superhuman—of an angel—than
he already thought, he’d put a bullet through my brain and consider it due
caution.
I shiver, even though I’m not cold.
I can feel Tarren behind me, the flat, slow churn of his aura. He always keeps
a tight grip on his emotions in my presence. He doesn’t know how well I can
read auras, but he suspects enough to be careful.
While Tarren keeps watch from the
roof of the Murano, Gabe and I dig a grave for Madelyn Mendoza. Even with the
protection of my faux-leather gloves, the handle of the shovel rubs painfully
against my palms, and my back begins to stitch with cramps. Super strength or
not, this isn’t exactly easy. Also, Gabe’s aura is flaring with his efforts.
This is a problem.
The thing is, I don’t just see
auras. I feed on them. The equivalent of sucking a person’s energy right out of
their body. I’ve been getting by on animals—drained a couple of rats while Gabe
and Tarren were on the hunt this afternoon—but just barely. They keep me alive,
but they hardly slake my hunger.
My hunger, it is a fearsome thing.
More addiction than normal physical function. It plays a dangerous melody in my
brain, confusing my thoughts and sawing through my self-control. As Gabe’s
energy flickers higher, the colors brightening around his frame, I bite down on
the inside of my cheek and focus on the pain. This is a new trick I’ve learned.
It helps a little.
Twice during the grave digging,
Tarren calls us to halt. Gabe and I pull up our shovels and duck in front of
the Murano. Tarren slides off the roof, opens the driver’s side door and turns
off the headlights that illuminate our efforts.
The road is a mile out, but the
land is so flat and barren that if a driver turned his head and squinted, he
might see the dark outline of our SUV and wonder what an abandoned car was doing
out in a vast stretch of nothingness.
“Our cover story is that we’re
geo-cashing,” Gabe whispers the first time we have to hide.
“And that explains the blood how?”
I whisper back at him.
“Ketchup. I’m a really messy
eater.”
“Quiet,” Tarren commands. He’s like
that sometimes…all the time.
In both instances we wait and watch
the long glare of headlights from the oncoming cars. Tarren is tense, expecting
trouble, but in each case, the car goes on its merry little way without a
pause.
It takes less than 30 minutes, even
in this stubborn Michigan soil, to open up a shallow pit that meets with Gabe’s
approval. When Gabe gives our efforts the thumbs up, Tarren opens up the hatch
of the SUV and slings a bundle over his shoulder that use to be Madelyn
Mendoza. The shape of her body is softened by its swaddling of blue plastic
tarp, which I had carefully laid out in the trunk while Gabe and Tarren were
tracking her.
I’m still more “accomplice” than
“partner”, but at least I finally convinced my brothers to buy me proper black
attire—a snug outfit of polyester long-sleeved shirt and nylon pants that would
help me blend into the night…if my brothers ever actually let me out on a hunt
with them.
Then again, a small part of
me—okay, a more than small part of me—is glad for just tarp and grave digging
duty. That little voice inside my head that keeps saying, This isn’t my life, this isn’t my life, is right.
One month ago, I was a mediocre college student with purple bangs, a few stupid
dreams and a boyfriend who didn’t think they were stupid at all.
I turn away as Tarren carries his
cargo to the pit and drops it in. I jump a little at the heavy smack of impact.
My mind is starting to whirl with fear and anxiety again. I’m still getting
periodic mini-breakdowns where my brain suddenly revolts from this fucking
crazy new reality I’ve stumbled into.
I keep calm on the outside and try
to think of other things. Happy, pleasant things not related to the fact that I
lost everything in my life, and the only thing I got in return was two
vigilante half-brothers, a few
he already thought, he’d put a bullet through my brain and consider it due
caution.
I shiver, even though I’m not cold.
I can feel Tarren behind me, the flat, slow churn of his aura. He always keeps
a tight grip on his emotions in my presence. He doesn’t know how well I can
read auras, but he suspects enough to be careful.
While Tarren keeps watch from the
roof of the Murano, Gabe and I dig a grave for Madelyn Mendoza. Even with the
protection of my faux-leather gloves, the handle of the shovel rubs painfully
against my palms, and my back begins to stitch with cramps. Super strength or
not, this isn’t exactly easy. Also, Gabe’s aura is flaring with his efforts.
This is a problem.
The thing is, I don’t just see
auras. I feed on them. The equivalent of sucking a person’s energy right out of
their body. I’ve been getting by on animals—drained a couple of rats while Gabe
and Tarren were on the hunt this afternoon—but just barely. They keep me alive,
but they hardly slake my hunger.
My hunger, it is a fearsome thing.
More addiction than normal physical function. It plays a dangerous melody in my
brain, confusing my thoughts and sawing through my self-control. As Gabe’s
energy flickers higher, the colors brightening around his frame, I bite down on
the inside of my cheek and focus on the pain. This is a new trick I’ve learned.
It helps a little.
Twice during the grave digging,
Tarren calls us to halt. Gabe and I pull up our shovels and duck in front of
the Murano. Tarren slides off the roof, opens the driver’s side door and turns
off the headlights that illuminate our efforts.
The road is a mile out, but the
land is so flat and barren that if a driver turned his head and squinted, he
might see the dark outline of our SUV and wonder what an abandoned car was doing
out in a vast stretch of nothingness.
“Our cover story is that we’re
geo-cashing,” Gabe whispers the first time we have to hide.
“And that explains the blood how?”
I whisper back at him.
“Ketchup. I’m a really messy
eater.”
“Quiet,” Tarren commands. He’s like
that sometimes…all the time.
In both instances we wait and watch
the long glare of headlights from the oncoming cars. Tarren is tense, expecting
trouble, but in each case, the car goes on its merry little way without a
pause.
It takes less than 30 minutes, even
in this stubborn Michigan soil, to open up a shallow pit that meets with Gabe’s
approval. When Gabe gives our efforts the thumbs up, Tarren opens up the hatch
of the SUV and slings a bundle over his shoulder that use to be Madelyn
Mendoza. The shape of her body is softened by its swaddling of blue plastic
tarp, which I had carefully laid out in the trunk while Gabe and Tarren were
tracking her.
I’m still more “accomplice” than
“partner”, but at least I finally convinced my brothers to buy me proper black
attire—a snug outfit of polyester long-sleeved shirt and nylon pants that would
help me blend into the night…if my brothers ever actually let me out on a hunt
with them.
Then again, a small part of
me—okay, a more than small part of me—is glad for just tarp and grave digging
duty. That little voice inside my head that keeps saying, This isn’t my life, this isn’t my life, is right.
One month ago, I was a mediocre college student with purple bangs, a few stupid
dreams and a boyfriend who didn’t think they were stupid at all.
I turn away as Tarren carries his
cargo to the pit and drops it in. I jump a little at the heavy smack of impact.
My mind is starting to whirl with fear and anxiety again. I’m still getting
periodic mini-breakdowns where my brain suddenly revolts from this fucking
crazy new reality I’ve stumbled into.
I keep calm on the outside and try
to think of other things. Happy, pleasant things not related to the fact that I
lost everything in my life, and the only thing I got in return was two
vigilante half-brothers, a few
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