Mmm, yeah.
“Here I am,” I say.
“Shan…” His voice is rich, the drawl pronounced, and he imbues my name with a kind of longing I’ve never heard before. “You can’t make me feel this way.”
“Are you sure it’s me and not you?” I ask.
“That’s the problem. I’m never sure.”
“You would be with me.”
Silently, I replay his words in my head. Is he picking up how I feel, from all the way across town? I don’t know much about empathy, but that’s an enormous range.
“How do you keep from drowning in other people’s emotions?” I ask, before I can think better of it.
“It doesn’t work like that. The distance is more of a gauge,” he mutters. From his tone, it’s clear he doesn’t care to elaborate.
And that makes me even more determined to get an answer. “Of what?”
“How much I care.”
“So you care…a Laredo-sized amount about me?”
“Shan,” he whispers. “I doubt you could go anywhere that I wouldn’t feel you.”
Oh. My. God.
He goes on, “I haven’t felt like this since high school. You’re burning me alive.”
“That’s not a bad thing.”
“Said the flame to the moth.”
He must be wondering how he’d explain me to his friends and family, his work colleagues. I won’t change for him. If he wants me, I come with Gothic splendor. He has to love me enough not to care what other people think or how they feel about us together. I don’t know if Jesse has that much of a lawless streak in him.
I sure hope so.
And it’s not like I’m jailbait. I’m just not the girl anybody would pick for him.
“You seem to think I’m bent on your destruction.”
“Sometimes it feels that way. No matter how many times I tell myself it’s a bad idea, I close my eyes and see your face.”
“I’m good with that.”
Then I disconnect the call because I’m ready to turn it into something filthy, and I don’t think Jesse’s ready for that. I suspect he’d feel guilty if we had phone sex, which would set us back. I text him a good night, and then I handle my own needs, all the while conscious that he’s probably feeling everything I do. I consider how he might respond, and that’s enough to make me arch and quiver. Afterward, I’m glowing when I get his texted reply to my emotional message.
God, that was good.
For obvious reasons, I start all over again.
On Friday, I’ve been working for about four hours when I straighten up too close to the drink machine and whack my head. There’s a line of customers, and a few of them act like they might slip behind the stand to help me. Mark would throw a fit and probably fire me; I can hear him ranting about liability. God, training with him sucked so much.
Through sparkling vision, I mumble, “I’m fine, just give me a few seconds.”
I stumble through their service, and they’re all humane enough not to whine. I probably give them the wrong food and beverages, but I’m barely conscious. Afterward, it’s like that impact shook something loose—or broke it more likely—but now I’ve got this picture sitting in the front of my head.
From the outside, it looks like an Oriental trading company, a shop where they sell rugs, fans, and cute imported things. I see myself walking into the store, through the front, and into a private room in back. Here, it’s clearly an arcane supply house with wards, runes, wands, herbs, athames, and other rare spell components. Since I’m pretty sure I can’t cast spells, I can’t fathom what I was doing there. I get flashes, too, of the woman who accompanied me, but there’s a blank spot where her face should be, one I just can’t fill—and pushing ends with me crouched on the floor, cradling my head. Bumping it was painful, and I’ve got a lump rising; this is more of an iron spike through my frontal lobe.
Felix comes jogging over. “Damn, you okay? I heard that bang from across the way, over the whir of the milkshake machine.”
“You’re hilarious.”
“You don’t look good. Come on, sit down for a minute.”
I let him help me up and lead me out to the nearest table. Unless my vision clears up, there’s no way I can finish my shift. Which is unfortunate because the manager’s on vacation for two weeks. He’s been running the place with little help for months, not too surprising, given the uniforms and the pay. My hours might get cut once he comes home, but I’ll worry about that later. Like when my brain isn’t trying to leak out my ears.
“Is there anyone you can call to cover your shift?” Felix asks.
“Maybe.” It’s past three, so Tim, the high school boy who works on the weekends, might be able to come in. But we’re not supposed to swap hours without Mark’s approval. But I don’t give two craps about policy at the moment.
After a few seconds, I hobble back to the stand, the ache in my head subsided to a low roar, and I dig for the personnel roster. Soon I’m on the phone, begging Tim to save me. “I’ll work all day tomorrow for you, promise.”
“Deal,” he says.
Four hours for eight is a bargain. Despite working at Pretzel Pirate, Tim is no fool. He gets a free Saturday out of this arrangement. As I disconnect, a coworker calls Felix back to continue flipping burgers, and I dig the Yellow Pages out from beneath the counter, then look up the shop. I recall the name from the signage, and to my surprise, I find the listing. Huh. I tap the page. So it’s a real place downtown…and I’m not crazy. I enter the address in my phone and then use an online service to figure out what buses to take from here. I note that on my phone, too. Hopefully, if I make all the right connections, I’ll get there before closing time.
I can’t shake the certainty that it’s important. Honestly, that’s why I’m so set on getting out of here. I could finish work with a sore skull, but since Tim agreed to fill in, I’m heading out as soon as he shows; maybe the place will jog my memory. It only takes fifteen minutes for Tim to saunter in. He moves slow, but he’s a good worker, and he’s not annoying like Mark.
He eyes the bump on my head and says, “I get it. No explanation necessary.”
“Some days are like that,” I say with a sigh.
He grins. “Most of mine, actually. Later, Shannon.”
As I’m heading for the bus stop, my phone beeps. Honestly, I’m surprised Jesse hasn’t messaged me sooner. I’m not 100% sure if I love being looped in so tightly, but on the other hand, it means he cares. So I can handle the attention, especially when it comes with perks like the other night.
This might sound dumb, but are you all right?
Minor head trauma, self-inflicted. Nothing to worry about.
But worrying is my only superpower.
Lies. You also look amazing in jeans.
It’s absurd that I can enjoy flirting with him so much via text. But I’m smiling as I board the bus. Patting my bag, I make sure my radio’s still in place. Since that freaky meet-up outside the market, I don’t go anywhere without it. My magickal focus, so to speak, fits in a backpack, so there’s no reason for me to go unarmed, especially when things could turn scary in a split second. Reassured that I’m not helpless, I transfer near downtown and ride a little farther, then I hop off a block from the store. The whole time, I’m aware somebody could be following me, but I don’t see anyone. Nobody else gets off at my stop, anyway, and there are no puddles they can use to spy on me.
I hurry along the sidewalk and enter the trading company. A bell jingles, and I’m overcome by an urge to leave. The feeling almost chokes me, but I force myself to continue deeper into the shop. As I get closer to the back room, the aversion dissipates. I push through the curtain, and everything’s just as I’d pictured in my mind’s eye. Only I don’t remember coming here per se; it’s more like a dream.
An elderly woman sits behind the counter. She watches me with still, dead eyes, and she doesn’t smile. Customarily, a greeting might be in order or an offer to help the customer find what she’s looking for. This clerk tracks my movements with her eyes, which seem impossibly dark and deep, too much for her grandmotherly demeanor. For God’s sake, she has knitting on the counter. I feel weird thinking she’s pure evil, like I might be guilty of ageism, but I have the same feeling now as I did the other night at the mall.
I hardly dare to breathe as I move through the shop, pretending to look at the arcane accoutrements. I suspect this might’ve been a mistake. Why didn’t I tell Jesse where I was going? I’m wondering if they can track my phone. He’ll try that, right, when I turn up missing? Then I remember that’s for contract phones and mine’s pay-as-you-go. Dammit.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” She speaks at last, and her voice has an awful quality, like a dead thing scrabbling up from the bottom of a well.
“I’m just browsing.” What the hell. Since I came all this way, I might as well ask what’s on my mind. “This might be an odd question, but…have I ever been in here before?”
And that’s when the old woman vaults the counter like a stick bug and tries to kill me.
Seven
I stumble back a few steps and topple a display between us. The shattering glass slows her down long enough for me to pop open my backpack. Dodging between display racks, I weave away from her. Madness and malevolence radiate from her in smothering waves, and she’s eerily silent, just the rough gasps of a body unused to such physical exertion.
“Maybe we could talk things through,” I offer. “Get some counseling? I’m sure whatever it is I did to you, which I apparently don’t remember, I can make amends. How do you feel about macramé rugs?”
Her bony fist smashes through some stained-glass shelving, and her blood spatters me as I dive away. It smells faintly of rotten eggs.