Becoming Red (The Becoming Novels)

by Black, Paula

  ‘We should eat, huh, boy? That might calm us down.’ Or give her enough energy to take a running jump high enough to land her on the fucking moon. The house was growing on her. She enjoyed winding through the corridors, bouncing up the staircases, navigating the mass of weird cluttered around her like Alice in Wonderland had been thrown up right out of its pages. At least she didn’t have to worry about stacks of paper toppling over and crushing her as she watched TV anymore. Excess energy had ploughed right through the forests of documents, keeping anything that looked important and tossing the crap to be shredded by the eager play of the mutt. She’d cleared the kitchen, its tops polished to a high gloss, and as she rooted in cupboards that looked surprisingly bare, her hands rifling through the shelves and drawers, tipping up empty cereal boxes, and chucking them into recycling when she got no more than a crumb. The fridge offered the same. Nothing. No milk, no bread, not even a slice of cheese. How had she not noticed? Oh yeah. She’d been too busy scarfing her way through everything like a junkie with the munchies. The cupboard door snapped shut with a hard crack as Ash slammed her frustration through the wood, spinning on her heel and as her brain spit up some half-command to get out of the house, she caught her image in the mirror. And it was not good. Think Dorian Gray’s picture. She looked dead on her feet, eyes wide, and glassed out, a light purplish bruise in the sockets, more suitcases than bags under her eyes and her lips were chapped all to hell from how she’d been gnawing on them. Something had died and had knot babies in the nest of her hair too. Her sprint home had tangled it up something evil and her lip curled.

  She looked like an extra from The Walking Dead and she reeled back from the image to scold the dog peering up at her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me I look one groan away from chowing down on your brains?’ She couldn’t go hunting outside for food looking like this. She’d be shot on sight.

  Shower. She’d shower. And then she’d wander. And hunt.

  It was later than she’d anticipated when Ash finally emerged from her house and set off back towards the centre of town. Freshly showered, hair brushed, bags covered and lip balm applied, she felt good. She felt ... sexy again. Like she was naked and dancing in the mirror all over again. But in public. I’m pretty sure that’s illegal ... Ash crossed her arms over her chest, protecting modesty that was already covered by the folds of her coat, and tried her best not to hooker walk. She didn’t do the hip-swaying seduction, the straight spine, shoulders back, boobs out strut that women seemed to adopt when they were out. But she wanted to. And that freaked her more than the bouncy threatening to have her skipping saucily past Trinity College like she was Jessica Rabbit. Fighting the urges telling her to flaunt the sexy she was feeling had her rigid and robotic, small-heeled boots clacking on the ground, her red wrapped around her like a shield that got her wishing she had worn a longer dress, a higher neckline. The jersey fabric was rose printed and black, both fitted and free flowing. Flirty and demure. She was buttoned up to the neck in her red coat, only the smallest strip of the dress’s skirt on show above her knee to tempt anyone. She didn’t want to tempt anyone. Did she? Ash couldn’t get her head straight. She tackled back and forth between her caged up ice queen impression and stepping through the doors into a Narnia where she was a hornbot.

  A wolf whistle rang through the air as she hit Dame Street, groups of tourists, and women already dressed up, bustling to find the hidden gems of the Temple Bar district. Ash didn’t assume the appreciation was for her, not with all the leggy supermodel types strutting around, but she caught the eye of the whistler as her head turned in the direction of the sound. His gaze was definitely on her. Her hips swished before she caught the motion and trained it into a fast hurried on walk. She wouldn’t be eating along this stretch.

  Lost among the crowds, slipping between people and dodging hurrying businessmen, who she eyed with a new wariness, the walk wasn’t too long. It went too quickly and tired out only a small portion of her energy. She didn’t know where she’d wandered, maybe a mile from the bars, stretching her legs to a faster pace, scanning for a place that was serving something high in fat, anything that could fill the gnawing starting up a serious protest in her stomach. She didn’t find any fast-food joints, only office type buildings ... and a cute little piece of brick face and white-washed walls. It looked like a tiny castle, a medieval tavern tucked away between all the modern sprawling. And the scents from it were more than divine. She’d found food heaven.

  She’d definitely found food heaven. Half way through a bowl of onion rings that should have their own cult worshippers, Ash had set herself up at the bar, a hot, whipped-cream-on-the-top Bailey’s coffee and a pint of Guinness in front of her. The first, she’d ordered. The second had been ordered for her. By some guy who still sat with his buddies by the window leering at her and revving himself up to approach. She’d smiled her blushing thanks and quickly turned back to occupying her mouth so she had some excuse not to talk or encourage his interest. She just wanted to eat.

  It was two bowls of onion rings later, another coffee and a customised cocktail of apple vodka and Appletiser she’d forced the barmaid to mix for her before she decided she’d have to eat something else.

  ‘Damn, you’re putting that away. Has someone been starving you?’ The pretty blonde waitress laughed as she set another bowl at her side and spun off with Ash’s latest order.

  She sipped as she waited, curling her tongue in the creamy sweet whip of dairy decorating her coffee and nibbling a deep-fried ring, slowing down in preparation for the main course she hoped would be here soon. Ash had never eaten so much in her entire life but she couldn’t find the will to care about all the calories. She just enjoyed, bouncing all the while to the music filtering through the continuous stream of voices.

  ‘Hey!!’ She started, turned wide eyes to the man at her ear and leaned back as he leaned in. ‘I like your coat!!!!’ He was yelling to be heard and she focussed on his mouth as he shaped the words. Her damn coat again!! She’d stop wearing it if it hadn’t become part of her body. As it were, she could only bring herself to shrug out of it, letting it hang over the bar-stool, trapped from anyone’s thieving hands by her spine and the wooden back. She forced a smile, kind of flattered, even though half of her brain was focussed on the waitress every time she appeared from the kitchen. ‘Where are you from?!!’

  ‘Cambridge, Massachusetts!!’ She yelled back, laughing. He got all happy that she’d answered and Ash dimmed her smile a little.

  ‘Is that in England?!!’ Her brow quirked. Seriously? She shook her head, letting her hair curtain her features and promptly picked up another ring.

  ‘America!’ And that was his shut down. Her tone was solid, not breathy and flirty. She didn’t like to think of England. He hesitated a little, wondering what had changed, and then wandered off looking a little lost. But he wasn’t the last one to interrupt her meal. They flocked to her more, and as the burger was settled in front of her, Ash wondered if it wasn’t her food rather than her they were really after.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Connal watched the young Polish waitress weave her way through the crowd to his table. It was quite a display of balance and reflexes to see how she dodged the random lunges and gesticulating arms of the punters caught up in the Friday night revelry. She managed to pull it off with grace and an enthusiastic smile, setting the pint of Guinness and fully loaded plate of Dublin Bay Prawns down on the table in front of him. ‘Landed fresh off the boat this morning.’ She had to shout to make her accented words heard above the jumbled clamour of voices vying for attention. The Brazen Head was heaving with bodies, layer upon layer of conversations creating the buzz that was the soundtrack to pub culture in Dublin. Connal thanked the girl and slipped a neat bundle of Euros on to her tray, throwing in a generous tip for the table. It was perfectly discreet, tucked away in the shadows, but affording him a direct eyeline to the bar and the object of his attention for the night ... who currently had some tall, dark and sleaz
y asshole draping an arm over her shoulder and putting his mouth to her ear on the pretence of making himself heard over the din.

  The scene rendered Connal oblivious to the waitress, who was still hovering over the table. She had tucked a stray lock of white blonde hair behind one ear, unmanicured hands smoothing the black apron down over narrow hips in a nervous gesture that suggested she was contemplating something reckless, like maybe asking out the cute, scruffy guy who gave big tips and crooked smiles. She looked to be plucking up the courage to speak to him again when a dangerous sound, that could only be described as a growl, ripped from his throat, his handsome expression darkening to a glower that stripped away any notions she’d had of him being approachable. She started, snapped from her brief moment of impulsiveness, bundled up her tray and retreated back to the bar with considerably less grace than when she had arrived.

  The noise in the pub made it virtually impossible to tune in to individual conversations, but Connal watched intently as Ashling DeMorgan mouthed something to the guy, and Mr. Sleaze backed off. As he did, Connal let go of the tension that had strung his body taut as a wire. Now, she was sinking her teeth into a burger that was at least four times as big as her mouth. A smile hovered on his lips and he turned his attention to his own plate, taking a long draft of the bitter Guinness and licking the creamy head from his lips. Landed fresh this morning. He tapped the head of a giant prawn with the tines of his fork. ‘Don’t suppose you came across a crabby old woman’s brain out there in the bay, Shrimpy?’ He picked up the big, ugly crustacean by its curled body and stared down its beady black eyes, dangling the pincers in mid-air. ‘Is that you in there, Anann?’ He danced the creature’s legs like some macabre puppet, parodying Anann DeMorgan’s last, mocking, words to him. ‘Don’t play the cute hoor with me, Connal Savage. If you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas ... and above all you will not fuck her ...’

  Not fuck her, yeah. He lifted darkly dilated eyes to the woman at the bar, lids dropping to half-mast as his mind replayed how her hands had felt on his body, ripping, clawing, how he’d come in the shower, on her command. She was oblivious to the weight of his stare, chain-feeding chunky chips into her lush mouth. So far, he’d lived up to the deal by watching her from a distance. He had bloody motion sickness from watching her. Sure, it was a rare Latent that didn’t succumb to the highs of the moon fever, but this girl? Damn ... energetic didn’t begin to cover it. She had spent the day in a state of such giddy, perpetual motion that not even the mutt could keep pace with her manic, energiser bunny impersonation. And all he could think about was fucking her. Talk about reverse psychology. He doubted he’d have even considered the fucking if Nan DeMorgan hadn’t planted that little timebomb of an idea in his head. But that was a bare-arsed lie, and he knew it. This girl, Ashling, pushed all his buttons, tapped into his most primal of male instincts.

  Speaking of, Mr. Sleaze was back, sniffing around her, all arrogant horn-dog with his sticky, wandering hands. Connal ripped the head off the prawn, tore away the legs and sank his teeth into the sweet flesh, all the while glaring daggers at the scene playing out across the crowded bar.

  She’d had enough! Like a fly, he came back, a persistent nuisance obviously as thick in the head as he was around his middle. He encroached on her space until she felt stifled, her burger-gasm delayed and cut off altogether as every chew and swallow was filled with a new topic of random conversation, his every thought spoken aloud. Ash flicked at his hand as it once more fell to her thigh, feeling greased like a pig in a wrasslin’ contest from all the pawing. She wasn’t a Goddamn petting zoo. Her words got terser, edged in steel as she batted him from her presence with near growled irritation. She just wanted to eat her burger. She didn’t need to be watched and she knew, somewhere, with a gaze that crept over her body like hot fingers, someone had their eyes on her. Intense, powerful, heavy. It could be any one of the men in the room. But this one was ... dangerous. And she tried, she really did try to ignore them.

  This night was seriously starting to piss him off. Connal took out a measure of his aggression on the unsuspecting food. The ravaged skeletons of the prawns littered the plate like the aftermath of a grisly massacre. One by one, he mentally decapitated the heads and tore the limbs from the procession of tom-catting males who mauled her with their eyes. Mr. Sleaze and his greasy, wandering hands was the worst, getting in close and plying her with alcohol. He could garrotte that bastard just for breathing her scent. He drained the pint glass, blotted his mouth on the paper napkin and pushed the plate away, but the whole time he ate, the cold steel of his predatorial eyes never left the bar. He examined everyone who watched her for signs they were under the influence, any excuse to tear into the lust-crazed sons of bitches who fucked her with their eyes. In the heat of his possessive thoughts, every leery expression and drunken, handsy grope looked, to him, like justifiable homicide. He went for the pint glass, found it empty, planted it back on the table in frustration, told himself it wasn’t about her, it was because he was out of his natural environment, cooped up in this crowded pub playing babysitter-slash-creepy stalker, when he should be out hunting. Yeah, and would you like a side of denial with your super sized plate of self-deluded bullshit, Sir?

  Damn, was she ever going to stop eating? Watching her was making his stomach growl. He looked about for the waitress, wondering why she hadn’t come back to ask if he wanted dessert. When his gaze tracked back to the bar, Ashling DeMorgan was on the move. The napkin fell to the floor as he stood up from the table, hefting it aside to push his way through the jostling crowd, following the back of her red coat as she headed toward the exit door.

  Freedom!! She stepped into the cool night’s air and exhaled hard, her red cuddled back around her. The darkness had closed in while Ash had feasted, the moon fuller than her stomach and casting a natural street lamp to illuminate her way home. Ash may have been just a little bit nervous as soon as she stepped from the relative crowded safety of the Brazen Head into the insane quiet of the street. But while they watched through the window as she left, no one made a move to follow.

  Good. She wasn’t in the mood. She was still hungry.

  And now that she had stopped eating, her body was making with all kinds of twitching that spurred her into skipping motion. Back the way she came, Ash tipped her head back and watched the sky move above her, stars stalking her with a twinkling gaze that drew tension up her spine and an odd heat to her cheeks. She was still bouncing; the Gods should just have birthed her with pogo sticks on her feet the way she was carrying on. Yet her spine held an edge of caution, wired tight despite the relaxing wind whispering warm against her skin.

  The city looked mystical in the dark, shadows cloaking the corners and tendrils of red creeping from the manhole covers like they were steaming and lit up from within. She stepped over to one, waving her hand through the red mist, mesmerised and standing across the grid like she was Marilyn Monroe in colour. It was pretty, and slightly horror B-Movie. Ash scooted back at the sounds of footsteps, a party troupe of people closing in on Temple Bar. They wore clothes she longed to possess, flashes of red, bright and loud, beautiful hues of scarlet and crimson and fire truck. Ash’s brow furrowed watching them, her eyes on wildly gesticulating hands and twirling bodies. They came like a pack of cheer and high-floating ecstasy, happy, laughing and all she noticed, when she managed to tear her eyes from the red, was the fingernails, half mooned in black. A trend resurrected perhaps. It seemed to be everywhere. The fashion of Dublin from old to young.

  They moved off into the night like the wind and she followed behind for as long as her path home merged with theirs. She was watching her feet, minding her own business and keeping herself calm, steadying the thrum in her veins, when the soft twitch in her senses said she was still being watched. She put it down to the moon, the great Eye of Sauron presence in the sky keeping guard over her. Ash shivered, pulled her coat tighter and wandered on, pretending she was tracking her own footsteps as small gr
oups toppled past her in both directions. The darkness seemed to be growing as the minutes trekked on, stalking her with lengthening shadows and whips of a cooling wind, red curling her ankles like bony fingers of blood as she passed the grids in the roads and she wondered strangely if Dublin lit its manholes as a warning.

  Damn but this one-woman, male attention magnet moved fast. By the time Connal finally disentangled himself from the knot of bodies and pushed out through the door of the Brazen Head, she was already rounding the corner. All he caught was a flash of her scarlet coat and a whip of raven hair. He jogged after her, took the street in long strides until he could fall into step a safe distance behind. As he strode, he brushed elbows with the throng of tourists lured out of the pubs by the unusually balmy night. Loose from the drink, they huddled together in small, chattering packs, shooting the breeze and drinking beer, oblivious in their laughter to the wisps of red fog that rose up through the cracks and grates in the ground and clung to their ankles. He halted mid-step, in synch with Ashling DeMorgan’s unexpected stop. Ducking into a darkened doorway, he watched, intrigued, as she stood across one of the metal gratings and allowed the crimson mist to envelop her body, its smoky feelers vining up her legs. She could see what other eyes could not, he was certain, because she stood spell-bound for a moment, wafting her hands through the stuff. In case he needed more evidence of her Latent status, she posed provocatively over the grille and his blood ran to ice water. A territorial growl ripped from his throat. He really didn’t like it, had to tamp down an irrational urge to grab her, throw her over his shoulder and just make a run for it. Yeah, like his Captain Caveman impression wouldn’t freak her the hell out ... Don’t get attached, Savage. Said the super-ego to the id. They all lose their charms, in the end ... He’d blame it on the moon, or whatever pheromones this girl was giving off that had her in need of a stick to fend off male attention, but whatever the cause, his body literally shook with tension, time counted in furious heartbeats until finally, she abandoned the eerily seductive creep show and resumed walking.