I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Thinking it’s stupid is stupid.” I wink, then glance at the door, and take a chance. “I get it though. Growing up in the foster system, I didn’t think I’d go to college either. Now I’m signed up for my first semester this fall at University of Houston.”
Jeremy looks up from his feet. “You were in the foster system?”
“Yep.” I pop the ‘p.’ “Since I was seven. Do you know what you’d study? If you did go to college?”
“It’s dumb.”
“It’s dumb to think it’s dumb, dude.”
Snorting, Jeremy twists that thread until his finger turns purple. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Each time he winds and unwinds it, he takes in a breath, then lets it out. His gaze slides to the knit carpet between us, focus far off, eyes unseeing.
As I wait, I sip my coffee. Tons of other instances like this flood my brain. Quiet usually brought out an answer with my fellow foster friends. Even if it doesn’t help in Jeremy’s case, silence might show him I won’t rush a response, that I’m willing to wait him out.
You learn a lot about people when you bounce from foster family to foster family for years.
“Art.” Jeremy says the word so far under his breath I almost miss it. “I know it’s not worth anything, not really, but...” Wind, unwind, wind, unwind. “But it talks when we can’t.”
Emotion forms a wad in my throat and I gulp down coffee to try and stave off tears. A simple yet perfect description. Over the years I’ve heard the most profound statements come out of the most damaged kids mouths. Sometimes it got lost in a maelstrom of profanities, broken syntax, and the occasional slur, but if I listened careful enough I almost always caught it.
“That’s not worthless, dude.” I moisten my lips. “Do you draw or paint?”
“I sketch...pretty much on any surface I can find.” A small smile works its way onto his lips. “When I was a kid I used to draw on all the walls in our house. My mom finally got chalkboard paint and covered pretty much the whole place with it. Well, at least as high as I could reach.”
“Sounds like she was pretty awesome.”
Jeremy’s face tightens and so does the thread. “She was.”
Pressing my lips together, I set my mug on the side table next to the chair, and stand. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”
I jog out onto the landing and into the room I slept in the night before. Zipped into the front pocket of my backpack, half written on but mostly empty, I find that yellow legal pad where I’ve been keeping a list of weirdness at the restaurant.
Ripping the front page out, I crumple the “I know this pen has more ink in it” page and throw it in the small trash basket in the corner. I then flip through to make sure I haven’t marked up anything else.
Satisfied, I fish a pen out of my apron and run into the middle room. Jeremy’s face lifts when he sees the notepad and he sits up a little straighter. “I know a pen probably isn’t the best drawing utensil,” I say, handing it to him. “But it’s a start. I can find a pencil later, if you want.”
Jeremy runs a hand over the first page. “It’s perfect. Thanks, Case.”
“Any time. Let the art talk.”
NOW THAT I KNOW ABOUT creatures of the night, Max decides to inform me of every single one who walks through the door when our shift starts. Including our coworkers, almost all of which fall into the category of “paranormal.” Most can easily hide their beasty traits — long hair or hats cover pointed ears, gloves obscure claws — but some need what he calls “witchy magic.”
“Shut the front door.” Snagging a drink tray, I balance a trio of wine glasses in the middle. “There are witches too?”
Max grins. “Not the bubble, bubble toil and trouble kind. They don’t make deals with the devil or suck the lives out of all the kids in your town before sunrise. Though if they set their minds to it...”
An elbow to the ribs from Ash makes him cackle.
“Just kidding.” Max pops the top of a Topo Chico bottle. It bounces on the counter and Ash catches it without looking. “Actually, they’re just more...sensitive to spirits and the paranormal than most people are. It has something to do with vibrations. Strong witches can control them. So they make jewelry and pendants and stuff vibrate at a specific frequency, then give it to creatures who can’t hide their creature-y traits. It doesn’t actually change their appearance, just makes it tough to see their less...socially acceptable traits.”
That sounds way more scientific and less “woowoo” than I expected. Woowoo is a term I used for my first foster mom’s essential oil obsession. No shade, or anything. I love me some tea tree for when my allergies go on strike, but when organs start malfunctioning you get thee straight to a pharmacy.
Or, you know, a doctor.
“That’s pretty cool,” I say, tracing the feather pendant at the end of my necklace. The type of witch Max just described has promise in my own search for answers. Earthquakes definitely count as a vibration. Could I be a secret witch somehow? I force my focus back to the conversation. “How do they even find that kind of stuff? Is there an online forum or something?”
Max flips his bottle opener. “You can find anything on Craigslist.”
I snort giggle and Ash elbows Max again.
“Dude, I’m not wrong.” Max shoulder checks Ash right back but stumbles a little when he does, clearly nowhere as strong as the vampire.
Ash rolls his eyes. “Fine. You can sometimes find a witch on Craigslist. But you can also apply to the Tribunal to get a cover.”
I mull this over as I deliver my drinks to a trio of women wearing matching school t-shirts and lanyards. Teachers. Maybe not the most stressful customers on a normal basis, but teachers on a day like today? The last day of school? Forget it. Time for them to get wild.
At least there are only three of them.
They cheer when I set their glasses on the table, singing my praises with excessive fervor. Maybe they went to a few bars before the Mercury Room. Glitter sticks to one of the women’s wrists. Not cute club glitter, the kind children dump on construction paper. The kind that will outlive humanity, littering the planet long after the apocalypse.
Elementary school teachers. Bless their hearts. Give me a dude with a drug addiction over dealing with that mess any day.
I tuck the drink tray under my arm and give the teachers my “please adopt me for life” grin. “Ladies, y’all are my heroes. Any idea what you want to eat, or are we drinking dinner tonight?”
The woman splotched with glitter laughs so hard she nearly spills her martini. “Just drinking for now, but we’ll get back to you. It was Case, right?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Well Case, this is one of the best dirty martinis I’ve ever had.”
I snort a laugh. “Glad to be of service. I’ll be back to check on you in a bit.” Spinning the drink tray on a pointer finger, I head to the bar where Max is gathering what looks like a crap-ton of Long Island iced teas.
“You’ve made the witches happy. This bodes well for you, little mama.”
He flicks water into my face. Whether this comes from the drink or his magical water spirit powers, I can’t tell. His crazy statement distracts me too much.
I grab a damp towel and snap his leg with it.
Max yelps. “What was that for?”
“Dropping truth bombs like it’s no big thing.” I hook a thumb over my shoulder at the teacher trio. “They’re witches?”
Sucking on the straw of his water, Max smirks a little. “Two of them are anyway. The third’s like you: just plain toast.” He winks and jumps out of the way before I can hit him with the towel again.
Jump is a misleading term. As with everything he does, Max glides from one movement to the next, more like a ripple of water than a solid body of muscle and bone and sinew. Though not as graceful as Kia, it mesmerizes me.
Blowing a raspberry at the water spirit — so weird — I scan
my tables, then reach for my own styrofoam cup. “Is it really good luck to make a witch happy?” I ask.
Ash slips around Max to spear a cherry and an orange through with a cocktail stick. “As good as it is bad to piss them off.” He makes a face. “If a witch decides they like you, they can send good vibrations your way. That might sound like nothing, but like bad vibrations, it’s got a powerful kick.”
And now I have that song stuck in my head. Whether sung by Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch or the Beach Boys, that song always brings with it the warm glow of nostalgia. Road trips with my first foster family were always full of 90’s music and fried food.
I let the song play on repeat throughout my shift, trying not to let my thoughts spiral toward the concept of “bad vibrations.” Because the odd tremors I cause definitely qualify as negative. That would figure. Maybe a witch cursed me or my family and that’s why my emotions shake the ground under me...
Both my thought spiral and the Marky Mark song come to a screeching halt when, near the end of the night, the front door slams violently open. A massive creature barrels into the restaurant. Snarling and snorting, the monster pauses in the entry to sniff the air. The few guests still left scream, scattering in every direction.
In this brief moment, where I stand frozen in shock, I take in its massive form. Gray fur covers its bear-like body, and sharp fangs catch the lights of the bar. Gnarly horns sprout from behind its ears. In lieu of a proper name to call it, my brain offers up “bull bear.”
Swiveling its massive head toward me, it huffs, crouches exactly the way a bull might, and charges.
6.
ALL THOUGHTS OF HIDING bizarre magical powers impolitely abandon me at the prospect of getting impaled by a bull-bear. Fear drumming through my chest, I shove my hands forward like a deranged anime character, sending every tremor vibrating along my bones into the floor at the creature’s clawed paws.
Chairs topple and glasses bounce off tables. Claws scraping the wood under its paws, the creature loses its balance. It gains it back almost immediately and charges again. Common sense kicks through my shock and I dive out of the way before it gores me. I collide with a table, knocking dirty plates and beer bottles to the floor, barely staying on my own feet as the monster rages past me toward the kitchen.
One thought takes over all the rest in my brain: Jeremy.
Afraid to knock anybody else over with my power — or expose myself more than I already have — I dive forward, wrapping my arms around its middle. Totally genius move. This won’t get me killed in two seconds. Nope. Not at all.
The beast bucks like a bull and I cling to its fur to try and stay on. Sweat slicks my palms. I gag at the smell of wet dog, and those vibrations continue to roll through my muscles. Someone shouts. The beast snarls. Claws rake down my already injured forearm.
I hear myself cry out, but feel no connection to the sound, or the pain I’m screaming about.
Through narrowed vision, I see Ash spring forward, low to the ground like a lineman. He drives his shoulder up under the bull-bear’s chin, wrenching it into a headlock. The creature howls in fury. It lifts a massive paw, preparing to swipe Ash’s back.
My fear reaches a fever-pitch. I dig my fingers through the fur until I feel skin of some kind and, not knowing what I’m doing, will every tremor charging through me into its bones and along the floor yet again. Its massive body jerks and the howl drags itself into a wail. With one hard buck, I go flying. Pain pounds into me, finally breaking past my shock, and black wipes out my sight.
Light and sound blink back in a blur. I try to shove up from the floor, but everything twists in a dizzying spiral. Nausea rolls through me. I squeeze my eyes shut for a few slow breaths — puking will help no one — then carefully prop myself on my good elbow, and squint around to find Ash.
He stands a few feet away, arms still locked around the bull-bear’s middle. Lunging forward, Ash flattens his body against the creature’s to stay out of range of the claws. The creature flings its head, snapping at Ash’s collar, but unable to reach it. With a roar, it lifts its back paws and digs the claws into Ash’s sides. Black blood gushes out across his white t-shirt. Ash’s knees buckle and he lets out a guttural groan, but manages to stay upright.
I blink, panicked, trying to stop the spinning, trying to get to Ash as his body starts to shake. My hand slips on my own blood. Nausea once again spreads over me so my last meal sloshes up my throat. The bull-bear drags its claws across Ash’s back. He drops to a knee, face screwed up in agony.
Racing blood pounds through my head as I force myself into a crouch.
If I have to crawl to get to him, I will. One hand after the other. Maybe by the time I get there, the spinning will stop. I only make it about a foot before Kia rushes past me, a high pitched sound pouring from her mouth. Glass around me shatters. I slap both hands over my ears at almost the exact same time as the bull-bear covers its own. It lets go of Ash and shuffles back.
Kia stalks toward him, her eyes glowing pure, liquid gold. “Get out of my bar,” she says, her voice an odd almost bird-like screech.
Cowering away from her, the bull-bear snarls, tosses its head, then finally turns tail and sprints out the door.
I pull a slow breath in through my nose, then let it out through my mouth, tearing my attention away from the door and back to Ash. Nausea returns in full force this time. Doubled over, head hanging, Ash presses his hands against his wounds, blood rolling down his forearms as he gasps for air.
On the balls of my feet, I scramble toward him. When I touch his shoulder, he jerks away, throwing up a bloody hand, and keeping his head turned away from me. “Don’t come any closer, Case,” he says, his words slightly garbled.
“But-”
“Get back.”
This comes out so much like a snarl I almost don’t understand him, but I sure as hell obey. Ash curls in on himself. Every muscle tenses, hardening into place as he presses a fist into the wood floor. Even Kia doesn’t go near him. Instead, she takes my hand, and shouts Max’s name.
From somewhere to my right, the water spirit yells something back, but again I don’t understand. I can’t take my eyes off Ash who still won’t look up.
My voice does find its way out though. “We need to help him.”
“We are,” Kia says, hovering her fingers over the claw marks along my arm. “But right now if either of us gets too close to him, he might attack. Ash has a lot of control, but with the amount of blood he’s lost, instinct might take over simply to save him.”
Memories of Jeremy springing at me the night before flash through my head. Ash must’ve smelled my blood. “...if you’re weak and scared or starving...”
“Can he bleed to death?” I ask.
“He can,” Kia says in a thin voice. “It takes a severe amount of damage for that to happen though because vampires do heal extremely quickly. At this point, the biggest danger is that he might attack someone if he doesn’t feed quickly.”
“Would my blood help?” I ask, more out of curiosity than a desire to offer it up than anything.
The thought sends my pulse into high gear with equal parts excitement and fear. My imagination envisions Ash’s lips on my arm, my neck, while my rational mind takes stark note of his extremely sharp canines. Those would definitely ruin the pleasantness of the overall experience.
“No.” Ash spits the word past the fangs now indenting his lower lip. Tucking his chin into his chest, he crawls farther away from us, every muscle in his forearms taut. “I don’t drink human blood.”
“Keep your pants on, dude,” Max says, materializing in the middle of the room with a bag full of dark liquid. “No breaking your vow of chupa-chastity.”
As the water spirit squats next to Ash, Kia guides me to the bar sink to clean up my wounds yet again. For the first time since the bull-bear thing broke into The Mercury Room, I notice the rest of the wait staff dealing with the small handful of customers still present during the chaos.
The witch teachers from earlier hold the hands of their third friend, murmuring words I can’t hear. Her eyes glaze over slightly as a serene look settles on her face. Maybe they’re modifying her memory of the night, working together to protect her sanity — their secrets. I roll my shoulders a little with a wince, remembering Kia’s offer to have my memory wiped last night.
Should this make me uncomfortable? Disturbed by the moral conundrum? I’m so numb with shock I can’t even tell right now. Instead, I blink around the room, finding Ash again, watching as he feeds from the blood bag. Through the tears in his shirt, I watch the claw marks slowly close up with every swallow.
“That was a kind offer, Case,” Kia says quietly, her face pinched, dark circles under her eyes. “It would have helped. His kind heals quickly, but blood speeds up the process. Ash, however, doesn’t like to feed on humans, avoids it if at all possible.”
Nodding slowly, I curb my curiosity for later, for a private conversation with Ash. “What was that thing?” I ask under my breath.
Running a hand along my back, the mermaid sighs. “That was an Ozark Howler. A creature who shouldn’t be anywhere near here.”
I massage my temples. “Then why...how...what are words?”
Kia laughs softly. “It’s been that kind of night, hasn’t it? To answer your question, I don’t know for sure, but I have my suspicions.” Her eyes slide toward the kitchen, angled at the door to the stairs that lead up to the hidden rooms on the third level.
My blood runs cold. “Do purebloods...draw attention to themselves?”
“In a way.” Kia gently dabs the cuts on my arm with a clean washcloth. “All paranormal creatures emit different vibrations, but someone like Jeremy has particularly strong ones. They’re like a beacon. Of course his and Ash’s father might have something to do with it as well. It’s entirely possible Masera sent the howler to try and smoke Jeremy out. Which also means he’ll likely be sending more.”
“Would he...” I rub my still sore spine and glance at the door, wondering if my presence is exacerbating things. “Would he ever come himself?”
Cursed: The Girl Who Shook the Earth Page 5