Mortal Sight

by Sandra Fernandez Rhoads

  Cold air blasts over me as I exit the safety of the train.

  My eyes adjust to the dark as I search for the bird beasts, but he’s right. No creatures await us. We walk the abandoned streets of East Ridge, drenched, cold, and hungry. Maddox shoves his hands in his pockets, keeping his bandaged arm tucked against his side. Red scrapes from our battle with Moloch decorate his arm like infected tattoos.

  This whole area is run-down. Puddles glisten in the pot-holed street. Windows are boarded up. The ones that aren’t cast dim light over the sidewalk. I almost trip over someone huddled on the ground near a doorway that smells of rat urine. Sure, the place might be free of any beasts, but that doesn’t mean it’s safe. My skin prickles with warning as I walk. I suddenly regret my decision to get off the train, because something tells me that the rumors about East Ridge are all true.

  Bickering voices, followed by crude jesting and drunken laughter, float down as we turn the corner. The shadows of two or three people sit on a roof with feet dangling over the ledge. They choke back long swigs from glass bottles. I draw closer to Maddox’s side. “You sure this is a good idea?” To keep up with his long stride, I have to work twice as hard—which does nothing to ease the throbbing in my side, not to mention the wet denim jacket rubbing against the burning road rash on my shoulder. I take in a deep breath of cold air and focus on the flickering streetlamp halfway down the narrow road. A whiff of fried food wafts through the damp air, either from a restaurant or someone’s apartment. My stomach rumbles. I’m so freakin’ hungry.

  “Trust me, your chances of being hidden are much better out here.” He walks around a muddy puddle. “If the creatures come anywhere close, we’ll know in plenty of time to get out or hide. Blades and Guardians are on lookout all over the place.”

  I glance over my shoulder. On the opposite side of the street, a dark figure wearing a hooded sweatshirt follows. Although it’s a person, not one of the creatures, the brisk, cocky stride says he’s looking for trouble. Uneasiness sweeps over me. “Is that one of your Blades?”

  Maddox stops under the streetlamp in front of a storefront with blacked-out windows. As he peers across the dark street, he stands tall with fight written across his shoulders. He couldn’t take anyone down right now, not with his arm all banged up. The best I can do is run.

  Maddox relaxes. “Yeah, he’s with us.” He acknowledges the guy with a chin nod.

  Thankfully, the guy’s stride doesn’t slow. He nods back and continues walking, keeping his hands tucked in the front pocket of his sweatshirt. “C’mon. Let’s talk inside. It’s warmer.”

  Maddox presses a call button on the brick building that spans the entire block. Under the dim glow of the streetlight, I can make out the etched letters of the name Hesperian on the glass, but that’s about it. I can’t see anything inside.

  “In there?” I step back. Going in that run-down building is crossing the sanity line by at least a mile. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t heading into a dilapidated and abandoned motel that’s probably infested with diseased rats.

  “I think you’ll like it.” Maddox stands with the door open, waiting. A bell chimes down a dark corridor. Warmth smelling of vanilla coffee and cinnamon scones spills out of the doorway. I inhale the air, hoping a deep breath can somehow satisfy my hunger.

  He glances down as I clutch the jacket closed. “We need to get your cut checked out, and I’m guessing you’re probably hungry.”

  Am I ever. My stomach growls in agreement. Forget sanity. Food wins. Lured by the intoxicating promise of food, I walk in the building, following the aroma.

  “Through here.” Maddox steps down a few stairs. My eyes adjust to the dim light. At least there aren’t any rats, as far as I can tell. “Watch your step. The floor slants a little.”

  I follow behind him, feeling my way down the paneled hallway. French fries. I definitely smell fries. My mouth doesn’t just water—I honestly drool. I wipe my lips with the back of my hand. “Is this a restaurant?”

  “Sort of.” Maddox stops when he gets to a sturdy mahogany counter. I stay in the shadow behind him and peek through the brick archway that spills a soft light into the corridor. A few tables with mosaic tabletops and vinyl diner chairs are scattered around the room, and stone columns line the back wall, separating out sunken alcoves with wooden tables and benches. Acoustic guitars and a few voices fill the air, but the music isn’t consistent. The strumming stops and starts again as if we’ve entered a preshow sound check.

  “Maddox?” A girl’s smiling voice flutters across the counter through the dark, and with it comes a faint scent of potter’s clay. She carries over a basket of silverware.

  “Hey, Claire,” Maddox says, sounding sheepish. Nothing like he did earlier. He is blocking my full view of the girl as she rolls utensils in napkins.

  “Where’d you go? The whole place was worried about you. Gladys was a nervous wreck. Devon was about to send someone out just to calm her down. And Harper’s been—”

  “I’ve . . . I was just—busy.” He tucks his hands in his pockets, shifting his weight. I doubt he’s still cold. The sweet air is as warm as a blanket right out of the dryer. I’m surprised she doesn’t see me, but then again, I’m hidden in the dark.

  “Oh, sure . . . well . . . I’m glad you’re back.” She polishes the tip of a knife before setting it on the napkin. “And hey, I’m working on a new project. Want to see it?”

  “Your last one was amazing. Maybe later?” As Maddox steps aside, I get a clear shot of Claire, a cropped redhead in a flowing lime-green shirt. She’s naturally pretty. Her beaming smile fizzles a little when I come out of his shadow. And as soon as she sees me wearing Maddox’s jacket, she switches her attention back to him.

  “So that’s where you’ve been. Found another one, huh? Another girl.” She mutters that last part.

  I cross my arms. “I’m Cera.” Not some unwanted stray Maddox pulled in off the street. Claire narrows her eyes. The heat from her glare sends a sharp zap through my hollow stomach, about as strong as a punch in my gut. I try to hold her stare even though I feel wobbly and transparent.

  Luckily, when Maddox rests his hands on the counter, Claire switches her focus to the scraps of my T-shirt wrapped around his forearm. “You got hurt? How’d that happen?” Her eyes widen. “You know Harper’s gonna flip out.”

  “I’m not hurt.” Maddox drops his arm below the counter. “Just a couple of scratches, that’s all.”

  He’s such a liar. I want to call him out, but Claire’s it’s-your-fault-he’s-hurt expression makes me tense, so I keep my mouth shut. “What’s her Bent?”

  “Guardian, I think.” Maddox glances over his shoulder to look at me. Yeah, right. If I am supposed to guard others, then I’m awful at it. I couldn’t even protect Jess. I want to ask Maddox why he thinks so, but one look at Claire’s probing death stare and I swallow my question.

  “You better talk with Devon.”

  “That’s the plan. He around?” Maddox leans against the counter, looking about as beat and worn as I feel.

  Claire transfers her stack of rolled silverware back into the basket. “He’s in the back.”

  “Tell him to meet me in the alcove.” Maddox messes with the bandage on his arm but keeps it hidden below the counter.

  “Sure thing, and I’ll send Harper back there too. She left her kit in your space anyway.” Claire picks up the basket and shifts her glance my way. As if I’ve passed some test, if only by the skin of my teeth, she adds, “Oh, and welcome, Cera.” I doubt she means it, but I force a smile anyway.

  Before Claire leaves, Maddox reaches across the counter and grabs her arm. In a low whisper he says, “Hey, do me a favor. Don’t say anything to Harper about my arm, will you?”

  Claire nods. A knowing smirk is plastered on her face. I have no idea what that’s all about, and I don’t care. All I know is that when Claire steps through the archway, disappearing around the corner, she takes th
e tense, clay-scented air away with her.

  “What’s up with her?” I exhale. “Her hate glare sizzled through me like an X-ray laser.”

  Maddox half smiles at my comment as he walks toward the archway. “Claire is a Blade. She’s still training on detecting and destroying threats and sometimes gets a little . . . intense.”

  “A little? More like a lot. I guess I should feel lucky I passed her test, huh?”

  “You’re fine. Trust me.”

  I want to trust him, but my stomach is knotted up, and not just because I’m starving or because of the constant throbbing in my side. “Why didn’t you tell her about the Cormorants and what happened? Because your arm isn’t just scratched up.”

  “She doesn’t need to know.” He walks off into the café.

  I follow right behind, ready to badger him about his lame answer, but stop as soon as I enter the room. From the hallway, I thought it was only a small café, but the place opens up into this large space under a domed, stained glass ceiling. My eyes lift, taking it all in. It’s as if I’ve stepped into the pages of Mom’s Italian art books, and I can hardly breathe.

  I stand there, soaking up the converted church. Goosebumps rise on my skin. The sound of frothing milk underscores murmuring voices. Occasional laughter floats through the coffee-scented air. A wooden staircase hugs the wall as it climbs up to a second story. Hundreds of paintings in various sizes, some framed, others just tacked up, wallpaper every inch of the plaster that rises to the ceiling. Some modern art, some classical reproductions, but way too many to take in. There might be a replica of Blake’s Temptation and Fall, though I can’t tell from this far away and in this light. Red vinyl booths, all filled with students drawing or writing, line the wall to my right. In every corner, vibrant voices churn with creative energy. As I breathe in the warm air, the uneasy feeling thaws. A strange sense of belonging takes its place. For the first time ever, I think I might have found a home.

  Almost.

  A guitar strums, pulsing through the air. I turn to look. Behind the wall, a group of guys sits with guitars, congas, and a slew of other instruments. They play a few notes in the alcove, laugh, and then take sips of coffee. A wiry boy with shiny black hair and tanned skin takes the pencil gripped between his teeth and writes something down.

  An artistic force pours through every crevice in the room. It’s hard to believe a place like this exists. “This isn’t a normal coffee shop.”

  “You could say that,” Maddox says, searching for someone in the room. His cheeks are wind burned, and that intense look on his face has melted away. “Hesperian is the only place like this, so we come hang out.” He smiles for the first time, revealing small dimples.

  “We?”

  “Other Awakened. Like us. Like you.” He glances down at me for a brief moment. “It’s nice to have a place, you know, to belong. Especially when you feel alone.” He says this so quiet, I wonder if he’s speaking to me at all.

  “Maddox!” the wiry guy with the black hair calls out. “Come spin a few.” He holds up a guitar. “I’m working on a new one. Check this.”

  The guy plucks out a few notes, then looks up, pleased. Maddox tucks his injured arm behind him. “Sounds cool. But I’ll catch you later, Amide. I’ve gotta talk to Devon.”

  Amide flashes a radiant smile when he sees me. “Do you play?”

  “Me?” I step back. “Uh . . . no.”

  “Shame. I needed a good drummer.” Amide pounds a few beats on the conga. “Bring me a drummer, Maddox!” Amide doesn’t sound like he needs much help. He’s doing an amazing job on his own.

  “Doesn’t work that way,” Maddox says. “But if you really need someone, ask Tanji. You know she’ll do it.”

  Amide shakes his head with a mocking frown. “That’s cold, man. Very cold.”

  Maddox grins in response. “Come on, Cera. Let’s go.”

  No one stares as we straggle across the room looking ragged and weary. As we pass a corner of wingback chairs filled with a few girls on laptops, none of them look our way. They’re all deep in their work.

  Maddox walks over to a glass case stocked with cupcakes, cookies, and all kinds of breads. Behind the counter a metal door swings back and forth revealing a blur of Claire’s lime-green shirt on the other side. I’m glad she doesn’t turn around and give me that hate glare again. As dishes clang in the kitchen, Maddox swipes something off the glass case and then weaves through tables strewn with half-eaten burgers and fries and a stray pickle here and there. I follow, trying my hardest not to reach out and garbage-mouth someone’s leftover fries. The throbbing in my side intensifies as we make our way across the café.

  “I’ll get you a burger after you get cleaned up, but take this for now.” He hands me a chocolate cookie wrapped in a napkin.

  “Thanks.” I devour the cookie in one bite. It’s soft, and the creamy chocolate melts on my tongue. I wish I had another, but at least the sweetness quells the hollow ache in my stomach. I swallow the last bit and glance around for a drink of water. No water fountain, but I spot a girl painting a detailed copy of Lord Leighton’s The Garden of Hesperides. I know that picture from Mom’s art book. The girl painting the replica has a long brown braid. I must be starving because all I can think is that her hair looks the color of a fresh-baked pretzel.

  “We’ll meet Devon over here.” Maddox heads to a cozy alcove under the staircase.

  I wipe my lips with the napkin and then drop it in the trash. “Is Devon anything like Claire? ’Cause if he is, then a little notice would be nice.”

  “Nah.” Maddox jogs down a few steps into a sunken room. “He’s a whole lot worse.” He grins and heads to the long wooden table in the middle of the space.

  A shiny red medical box—or makeup kit—sits on the edge of the table, not far from a pile of sketchbooks and a few tin cans filled with black pencils. In the back corner, an acoustic guitar leans against the wall near a pile of clothes and a black backpack. Maddox flips the latch, opening the box. The air fills with the smell of rose-scented rubbing alcohol and bandages. While Maddox is pulling out supplies, I head over to check out a sketch pinned on the stucco wall near the guitar. It’s a charcoal drawing of a tightly knotted band of thick twine or rope. The detail of each fiber is incredible. Each strand is a different shade and thickness.

  Whoever drew this is an even better artist than Mom. “Amazing,” I say under my breath. I follow the twisting fury of each cord, wrapping around the others, fighting to stay together.

  Five. The number comes to me. Five what? Lines? Threads? I stare at the sketch, counting the twisting ropes.

  “That’s, uh . . . mine.” Maddox pulls the picture off the wall. “I don’t know who keeps coming in here putting that up. . .” He tucks the drawing into one of the sketchbooks sitting on the table.

  “It’s really good,” I say as he kicks aside a pallet of blankets near the back wall.

  “Thanks.” He picks up some clothes off the floor and stuffs them in the backpack before heading back to the medical box. “I’m not as good an artist as my . . . uh . . .” He rifles through the box, pulling out a plastic spray bottle. “And I’m not a Healer, but I can at least get some of your minor cuts cleaned up until Harper gets here. This is her stuff. She’s got a mad Bent for healing and is still training.” He motions for me to sit on top of the table. It’s not lost on me that he changed the subject, but I let it go and climb up, feeling a sharp burn dig in my side. I wince, almost doubling over, but Maddox holds my arm.

  “I got it,” I say automatically, even though I let him help me up. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, the pulsing throb makes it hard to breathe. I don’t have bandages and medical gear like this at home. The last thing I want is my gash or any of my other cuts to get infected.

  Maddox stands a little too close beside me with the antiseptic spray in hand. He squirts a cloth with the solution, then takes my hand, turning my palms over, and lightly dabs the scrapes. The solution smells of pol
len and stings a little. It’s the throbbing pain in my side that hurts the worst. In order to tune out the pain, I study him closer. His sun-bleached bangs hang in his face. His smooth lips tighten while he concentrates on cleaning my scraped palms. Even though he’s not looking directly at me, I get a good look at his cerulean eyes. They’re deeper than the clearest ocean. He even smells like ocean air. I’m suddenly aware of each breath and how fast my heart is beating. I swallow, hoping he can’t feel my pulse racing.

  The air separating the inches between us thickens when he glances at me. “Does that hurt?”

  I shake my head, and pull my hand out of his. “Can this spray be used on my shoulder?” The denim rubs over the wound as I slide off the jacket. Maddox gets another cloth from the medical box. The scrape isn’t awful. My side hurts much worse. I grit my teeth and lean back to inspect that wound. The edges of the punctured cut are red and oozing thick blood over a slit of white skin. “My cut’s really not that bad. Just nicked,” I lie, dabbing my shoulder with the clean cloth Maddox hands me.

  He tries to keep his focus away from the skin exposed by my ripped-up shirt. I tore a third of the bloody part off in order to get away from the birds and used another third to wrap up his arm.

  I take the spray bottle out of his hands. “Thanks, I’ve got this.”

  “Uh . . . yeah. I mean . . . you sure?” He clears his throat as he runs his hand through his hair. A thick scar runs from the edge of his left eye down his jaw near his hairline. I involuntarily shudder at the pain of getting a scar like that. When he catches me looking, he turns his face away and shakes his hair loose. “Yeah, well . . . too much of that stuff bites back, so be careful.” He steps back and picks up a cloth.

  “I can handle it.” I put all my attention back to my pulsing side and squeeze the nozzle. I gasp as cold spray freezes my skin. It’s really not so bad. I give another big squeeze, foaming the entire wound. Then the sizzle starts. My eyes water. What have I done? I hold my breath and dig my nails into the wooden table, locking my legs together so I don’t kick Maddox as he cleans up his own wounds. I freeze, waiting for the pain to pass.