“I'm sure Lizzy'll give you your job back when this whole thing blows over.” Travis handed her a faded blue and gray Detroit Lions blanket. “I'd give you my bed, but it's kinda gross. I think the couch is cleaner.”
Camila took the blanket, feigning a yawn. The atmosphere in the room was decidedly awkward, and she needed to be alone for what she was planning to do next. Travis shuffled off and clicked his door shut. Camila pulled out the folded piece of paper from her pocket. In all the excitement she’d forgotten she had a new number at the bottom, penned in fresh ink. Marquez, her father. She thought of his photo stuffed in Mama's frame, the cleft chin, the dark curly hair, the crooked front tooth. Did he ever think of her? Had he ever tried to call, come by? What would he say to his long-lost daughter? She looked down at her cellphone. Time to find out.
She dialed the number. She'd been nervous with Aunt Bea, even worse with Ben, but this…
It rang three times. A deep male voice, sleepy and deep, answered. “Hello?”
She swallowed. “Marquez? Is this Marquez?”
“Yeah,” his voice was slow and thick. He coughed into the phone. “Who is this?”
“My name is Camila. And I'm…your daughter.”
The man coughed again. “It’s the middle of the night. I'm not in the mood for jokes.” His words slurred as if he were drunk.
“This isn't a joke. My mother is Luisa Acha. I think you know her and my Aunt Bea.”
There was a pause and then a low rumble that turned into a wheezing laugh. “So, she told you, eh? She said she'd never tell her daughter about the pigshit that fathered her. Looks like I'm not too much of a pigshit after all.”
“No, she didn't tell me. I found a picture and kind of put things together.” She paused. “So, why didn't you ever come to see me?”
“Your mother said she'd cut off my balls if I ever set foot near you. And Bea,” he took a swig of something, gulped, and continued. “She wasn't too keen on me seeing Luisa either.”
“But you didn't even try? Not once?” Anger flooded her voice. Fifteen years of having a blank spot where her father should be and this man, this drunk idiot was it?
“Listen, girly—”
“My name is Camila.” She gripped the phone with white knuckles.
“Camila, this is a lot, and it's past midnight, sweetheart. Maybe we could talk later on. Next week or whatever?”
He was just trying to get her off the phone.
“I don't want to talk to you next week. I have nothing to say to you.”
She waited for him to respond. All that followed was silence.
“I want to know is if you know the number for my grandfather, Cruz Acha. Then I’ll leave you alone. Forever.”
He coughed again, the phone shifting. “Nope. No idea. That guy hated me.”
“Well, good,” she said. “At least you're thoroughly useless then. Have a good life.”
She hung up.
She didn’t cry. Instead, she lay on the couch and pulled the blanket over her legs. She thought of the rocks she'd seen on the beach. How many waves had they weathered before they were pebbles, before they were grains of sand? Before they were nothing, nothing at all?
Friday 6:46 a.m.
Camila woke to someone pounding on the front door.
Her eyes flew open, panic stretching over her body. Morning light filtered in from Travis's smoke-glazed kitchen window. Her eyes locked on the front door. The knuckles sounded again. Harder.
Travis skidded out of his bedroom, tugging on a pair of jeans. He shot a terrified glance at Camila, waved at her to stay out of sight, and peered out the peephole.
“Oh shit,” he said. “Get in my room.” He reached down and unlocked the door.
Camila stood upright, dragging the blanket with her. She was in a tank top and jean shorts. She had no idea where her shoes were. If it was the cops, she was done for. She scrambled toward Travis's bedroom as the door flew open.
A girl Camila had never seen burst in. “I wanted to talk to you before work. I need to know…”
She stopped, eyes locked on Camila halfway in the bedroom, a blanket around her waist. Shock flashed on this girl’s face as if someone had just tossed a bucket of water at her. Her fists balled up. Her cheeks reddened.
“You slept with her?” she screamed. She whirled on Travis. “You took me out to a movie and then you came back and had sex with her?”
Travis shook his head, holding his palms up in defense. “No, no, no. Camila just crashed here.”
The girl folded her arms across her chest and flashed a set of white teeth. “Spare me.” She shot a venomous glance at Camila. “I knew you liked trash,” she said, “but I didn't know you were into whores, too.”
Camila took a step forward. “You can't call me that!”
“Wait, I know who you are.” The girl narrowed her eyes. “Yes, it is you. You know, my daddy is a county prosecutor and really hates shoplifting.” The girl paused, studying Camila's face. “And he prosecutes criminals to the full extent of the law.”
Camila dropped her jaw. This girl knew who she was. She knew about Mama. She had to get away.
The girl pulled her cellphone out of her pocket and began punching numbers. “Let's see what the police have to say about this.”
“Michelle, stop!” Travis scrambled for the phone in Michelle's hands. Camila grabbed her shoes, shouldered past them and sprinted out the door.
She took the apartment stairs two at a time. She stumbled once, wrenching her sore ankle, which instantly began throbbing again. She gritted her teeth and ran. John, she thought. She had to find him. Would he be waiting for her in the shadows like he always was?
She skidded around the side of the apartment complex, dodging a broken beer bottle. The alleyway between two buildings was thick with morning shadow. She turned in. It would give her cover from the road while she thought. She pressed her back to the warm brick and turned her eyes to the clouds. How could she find John? He said he'd be waiting at the trailer park, but she couldn't go back there. Fer. She dug in her pocket for her cellphone, but her hand came up empty. It must've slipped out of her pocket when she was sleeping on the couch.
“Dammit,” she whispered, flicking her eyes to the street. The alleyway opened up to the parking lot and after that the main road. The forest waited on the other side. She could run across and into tree cover. From there, she'd circle back to the trailer park and hope John would find her. It was her only shot.
A shape streaked down from the sky and landed in front of her, sending the trash skittering in all directions. John! Her heart soared. The figure uncurled himself and lifted his head.
Nomad.
He was wearing jeans, brand-new sneakers, and a Pacer's T-shirt with crisp lines. He looked so much like John—brown hair, brown eyes, tall, and muscular—but without John’s kindness.
All good feelings drained away. John had told her to run if she ever saw Nomad again, and boy, was she willing to oblige. She stepped back, clutching the brick, her heart pounding.
Nomad smiled smugly at her. He tossed back a lock of dark hair and raised an eyebrow. “Whoa, mama, could you use a shower.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and tried not to tremble. “What do you want?” Her eyes flicked to the road. Clearly he could fly like John. Did he have other powers as well? Could she make it across the street before he pounced?
Nomad closed the gap between them, his eyes still on her. She shivered and shot a glance to the sky.
“Your boy isn't coming.” Nomad followed her eyes up to the clouds. “Busy. Sorry. Maybe later you two can rendezvous. That's what you lovers say, right? A little rendezvous.” He threw on a French accent and twiddled his fingers.
“If you touch him, I'll—”
“Oh, Camila— Mind if I call you Camila?” he asked, digging a bag of sunflower seeds out of his pocket. She watched as he pried open the bag with his teeth and tipped a large portion of seeds into his mouth. He paus
ed, crunching, and offered her the bag. “Want some?” She shook her head. Nomad shrugged. “Camila, listen, I wanna help you out here. You've got spunk. It's kinda cute. But all this sass,” he waved his hand in the air, “is gonna get you killed, honey lamb.”
He spit a few seeds to the pavement. When he raised his eyes again, they were darker, colder. “I want you to understand,” he stepped closer and grabbed her wrist.
She struggled back, but his grip was iron, his hand a vise. He stared into her eyes. She could smell the wind on him and something else. Something animal.
He gripped her harder. She winced.
“He's got you thinking you're special,” Nomad said, revealing perfect white teeth. “But you're not. You're a complication. An annoyance. And hanging around us is going to get you killed.” He squeezed harder. Pain flared up her arm.
“Stop!” she said, scrambling back, her shoes scuffing into the brick.
“But doll face, if I stop, you'll never learn.” He pouted his lower lip. “It's like a wild dog, yeah? Get bitten once and you won't put your hands near its mouth again.”
She shook her head back and forth, the brick scraping against her skull. Her fingers were blue. Her arm was speckled red.
He smiled then, unable to control himself. “It's for your own good.” Then he wrenched her hand back, way, way too far.
There was a sickening pop.
Camila gasped. White-hot pain snapped from her wrist to her brain, blocking out all thought. Her knees sagged. Pain pulsed into her head. She slumped down the wall.
“See,” Nomad said, as he wrapped his arms around her chest and pulled her upright. “Now you know we bite. Even John. He'll bite when the time comes.”
Her body sagged against Nomad's as her mind floated somewhere out of reach, out of the pain that throbbed, throbbed, throbbed at the back of her mind. Suddenly, she felt a searing heat on her skin. Her eye's snapped open to see Nomad burning a shape into the brick with…his eyes?!
Oh God, she was going to die.
Nomad pushed up, lifting Camila with him. Her sneakers scraped against the pavement, then paddled through open air. They took off, shooting into the sky.
John
Friday 7:01 a.m.
John hobbled toward the apartments in the dim morning light as his leg stitched itself back together.
The pain was awful, but he kept himself occupied by following the scent of strawberry shampoo. It was faint, but when he honed his mind, the scent was there like a thin ribbon drawing him to her. He glanced around at the apartments: the busted front windows, the spray-painted dumpster. A baby cried in an upstairs window and someone was either vacuuming or drying their hair. The rest of the windows were shut or humming with AC units. A willowy old man sat on a stoop three buildings down, puffing on a cigarette. John smelled burnt bacon, motor oil, and garbage.
What was Camila doing in this seedy complex?
Her scent led to a door propped open with a rock. John lumbered up the rickety stairs, pain spiking at every step, but it was duller now. His broken foot seemed to be totally healed, and the shin, too. His femur still felt brittle as glass, but he focused on her scent, the strawberry smell close now, sending tingles up his spine. He found the door and knocked, not sure what to expect.
A boy flung the door open. As soon as he saw him, his face fell. John recognized him now, Travis from the ice cream shop. He looked awful, hair disheveled, pants sagging over dirty boxers, a red welt forming on one cheek.
“What d’you want?” Travis asked, glaring at John. Then, slowly, his face morphed into a look of panic, his jaw dropping. “You…you're the psycho dude!” He shoved the door closed.
John thrust his foot in the gap, the door slamming against his toes and jangling open. Then he shouldered into the door, helping it snap back. Travis stumbled backwards, skidding to his butt on the dirty carpet.
“Where is she?” John said, striding in, looking around. Some of the rage from the forest had followed him. If this boy had done anything to her…
He shook his head, trying to clear the anger away. If he didn't calm down, he could hurt someone. Bad. “Where is she?” he repeated.
Travis jumped up, the veins on his neck pulsing. “I'm not gonna tell you.” His wide eyes flicked toward a cellphone on the coffee table.
John shook his head, striding forward, arms flexed. Travis backed up, his eyes widening. John towered over him, eyes slitted. “You're not going to call anyone.” Realizing fear would get him nowhere, he took a deep breath and lightened his tone. “Look, I'm not here to hurt her. I'm here to protect her. She's in danger.”
“Yeah, from you!” Travis shouted. He balled up his fist, reached back, and socked John in the face.
It felt like a child's punch, but John’s body reacted anyway. Before he knew it, he had his hands around Travis's scrawny neck and was lifting him into the air.
Travis's legs wheeled, one bare foot catching John in the stomach. His hands circled John's wrists, scratching and clawing. His eyes bulged behind the clump of greasy blond hair that had fallen over his eyes. None of it stopped John. Anger vined through his brain, snaked through his synapses, blocked out thought. He slammed Travis into the wall, the drywall denting. This boy wanted Camila. John wanted to smash. To tear.
The boy's face was turning blue, the veins on his neck pulsing as he took small, gasping breaths. His scared, watering eyes found John's. “Please.”
Gods, what was he doing? John shook his head, releasing Travis, who slumped down the wall into a pile on the floor. John stepped back, his hands trembling. Why had he attacked this boy? What was happening to him? He backed away as Travis sat up, gasping. When he looked up at John, the terror was still there.
“Sorry,” John mumbled, staggering out of the apartment.
“You…better not hurt her!” Travis rasped as John pushed out the door.
John didn't answer. He came for Camila.
His eyes searched the parking lot, the shrubs, any place she could hide. He sniffed again. There, faintly, was the ribbon of scent, and something else too. Something…charred? He followed it around the building and down the alley. It didn't take him long to find the singed brick. He blinked at the two blackened triangles for a moment, a sense of dread stealing over him.
The drawing looked like someone had taken a blowtorch to the wall. John's whole body went numb. He walked over and placed his hand on a seared drawing of the Mackinaw Island Bridge. Still hot.
Camila
Friday 7:50 a.m.
Camila clung to the metal girding and prayed. Holy Mary, Mother of God…
She tried not to look down. The metal railing was ice cold and her good hand felt numb, but she clutched the railing for dear life. The broken wrist… She couldn’t even bring herself to look at it. What had Nomad done to her? What else would he do?
The wind gusted again, splaying her hair back. The twenty-foot long walkway shimmied with the wind, making it feel even more unstable. She tucked her head to her chest, gripped the railing, and prayed.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
When Nomad had deposited her nearly fifty stories up at the top of the tower, Camila had felt relief. Anything not to be in the air, pressed against Nomad's sweaty body, his arms wrapped just below her breasts, his chin brushing against the back of her head. She'd spent most of the ride convinced that at any moment he would drop her just to watch her splat. But now, with the wind buffeting her like a steady slap and the tower jittering like a tree branch in a tornado, she knew this was worse.
She forced herself to look down at her broken wrist, clutched to her chest like a wounded animal. The pain blared like a foghorn, nearly blocking out rational thought, but somehow the eminent fear of death cleared her head. Pain was temporary. Death, well, that wasn't something you could just grin and bear.
“Let me down!” she yelled at Nomad, who stood on the other side of the twenty-foot walkway, his
clothes fluttering in the wind.
Since he'd dropped her on the support tower, he'd pretty much ignored her completely, spending his time watching the horizon and staring down at the little cars trundling along. She steeled her nerve enough to let go of the railing and waved her good arm at him. “Let. Me. Down!”
His head snapped up at her, annoyance creeping onto his face. He didn't bother answering, just went back to scanning the horizon.
She wrapped her good arm around the metal railing and accidentally looked through the metal grate below. Her head swam at the height. So high. If she fell… She closed her eyes and pressed out the thought. Why was she so afraid? She hadn't had this fear when John had lifted her into the sky. Then again, she'd known he’d keep her safe. She swallowed and forced her eyes open. Maybe if she looked again, the fear would subside.
She let her eyes stray out over the water. The blue lake was beautiful this time of morning. She'd seen it once before on a church trip with a friend's youth group in eighth grade. In the morning light, the lake was almost purple, capped with frothy flecks of white. The cars were insects from this high. At first she'd hoped someone would see them and call the police, but now she knew better. Even if someone managed to look up, she and Nomad would be little black specks. Indecipherable from the metal tower.
She let her eyes follow Nomad's out to where the earth curved. John had to come. That was why Nomad brought her here. She was the worm dangling on a flashy hook, the peanut butter in the mousetrap. God, this all was so ridiculous. Then she looked down at the cars fifty stories below and lost her humor.
Would John care enough to come? To battle this insane superhuman for her? Camila pressed her forehead to the railing, an unease falling over her. She wasn't prize enough to warrant a duel to the death. She tried not to imagine what it would feel like to plummet from this height into the waves below. Didn't they say hitting water from this high up was like hitting concrete?
20 Shades of Shifters: A Paranormal Romance Collection Page 163