Lost Secret

by Emily Reed

  Michael sighed and smiled, giving my shoulder a squeeze before releasing me to go and assist Emmanuel. I took a long slug off the beer and tried to shake the emptiness that touching always seemed to cause.

  "Come on," Michael said once Emmanuel's lock was secured. "We have time for a shot before the parade begins." He led the way to the bar, a single-story building with a door that swung both ways and tinted windows filled with neon signs for liquor brands.

  A tingling of awareness raised the hairs on the back of my neck. I turned, my eyes drawn to a shadow under a balcony. A man stood in the doorway, the pale blue of his eyes shining in the darkness. The stranger from the hospital? Desire struck me like an anvil hitting hot metal, twisting me to its will, and I stumbled.

  Emmanuel caught my arm, breaking the spell. When I looked back the man was gone. Did I imagine him?

  "Are you hungry?" Emmanuel asked, leading me into the dark bar—it smelled of stale cigarettes and spilled beer.

  "Yes," I looked up at him—his eyes with their long lashes flashed purple in the dim space. His shoulders, broad but not bulky, made my mouth water. I dropped my gaze to his hands...shivers of savage want ran down my spine.

  "How about a slice of pizza? I'll go grab you one. There is a pretty good place down the block," Emmanuel offered as we reached the bar.

  "Pizza?" Michael said. "The breakfast of champions. I'll take a slice too. Thanks, man."

  Emmanuel smiled down at me. "My pleasure." His voice felt like a physical thing, a rough presence rumbling over my skin. "I'll be right back."

  Michael ordered three shots and another round of beer. "But mine's still full," I said.

  "Finish it up then," Michael countered. He leaned against the bar, his T-shirt rising up and showing off his obliques, the muscles defined and skin silky smooth. My stomach stirred, the hunger rising into a nausea. He pushed the shot in front of me. "A toast," he said, holding up his own glass. "To our band."

  I picked up the glass and clinked it against his. "Yes," I said. "To the band."

  He downed the drink in one go. I tried to follow suit but could only swallow half. My eyes burned, and I coughed. "You're all right," Michael said and waved the bartender over for another round.

  By the time Emmanuel returned with our slices, I was one and a half shots in. I devoured the cheese pizza without really tasting it. "Here," Michael said, pushing two shots toward Emmanuel. "You've got to catch up." Then he bit into his slice, grease escaping down his chin.

  Emmanuel handed him a napkin and then gave one to me. I wiped at my face, realizing I was acting like an animal. Placing the crust on the paper plate, I resisted finishing it off in two quick bites. Instead I nibbled on it while enjoying my beer.

  By the time the brass band arrived, I was officially drunk. "Come on." Michael tried to take my hand, but Emmanuel distracted him by passing him the bill.

  "Here." I pulled out my wallet, then remembered I didn't have any money since I'd spent it all at the cemetery. That made me laugh, and both boys turned to look at me. "Sorry." I suppressed my smile.

  "Please don't apologize for laughing," Emmanuel said.

  "Yeah, it's nice," Michael said. "Just what you need. Don't worry about the tab," Michael continued. "It's my treat. I’m making up for being asshole, remember?”

  "Thanks." I shoved my wallet back in my purse.

  A loud trumpet sounded, and Michael looked up from counting money, a smile on his face. He dropped the cash and grinned at us as he turned for the door.

  I hopped off the barstool and had to put my hand out to steady myself. Emmanuel stood close to me but didn't reach out to help. I appreciated how quickly he'd realized touching affected me, but at the same time it made me nervous that he could read me so clearly.

  I squinted against the sun as we walked back outside. Michael was chatting with a couple of the guys in the band. One of them wore a tuba; it wrapped around his body like a thick, gold snake. The tuba player laughed at something Michael said.

  "Everyone likes him," I said to Emmanuel. "Don't they?"

  He glanced at Michael. "Sure. He's charming, good-looking, talented. What's not to like?"

  I smiled, the shots and beer making me feel loose and unafraid. "Sometimes he's mean," I responded.

  "Sorry," he said.

  "I deserve it," I admitted. "I've been sucking."

  "You'll get it back," Emmanuel said. "You've just got to let the music in again." He put a hand on my shoulder—warm and heavy and oh so nice. “And Darling, no one should be mean to you. Ever.”

  I stared at his lips, my body buzzing. My eyes rose to meet his. "Sometimes when I'm talking to you, when your hair falls over your face like that, and you're looking down at me, I feel like no one else can see us," I said. Did I just say that out loud? Egads. I’m a dork of the first magnitude.

  Emmanuel’s eyes brightened, and a soft smile stole over his mouth. "Me too." His voice was a whisper. I grinned up at him as the band began to play a marching song I recognized from other parades. “Come on,” he said, gesturing with his chin for us to move with the music.

  We all followed them down the block—the green meanies, a new collection of girls in short skirts, a family that looked like they might be tourists, two drag queens with a cadre of fans, a man on one of those antique bicycles with the giant front wheel, and the three of us. Everyone was dancing, placing one foot in front of the other with pizzaz.

  The beers and shots in my system ran roughshod over the pizza, and I danced with the rest of the crowd, throwing my hands over my head, feeling the beat, like a second heartbeat, as if it was a part of me, something that could not be ignored.

  Michael passed me another beer, the tab already popped, and I sipped from it. Emmanuel pulled a flask from his pocket and tipped his head back, drinking it in. I reached out for the flask, and he gave me a crooked smile before handing it over. I raised it to my lips, the metal cool. Inside was something smoky and hot, burning my mouth and raging down my throat. But I didn't cough. I drank it down and then I handed it back, did a spin, and danced forward.

  As the sun set, more people joined us, coming down off their porches to dance for a minute or two. Two old ladies, with big smiles that pushed their cheeks up, making their eyes mere slits, came down their front steps holding their skirts in their hands, swishing them back and forth, reminding everyone that life ain't over till you're dead.

  Young men wearing tank tops that exposed their strong shoulders and long shorts hanging low on their hips, held the edges of their ball caps and moved their feet in ways that seemed impossible to me. Watching one, I bounced against Michael; he put out a hand and wrapped it around my waist, pulling me against him.

  A heat coursed between us, and hunger rose in my throat, my mouth going dry. He grinned down at me, the soft tone of the sunset lighting him just right. His hand on my hip squeezed, and he began to bend his head down as if to lay his lips against mine. I turned my head away from him, fear of what might happen stronger than the hunger.

  I scanned the crowd for Emmanuel. He was frowning at something. I followed his gaze to where a woman watched the parade from her porch. She was big—not just tall but also carrying an extra fifty pounds or so. Her breasts were barely contained by the black, low-cut T-shirt she wore.

  She was dancing…in a way. Her feet were bare, and she shuffled forward, reaching out and grasping at empty air. The whites of her eyes were clearly visible. There was so much gel in her black hair that it looked wet.

  When she started down the steps, Emmanuel looked over at Michael and me. His eyes traveled to Michael's hand on my hip and his frown deepened. "Everything okay?" I asked, stepping away from Michael. He let me go easily and continued to dance forward.

  "Yes." Emmanuel glanced over his shoulder at the odd woman. She'd joined the parade now. Due to her height, I could still easily find her in the crowd.

  "She looks really high," I said to him.

  He bit his lip and nodded. "Sure."
Then he smiled at me and brought his flask out from his back pocket. "Let's dance," he said. I nodded, and we caught up to Michael, who was chatting up one of the girls in short skirts.

  I took another swig off Emmanuel's flask, thinking I tasted something herbal in it this time. "What is this?" I asked.

  But Emmanuel didn't answer; he was looking behind us. I followed his gaze and saw the woman moving quickly through the crowd, headed straight for the band. Emmanuel took my hand and pulled me to the edge of the parade as she barreled through the center. "Maybe we should go," he said.

  "What?" Michael whined at him. "No way! The sun has only just set."

  The sky was a dusky blue, the air imbued with a softness that made the world seem safe and fun. "Yeah," I raised my eyebrows. "Don't you want to bond?" His hand felt like a live wire in mine.

  His attention was focused on the woman, and he shook his head. She approached the trumpet player and raised her right leg high, then crashed it down, her bare foot smacking against the pavement. She raised her left leg and did the same. Letting her head roll on her neck she reached out and grasped at the air. I noticed that the side of her neck looked weird. I squinted through the crowd.

  "Is she hurt?" I asked.

  "Shit," Emmanuel said. "We need to go."

  He took my arm and pulled, but I was rooted to the spot, watching her head loll on her neck. I thought I could see her tendons moving. Suddenly, her teeth bared, the dancing woman reached out and grabbed the trumpet player's shoulders.

  He tried to shrug her off, his hat falling askew, but she was strong, pulling him closer to her mouth. He stopped playing and turned toward her.

  She bit down hard onto his cheek.

  Her eyes seemed to glow green as the man screamed and the music fell apart, stuttering to a stop. The crowd's gyrations slowed and stopped with the music, their attention drawn to the attack taking place.

  The woman was holding the trumpet player tight. He fought back, striking with his instrument and his fist. Her fat jiggled each time he connected. A young man pulled a gun from the waistband of his low-slung shorts and held it on the woman. "Let him go!" he yelled.

  Screams rose. Heels clattered on the pavement. Emmanuel pulled on me harder but I didn't move—I couldn't. My brain struggled to digest the events in front of me, incapable of doing anything else… including running for my life. There was something horrifyingly familiar about the whole scene.

  The sound of the gunshot was not as loud as I would have thought. The bullet entered the woman's stomach, making her jerk slightly, but she didn't let go. A puff of smoke rose from the barrel, and I thought for a moment I smelled sage.

  The second shot hit her in the back. Chunks of flesh and blood splattered across the sidewalk, but she held on, stepping into the trumpet player, knocking him to the ground, falling with him.

  Lying on top of him, his trumpet now crushed between them, his arms trapped, legs weighted by her, she reared her head back and drove her teeth into his neck, cutting off a fresh scream.

  Emmanuel pulled on me again, but I shook my head. The gunman stood over the woman and unloaded the rest of his clip into her back but she kept biting, the trumpet player's body shaking beneath her.

  Emmanuel scooped me up into his arms and ran down the block, holding me tight. I could smell the mix of beer and smoky herbs on his breath. I placed my hand against his chest and felt Emmanuel's heart. It seemed to pulse into my hand, each beat throbbing through me. Even more powerful than the rhythm of the music from the parade. And just as fragile…

  Chapter Five

  Emmanuel lowered me onto a couch. I sank into the cushions, and he slipped his arms from beneath me. Even without his body against mine, I felt his heartbeat thrumming through me. "Jesus, what the fuck was that?" Michael yelled as he paced back and forth. Emmanuel sat in an armchair next to me, his elbows on his knees. "Are you hurt?" he asked, his eyes intent.

  "No," My voice vibrated with the energy coursing through me.

  Michael stomped over to Emmanuel. "Dude, what the fuck was that?" he yelled again.

  Emmanuel looked up at him. “What do you think it was?”

  Michael turned and paced away. Emmanuel leaned back in his chair and pulled his flask out of his front pocket. His Adam's apple bobbed as he drank deeply from the small container. Michael came back over and stood impatiently above him until Emmanuel lowered the flask from his lips and handed it over. Michael walked away with it.

  He took a long swig and then turned to me. "What do you think it was?"

  I swallowed, my head fuzzy. I felt so strange. “I heard there was a drug causing attacks like that."

  "What drug?" Michael asked.

  Emmanuel's eyes searched my face. "It's been on the news," I said. "It causes terrible hallucinations, and there was that attack last week."

  "What attack?" Michael stepped closer to me.

  I shrugged, uncomfortable under his angry scrutiny. "Didn't you hear about it?"

  "Obviously not!" he yelled. "If I had, I wouldn't be fucking asking you about it, would I?"

  "Ease up," Emmanuel said, his voice low and calm.

  Michael took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let it out slowly. "I'm sorry." His voice was tight. "Please, tell me about it." Michael's fist clenched and unclenched by his side.

  "I don't know all the details, but a woman attacked a group of friends on their way home from the bar. They experienced seizures afterward and were brought to Mercy Hospital."

  “Fuck." Michael turned away from me and took another sip from the flask.

  "I'm surprised you didn't hear about it," I said. "It was a pretty big story."

  I felt Emmanuel’s gaze and turned to him, his eyes were intense and dark, penetrating. "I think you should stay here tonight," he said.

  "Here?" I looked around for the first time. I was on a worn couch, under a high ceiling crossed with wooden beams. Across the large room was an open kitchen, the sink filled with dishes. Behind me a row of factory windows, two sheets crisscrossing them, neither large enough to cover the expanse alone, covered the wall.

  "You can have my room," Emmanuel said. "Just stay until tomorrow." He put his hand over mine, and I could feel the steady beat of his heart again. Why could I feel his pulse? What was happening?

  "I have to go to the hospital in the morning," I stared down at our hands. His thumb ran along mine, sending shivers over me.

  "You shouldn't go to the hospital." His voice was smooth and soothing.

  "No." I shook my head, trying to free myself from these odd sensations. "I have to. I'm needed. I'm donating bone marrow."

  "What?" Michael stormed back over. "We have band practice all week. The Bell House Show is coming up." He referred to the booking our manager had made. She assured us that it would turn into a record contract. She was getting all the right people there.

  "I know. I'll be fine."

  "After a bone marrow transplant?"

  “It’s a harvest, not a transplant. Don't worry," I said, my voice lowering. "I've done it before. I'll be fine."

  Michael shook his head. He went to the kitchen and opened the fridge.

  “Please sleep here,” Emmanuel said. "I'm not comfortable with you going home alone, and I don't even think it's safe to escort you."

  "It's that bad?" I asked.

  "Why risk it? The cops are probably freaking out. Not to mention the face-eating junkies." As if to prove his point, a siren began to wail in the distance.

  "Okay," I answered, nodding my head. He smiled and removed his hand from mine. The steady beat of his heart left with his touch. So strange.

  Michael collapsed onto the couch next to me. His hand grazed my bare arm. It felt like a deep cut, the kind where you don't feel pain, just the jolt of cold metal slicing through flesh.

  I breathed him in, a thrum rising into a crescendo. I don’t know how, but suddenly Michael's lips pressed to mine and our tongues met in a desperate dance. A hand pulled at my shirt,
another gripped my braids. Stubble grated against my chin, his palm found my breast, heat poured between us.

  Strong hands yanked me back. I was straddling Michael. What the hell? He still clutched my hair, refusing to release me. Emmanuel roared and brought his arm down onto Michael's wrist—it made a sickening crack. Michael's fingers fell away, and he cradled the injured arm to his chest—skin gray and eyes sunken.

  Emmanuel dragged me across the room. I fought him, my throat dry, body buzzing, hunger coursing through me. I needed to continue that kiss. Keep taking! I'd never be sated.

  A pang of pure revulsion racked through me, the wave of lust followed by an avalanche of shame and fear. I gagged, my body convulsing against Emmanuel's arms—iron bars around my waist.

  His hold softened, and I dropped to my knees, staring down at the wooden floor, the knots of color, and the heads of nails, my vision pulsing, blurred by tears.

  My hair hung around me in strands, some of it still up, the rest of it torn loose, shielding me from the room. Slowly my breathing returned to normal. I sat back on my heels and looked up.

  Emmanuel was standing over Michael, his hands on the lead singer's wrist. "What's happening?" Michael asked.

  "Everything is fine," Emmanuel said as he released Michael's arm, laying it gently on his chest. "I think we've all had a little too much to drink. Let's go to bed."

  A shudder ran through me. It felt amazing. What the what was happening? Fear chilled the heat inside me. Did someone drug me? I focused on the two men in front of me—that wild need tearing at my insides. “Did you put something in my drink?" I asked, my voice choked.

  “What?” Emmanuel turned to me. “No," he shook his head, his curls bouncing. "Of course not." He sounded insulted. I did just accuse him of drugging me. But how else could this be explained?

  "What about Michael?" I asked. I wanted to kiss him until he died. I shuddered at the errant, terrifying thought.

  “No, we’ve all had a lot to drink. And we saw something horrible.” Emmanuel crossed the room to me. "Come on, I'll take you to bed. It's been a rough day for everyone."