by Lindsey Duga
My shaking hands moved across the blood blossoming on his white shirt. Quickly I took a ripped pillow and applied as much pressure as I could. “Please, please, please stop bleeding.”
Unbelievably, it did. I wasn’t able to tell at first, but when the pillow didn’t immediately soak in crimson I realized that the flow of blood must have slowed…significantly.
Colt’s face was still deathly pale. He mumbled a few words I couldn’t catch and then groaned.
When my adrenaline finally slowed, my mind started working again. Processing what had just happened, what was currently happening.
Did I do that? Did I somehow stop his blood flow? Was Colt…listening to me?
I thought back to when he’d almost crossed the room to untie me and then how he’d been able to stop himself. Had his will been strong enough to resist my voice, but now, since he was barely conscious, my strange power was working on him?
It was a lot to assume, but it was the only thing I could come up with. What was more, his body seemed to be listening to my voice, not just his mind.
As his head turned to the side, his eyes squeezed tight in unfathomable pain, I realized that I was still pressing hard on his wound.
What am I doing?
I was now saving the life of a man who had just tried to haul me into a special monster prison operated by the government, where the nicest thing they would probably do is kill me.
If I wanted to remain free, I would tell the blood to start flowing again. Let him bleed out on the bed that I’d woken up on—stiff, bound, and terribly betrayed.
Of course his betrayal stung. More than anything else. More than even discovering that I was a monster. I knew it was stupid. Very, very stupid to be so upset by the fact that this young man had tricked me.
But, on some level, I’d known what I was. A witch or sorceress, or siren—whatever. I knew that my power was not supposed to exist and that it was unnatural and dangerous.
I’d known all that.
What I hadn’t known was what it felt like to hope, and then have someone shatter it to the point of desolation.
Colt turned his head the other way with a grunt, his breathing growing shallow. Every moment, his face seemed to get paler.
In that split second, I made my decision, really the only possible one to make—I would not let him die. He might have betrayed me, but he’d also shielded me from the rain of bullets, and he had kidnapped me because he thought he was doing good. He believed he was protecting people from a monster who had the power to hurt others.
I thought back to the workers who’d run into the street during my story.
I thought of the evil man who’d beat on his girlfriend.
How I’d hurt them all.
Maybe Colt was right.
I’d tried so hard for seven years to be good and safe. But maybe that wasn’t enough. Maybe it would never be enough.
I didn’t believe the government would use me for good as Colt claimed, and I didn’t want to go with him, but I also didn’t want to see a good person die in front of me. Not because of me. Not when I could stop it.
Removing the pillow, I took a decimated sheet and ripped from bullet hole to bullet hole to create a long strip of fabric. Gingerly, I eased him up into a folded position and tied the sheet tightly around the wound and whispered more commands. “Stop flowing. Stop. Stop. Stop.”
Surely everyone would’ve heard the tommy guns and evacuated the building, calling for help. It seemed simple enough to wait for help to arrive. Coppers could get Colt to a hospital, but then, what if the mystery shooters were among the crowd of onlookers that always gathered around these kinds of things? Or, for all I knew, it might even be coppers that had shot at us. From working at the Dragon I’d seen how corrupt policemen could be. The law didn’t seem to exist for the ones that enforced it. Plus, having lived and worked at an illegal establishment, there was now just a natural disposition to avoid the law at all costs.
But in all likelihood, it hadn’t been coppers. It had to have been the people that Madame had always warned me about. The ones who wanted my power. Though, if that were true, their shootout could’ve killed me, which seemed to be the exact opposite of their goal. Unless they wanted to just kill me and take my siren’s pearl from my corpse, and do what with it, I could only imagine.
No use dwelling on that. Instead, I had to think of a way to avoid anyone who could find out about my power.
C’mon, Eris. Think! What would Stan do?
Stan had been in plenty of illegal boxing matches before and needed a doctor who could stitch him up and not ask any questions. I’d been with him once before when he’d broken his nose for the second time, and again when I’d wanted him to take care of a stray sick kitten I’d found. I remembered the address of the place.
I could leave Colt with the doctor and then escape. No police or hospital staff to dodge and weave. Less chance of drawing attention to a girl who had powers.
If I could pull this off, I’d save Colt and save myself. It was the best chance I had.
But I couldn’t get Colt out of here by myself. I needed someone to help me.
Glancing around the room, I caught sight of a fire escape out the window. Maybe…
I moved toward the window and the rope around my ankles made me trip. Luckily, I managed to catch myself on the edge of the bed before falling flat on my face, and luckier still I caught sight of the knife Colt used to cut my ropes on the floor. Grabbing it, I quickly sawed through my binds and crawled out the window.
Out on the cold metal plating, I looked down at the alley below. Sure enough, a few people were gathered on the street corner, waiting for the scream of police sirens and the coppers to roll up and save the day. There was one young fella who seemed around my age, leaning against the building. He wore a uniform that made me think he worked at the hotel. His back was to me and his shoulder pressed against the brick, one foot tucked behind the other.
His stance appeared bored—as if shootouts happened every day. Maybe they did. I didn’t know much beyond The Blind Dragon.
Leaning over the railing, I cupped my hands around my mouth and called, “Yoohoo.”
I’d heard other women use that before in my speakeasy. One or two birds always looked up. Thankfully, this one did, too.
He saw me three stories up and turned toward the main street as if to get help, but quickly I called, “Come up here.”
The man stiffened, and I imagined the brief flash of confusion across his face as my power took hold. Then he raced over and began climbing up the fire escape, taking the metal steps two at a time in his haste to obey.
As soon as the man reached the landing, I pointed into the room. “Help me carry him outside.”
The young bellhop looped Colt’s arm around his shoulders while I took the other arm and urged Colt to try his best to walk. Once again, the magic that he’d claimed this pearl gave me seemed to propel his body forward, down the hall, and into the staff entrance staircase with our help. At least, that’s what I assumed. I wasn’t sure how a man who’d lost so much blood would be able to walk otherwise. It had to be by sheer strength of will that he’d resisted my voice before, because it now seemed to work when he was all but passed out.
The question was, how had he developed this willpower? Could any normal human with practice achieve it, or did he also have supernatural abilities? Whatever the case, part of me loved that he could resist—even if it put me in more trouble. Maybe it made me a masochist, but the fact that we could carry on a conversation without his gaze going blank made me happy. Finally, I’m heard.
Shaking my head, I focused on the task at hand—making sure my kidnapper didn’t die.
The staff entrance led us out the back of the hotel, and we emerged into the alley just as sirens wailed from down the road. I instructed the bellhop to hang back with Colt, a
nd then I ran out to the street corner. The sun had begun to rise and the city was just waking from its booze-induced sleep. A few people made their way over the crosswalk, running to make sure they met the streetlights, while cars zipped along, their drivers on their way to a long day at the office.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a maid with her dark hair plaited down her back standing on the opposite side of the street, watching the police cruisers head for the hotel. Her gaze darted to me, then she hurried around toward the front entrance, as if she could sense I was trouble.
Well, she was definitely right.
I stepped off the curb and lifted my fingers to my lips, letting out a piercing whistle.
A car screeched to a halt a foot away. The driver stared blankly from behind the windshield, then blinked his confusion.
He hadn’t been meaning to stop at all. He wasn’t a taxi.
I leaned into the open window and told him, “Stay here.”
The driver nodded.
I hurried back to the bellhop who’d remained hidden in the alley with Colt and together we helped the wounded agent into the backseat of the jalopy.
“Never speak of this to anyone,” I told the bellhop as I slid into the car next to Colt.
With a blank, dazed look, the young man nodded, closed the door, and backed up on the street corner.
I instructed the driver to take us to the address of Dr. Boursaw, a veterinarian who moonlighted as a sort of emergency hospital for illegal happenings. The place was only a seven-minute drive, but it felt like a lifetime with Colt breathing shallow and his head leaning back on the leather seat, the warmth of his body pressed against my side. His shirt was damp with perspiration and the other half of it was coated in blood. We couldn’t get there fast enough.
At last, the jalopy parked on a shadowed side street and I recognized the alley to the left as the basement entrance to Dr. Boursaw’s office. The driver took my instructions just as readily as the bellhop had, and practically lifted Colt out of the car, supporting him all the way down the steps to the office door. On what felt like my twentieth knock, the door swung inward swiftly and my fist grazed the white jacket of a grizzled old man. His beard was trimmed finely, but his silver hair and eyebrows were wild. Cheaters sat on the tip of his nose, and gnarled, white-knuckled hands gripped the door. “What the devil do you think you’re doing beating on my back door at six in the morning?” he barked.
I winced, but said, “I need you to take care of my…friend.”
Colt was far from my friend, but “kidnapper” just didn’t have the right ring to it.
Stepping back, Dr. Boursaw let the driver inside, who was still supporting a pale and stumbling Colt. The BOI agent was nearly gone. His skin was coated in sweat, and fresh blood was shining through the bedsheet I had hastily tied around him.
“This way,” Dr. Boursaw said in a clipped tone, as though he was annoyed with himself for complying.
The old vet led us through a small hallway and into the main basement. The room was about one-third the size of The Blind Dragon and held tall stainless-steel cabinets, while white tiles covered the floor. There was a metal sink in the corner and a shiny metal table in the center of the room, floating like its own little island in a sea of white. Everything appeared sterile and polished, much nicer than a back-alley hospital and vet clinic should’ve been.
“Lay him on the table,” Dr. Boursaw ordered, crossing to the sink and rolling up his sleeves.
The driver didn’t move, and I realized he was waiting for orders from me. Licking my lips, I said, “Please do everything the doctor says.”
I moved around to help the anonymous driver lift Colt onto the long table and as we did so, I noticed the man’s clothes and hands were covered in red. Guilt gave me a powerful kick to the gut. I had just used this man against his will. Roped him into something dangerous and unknown, and now he had a stranger’s blood all over his clothes.
I felt sick.
Positioning Colt’s arms on either side of him, keeping an eye on the rising and falling of his chest, I told the driver, “Wash your hands, leave this place, get a new shirt and jacket, go to work, and never tell anyone of this for as long as you live.” I swallowed hard as the man moved to the sink.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered under my breath as the driver lumbered away.
“This wound should’ve killed him,” Dr. Boursaw said.
I jumped to find him so close—on the other side of Colt, gingerly peeling away the linen I’d wrapped around his wound. Dr. Boursaw clucked his tongue and shook his head. “It hit a critical artery.”
That explains all the blood.
The air in the small basement was now thick with the coppery scent of it, overpowering the antiseptic smell that had already been there.
“I’m assuming this is a gunshot? Ah, yes…there’s the bullet,” the vet muttered as he used a long metal tweezer-like tool to dig into Colt’s flesh.
My stomach rolling, I quickly looked away, clamping my jaw shut. Then fingers brushed mine, and I glanced at Colt’s face. He was in agony, his neck straining, muscles and veins pronounced against his sickly pale, sweaty skin. Eyes squeezed closed, his lower back arched and his fingers flexed.
The doctor swore. “I thought the chap was passed out. Hold him down for a minute.”
But Colt wasn’t going anywhere. He panted, his breathing shallow and rasping, and his eyes rolled back into his head.
Heart jumping into my throat, I grabbed his fingers and squeezed them. Then I bent down to put my lips near his ear and whispered,
“Shh, Colt. Everything is going to be okay. The pain isn’t real. The pain isn’t there. You feel nice and relaxed, like having a cup of orange pekoe.”
His muscles stopped straining, and his breathing grew deep and easy—like he had just drifted off into nothing more than a light nap.
Had I tricked his body into believing it was no longer in any harm?
Suddenly a dizzy spell hit me, and I swayed, my knees strangely shaky and the room twirling so fast that my vision struggled to catch it. Gripping the edge of the table, I closed my eyes and waited for the feeling to pass. Meanwhile I tried to diagnose my sudden weakness. I wasn’t squeamish—the blood would’ve gotten to me way before now. I didn’t feel feverish or ill, nor was it my lady cycle.
When it finally passed, my hand strayed to my throat. It was a little sore. Was this my magic at its limits? I’d never used it so much. Could it be giving me this nauseating feeling?
“Just leave,” Dr. Boursaw said without looking up as he stuck a needle into Colt’s shoulder. “I don’t want to have to clean up your mess.”
Just leave. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
After all, that had been my plan. Get Colt to Dr. Boursaw and then escape. At this point, I’d done all I could.
Live or die, his life was no longer in my hands. It was in God’s.
My thoughts were calm, yet my hands shook as I crossed to the sink and washed the sticky blood off my fingers. Then I left the white-and-silver, sterilized basement and shut the door behind me.
But I didn’t walk down the hall, up the steps, and out into the alley. I couldn’t even take a step forward.
Move. Go!
Instead, I pressed my back against the door, slid down until I was on the cold floor, and laced my fingers together, lifting them to my chin in prayer.
Live. Live. Live. Live. Live.
I didn’t even realize I was chanting the word, or how long I had been chanting it, until the door at the end of the hall opened. A large silhouette of a man filled the doorway. As he shut the door behind him to block out the morning sun that backlit him, I could make out features. Big, broad shoulders, a gray jacket with matching trousers and a large bowler hat.
The man was a giant. He had to stoop so his head didn’t brush the ceiling.<
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Now even more nauseated and weaker than before, I struggled to my feet and said, “Sir, you need to leave.”
But the big man didn’t stop or turn around, he just kept moving down the hall toward me.
Bushwa! Could this man be like Colt? Able to resist my voice?
In four long strides, the man’s big, beefy fingers locked both my wrists in only his right hand without any trouble. With his left, he pulled rope from his coat pocket.
A glimpse of white in my peripheral vision made me look up, and I noticed two pieces of fluffy cotton wedged into the man’s ears. He couldn’t hear me. He knows.
The man’s strength felt inhuman. No matter how hard I pulled or twisted, he held on as if I was nothing more than a fussy puppy on a leash. In one feeble attempt, I kicked out at his shin, and my kitten heel dug into his skin. With a grunt, he reared his head back in pain and his bowler hat fluttered to the floor…revealing two white bull horns protruding from his temples.
Chapter Eight
The Agent
Blurry shapes moved around me, shadows in and out of focus ankling through my vision like sludge. I tried to move my limbs and I tried to speak, but I couldn’t. My tongue felt thick in my mouth and for once in my life, I was cold. Really, really cold. Freezing and shivering. All except for my left shoulder, which burned like the flames of hellfire.
I’d been shot once before—it hadn’t been fun—but it had only been a graze on my side. Not a full bullet tearing apart muscle and flesh.
Then I heard that voice. Soft, soothing, instructive. I let myself listen. Let myself lower my walls and allow the magic to seep through. I didn’t have enough strength to resist.
It told me to stand and put one foot in front of the other. I obeyed. Anything for that voice. Absolutely anything. I’d run across the Sahara. Swim through the Pacific. Climb the Chrysler Building for it.
My first lucid moment was in a stark white room with a strange man looming over me. Agony ripped through my body as sharpened metal poked tender flesh.