me.

  Shelley’s waiting for me outside of our local cafe when I finish work. I sigh deeply when I reach her.

  “I thought you said you were dressing casually?” I ask pointedly. My best friend is decked out in shiny grey shorts with matching suspenders, a lacy cream tank top and slouchy leather boots. Her hair is pulled up into a bouncy ponytail and her neck strung with shiny jewellery. I’m wearing jeans and a plain t-shirt.

  “This is casual, baby. It’s not my fault your idea of casual is clothes to paint a house in,” she retorts with a giggle, “now come on, an epic night awaits!” She grabs my hand and drags me down the street into the throngs of people littering the sidewalks. As I follow her I’m marvelled by the setup here in Ichton. Tiny lights are strung along the lamp-posts, making the street glitter, and the citizens themselves appear shinier, their mouths wide with smiles as they saunter through the night. There are stands selling antique foods like popcorn and cotton candy, and the sweet scent of sugary candy apples makes my mouth water. The Holo-sky is already bright with stars, even though the moon is just peaking above the dark horizon. Colorful galaxies are scattered across the deep indigo mass, and even though deep down I know it’s all engineered, it’s beautiful. It makes me feel like a little girl again, giddily laughing as I eat my teeth rotten and David wins me more than enough teddies.

  “So how are things in Hunter land?” Shelley asks as we weave through the crowd. We’re meeting up with Craig near the bar.

  “The usual. Tor kissed me,” I say, trying to seem nonchalant. My best friend whirls around to face me, her eyes wide with some mixture of incredulity and curiosity.

  “What? What did you do?” she asks.

  “I kissed him, and then his phone rang and he took off,” I say truthfully.

  “You kissed him? So…what does that mean then? Are you a thing?” she continues. I sigh, not quite sure what to say.

  “No. I don’t know. He wants to meet me later tonight, but the way he just took off when his phone went really, well, pissed me off! What am I supposed to think when he kisses me and just bolts? I don’t know, I don’t even want to think about it,” I reply.

  Shelley stops for a moment and places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “You’ll figure it out. Just don’t bring him over to the house,” she warns.

  I force out a laugh and she smiles, grabbing my hand and dragging me onward. Finally we reach the bar, where Craig is standing in wait, mirroring Shelley in light gray trousers paired with a vest and matching fedora. I almost burst out laughing, but then I see that he’s not alone. Next to him, wearing black slacks and a pin-striped button up is Asher Owen, his hair perfectly coifed, leaning against a brick wall with decided aloofness. I tug on Shelley’s sleeve before they notice us, pleading with my eyes.

  “You didn’t tell me he was going to be here,” I whisper harshly.

  Shelley winks at me, proving that she’d set this up. “He likes you, you know,” she says.

  I roll my eyes and a run a hand through my hair. “I’m not going to forgive you for this,” I mutter. Shelley ignores me and waves violently when we reach the two. Craig nods at me before wrapping my best friend into his arms and kissing her passionately. My eyebrows shoot up and Asher’s eyes twinkle as his lips curl into a sm
ile.

  “Nice night,” he says casually. He gazes up at the fake stars with a crooked grin on his face. I can’t help but notice that even though the Holo-sky has been painstakingly built to be beautiful, it really doesn’t compare to the real, vast starry night.

  “It’s alright,” I reply. He chuckles lightly under his breath, still smiling. Shelley, finished with her extensive PDA with Craig, eyes us down.

  “What are you two smiling about?” she asks.

  I just shake my head, enjoying her questioning gaze. “Just an inside joke,” I say. She shrugs and Craig takes her hand.

  “Shall we?” he says, looking back to us, “I’ve got a great place to view the fireworks, it’s just up this way.”

  They lead us through the crowd, and in no time at all we find ourselves completely separated from them, the mills of people rushing to and fro filtering between us. As we keep walking, I keep my eye out for Shelley or Craig, but my focus wanes with each step as I notice Asher’s pace slowing, his face paling. Finally we stop at the corner of a street, and I gesture to him that we step back against the cold brick wall.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  He leans against the wall and now his skin is noticeably pale, his hands quivering though he tries to keep his composure. “I’m fine,” he says, but his breathing is noticeably labored. He stares at the ground, his pupils widening. He looks anything but fine. I brush a hand against his forehead and cringe at the heat radiating from his skin. Then it comes to me; the shaking, the pallid expression, the sweating; he’s with-drawling from Ten.

  “We need to get you somewhere. When was the last time you used?” I ask quietly.

  He glances at me passively, and I can’t help but feel guilty, as if the reason he’s in this state is because I failed to deliver. “Yesterday. I’m done with it, Piper. I don’t want any more,” he says.

  I’m shocked, and a small part of me keeps saying he called me Piper. I look around, realizing that we can’t stay here with him in this condition. Momentarily I think of bringing him to my apartment, but I shake the idea from my thoughts.

  “Is your place close by?” I ask. He nods, strained, and tries to stand up. “Here, let me help you,” I say, hooking an arm under his and supporting his weight. He tries to fend me off, but his energy is waning and he gives up.

  “Just around the corner,” he says, and with me helping him, we slip through the crowds to a small low-rise building. He fumbles in his pockets for his keys, and we stumble together up the badly carpeted stairs and through the rickety door to his apartment. I don’t bother turning on the lights until he’s safely sprawled out on the couch in the main room. He pants loudly as I survey the room until I find a small lamp and flick it on. I don’t know what I was expecting his place to look like—anything but what I see. Instead of the imagined posters of rock idols and empty bottles and dirty laundry I’d pictured, the room is surprisingly…bare. There’s the ratty yellow couch, a side table and a bed pushed into the corner. A small bathroom dwells beside a kitchen empty of any appliances except for a fridge that hums continually. His guitar sits in a corner, leaning precariously against the wall.

  “This is your place?” I ask.

  Asher lies on his back on the couch. His face is slick with sweat, but his breathing has slowed to an even, shallow rhythm. He nods slowly, trying to plaster that grin on his face even though it obviously pains him. “I don’t do a lot of entertaining,” he replies.

  I tip-toe to the kitchen, noting the almost sterile cleanliness of the tiled floors and counters. “Can I get you a drink, or some tabs, or something?” I call out. He takes a moment to reply.

  “Water. Just water,” he says. I flip through the barren cupboards and pull out a glass, wiping the dust from it with a rag before filling it from the PureWater instalment that’s in every building in the city. It settles without bubbling, no sediment, no minerals, just pure, clear water. Asher’s sitting up when I return to the main room, his hair flopped messily to the side. He takes the water hesitantly, staring at the glass before raising it to his lips.

  “I feel like this is my fault,” I half-whisper as I sit beside him.

  He swallows and looks at me curiously. “Your fault? You’ve no idea how much you just saved me. If I’d have been alone on the streets…” he trails off. His eyes turn blank as he stares at the wall, then he shakes his head, pushing away whatever thoughts had intruded him. “I’m off it, for real this time,” he says firmly.

  “Why now?” I ask.

  His lips curl into the smallest of smiles. “I want to feel. I want to know what it’s like to feel. I want to stop running from everything, I guess. I’ve been running for too long,” he replies. I return to the kitchen to wet a cloth with cold water, but when I try to give it to him he shrugs it off. The slight contact I have with his skin proves that his temperature has already turned back to normal, and the colour is returning to his face.

  “I know what it’s like to run,” I reply.

  He looks at me quizzically but doesn’t ask questions. “If you don’t stop, you can’t stop,” he says. He finishes his drink with a long swig and then furrows his brows. “Do you want anything? I don’t have much, maybe a beer in the fridge or something.”

  I shake my head, no. “I’m fine. How are you feeling?”

  He shrugs and stretches his legs out onto the thick wooden coffee table that’s scratched with age and wear. “It comes and goes. Thank you for helping me,” he replies. I lean back into the couch, wondering how it is that I came to be here, in Asher’s apartment, how we’re always somehow thrown together. I study him like he studies me, the casual swagger of his movement paired with intellectually scanning eyes. Every move he makes is concise, controlled, like he’s ten steps ahead of everyone else.

  “So what do you do, anyway? I mean, besides being in the band and all that,” I ask.

  He chuckles lightly, glancing briefly at his haphazardly placed guitar.

  “The band’s just something to do. To be honest I’m a rubbish singer, and I can’t really play that well. I have no idea why they even let me be in the band,” he replies.

  I nearly slap him on the shoulder. “Shut up. You had everyone on their feet,” I say.

  “That’s just the allure of the guitar. It’s something I’ve noticed about people. You throw yourself up on stage with an instrument and a bit of liquid courage and people think you’re some kind of god. I’ll probably get bored of it eventually, move onto something new,” he says casually.

  “So what are you running from, then?”

  To this he really does smile, but that secretive smile of if you only knew.

  “Everything. Myself. My parents. Responsibility. Myself. What about you?”

  My gut instinct screams no, no, no, but another part of me steps in. “Guilt. My brother’s death. Judgment. Myself,” I say.

  “So we both don’t want to be who we are,” he states.

  I chew on my lip as I think about it, wondering if it’s true or not. If I were someone else, how different would I be? If I weren’t a Hunter, would my life be any easier, any happier?

  “I don’t even know who I am anymore,” I say truthfully.

  “I don’t think you’re supposed to. I mean, that’s the point of all of this, right? To figure out who you are and all of that? There can’t be a constant, it would be too boring,” he replies.

  I turn to him, looking straight into his eyes, those bright blue eyes that give away everything and nothing. “You confuse me. I mean that in a good way, I think. I’ve never met anyone quite like you,” I say, shocking even myself with my honesty. Asher holds my gaze, reaching a hand up and brushing a strand of my hair behind my ear.

  “You scare the shit out of me,” he whispers. He moves his hand behind my neck and pulls me toward him. Feeling the warmth of his breath, I lace my fingers through his hair as his lips reach mine, and every single thing in the world fades away except for the warmth of his skin, his soft hair in
my hands as his other arm reaches around my ribcage and pulls me in closer. I let my hands run up his chest, feeling his strong shoulders as his hands graze along my back.

  And maybe it’s the stress or the confusion, maybe it’s just me, but for the first time in a long time everything feels right.

  I leave Asher’s apartment just before the big event. When I left he was sleeping peacefully on his bed, the worst of his withdrawal over and done with. My mind is swirling as I waltz my way through the milling crowds, the bright booths selling their wares, and the excited laughter of children on the street. I look around briefly for the young girl with the pigtails, but give up when I see the familiar lavender awning of my favorite cafe. It feels strange coming here to meet Tor so soon after Asher, and the curiosity I felt about him has slowly melted away. Even the memory of his kiss earlier seems foggy, glazed over by the still-warm memory of Asher’s lips.

  But I wait. I sit, I wait, I wait, and he never comes.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Target: Gabriel. Second son of Ciar. Goes by Gabe Owen in human circles. Extremely dangerous.”

  We sit at the meeting, Myra chairing for once, and she presses the button in her hand to switch the slide on the wall to a recent recon photo of Gabriel and his pack. The landscape behind the vicious Harpies is budding and green, which means they’re moving closer to the city. The team sits quietly, taking notes as Myra describes any noted activity, but I just stare, lost in the glowing green eyes of the Harpy leader. His skin looks smooth as porcelain even though his face is ravaged with rage, his wings a tawny brown splayed out behind him. But there’s something else about him that tugs at me, something so familiar.

  “We’ve noticed there are more Harpies each day joining the pack; if it keeps growing at this rate, we’ll be dealing with hundreds,” pipes up Sully, the aircraft reconnaissance. The room murmurs, each of us living our own private hellish daydream of the ever-impending war. Tor sits at the opposite end of the room. After he stood me up, he gave me excuse after excuse, citing calls from team members and important research as reasons that he didn’t come. I haven’t spoken to him beyond business since. I know that the team took the night off. I know there was no important research. So what was he doing, then? I can’t help but continually notice his addiction to his phone, constantly drilling off messages every few minutes or ducking out of meetings for mysterious callers.