damn me, just the thought of his energy has my palms
splitting open again. The chambers within release an ambient glow and waves of
heat.
“Not a full angel, huh?” Rain’s voice is
barely audible beneath the chemical chaos his aura is causing in my brain. “You
sure as hell look like one to me.”
Then he’s gone, tromping up the stairs,
leaving me to my dry eyes, my bleeding nose, and the reassuring feel of the
lock pick in my sleeve.
Chapter 12
A door opens somewhere above me in the
house, and I feel the auras leave together. All but one.
My fingernails dig into the hem of my
sleeve, pulling against the stitches that I made big and loose so they’d be
easy to break. My face is a single large pile of pain. The waterfall of blood
from my nose slackens to a drip. Those icy fingers of dread are back, wrapping
around me, squeezing me to pulp.
Tarren, I have to be Tarren again. I try
to find him within me. Slow. Careful. Plodding. But I can’t stop my heart from
clamoring like it wants out of my ribcage and this whole terrible nightmare.
The door to the basement opens just as
the first stitch snaps. I tug two more away, opening up a small hole in my cuff.
Light footsteps descend the stairs and stop halfway. I hear a long pull of
breath. My fingers dig, and I slide the lock pick out from my cuff, gripping it
in my palm as if it were the Holy Grail. My eyes run lovingly down its silver
body and the small bent heads on each end.
From the stairwell, the breath comes out
in a tight rush. The steps continue until a figure stands on the last stair. An
aura flairs, and the girl steps out of the stairwell. She is short and round
with brown skin and straight black hair pulled into a crooked ponytail. Her
thick blue jacket hides all traces of breasts, and I wonder how old she is.
Maybe my age, or even a little younger. She moves away from the stairwell, but
stays pressed against the back wall of the basement, about 12 feet away from
where I’m seated in the center of the room.
“Could I get some water?” I ask. It’s a
long shot, but at least the high emotions charging through her aura seem to be
uncertainty and fear, rather than hatred or those sick green hues that Puma
Mask has taught me to loath.
“Oh, um, I don’t…” For a moment she
honestly considers the request. Her hand flutters up, patting the yellow bird
mask that covers the top half of her face.
She chose Big Bird for her Totem thing?
“No,” she decides.
“But I’m really thirsty.” I soften my
voice and go for my most innocent expression, the one that could twist Gabe
around my finger before he got hurt.
“No talking,” the girl snaps. Her naturally
high voice severely undercuts her attempt at a forceful command. She fiddles
with her jacket and produces a gun, which she holds out awkwardly in two hands.
I study the barrel. It’s a tranq gun…I think.
“Okay,” I say, and we lapse into silence.
I study my cuffs and find them to be a standard Smith and Wesson 100 model with
double locks engaged. Good, good, good. We have a pair of these at the
house. Gabe declined to tell me how they were acquired, but he did train me on
them. The double locks will slow me down, but not by much. I just need a small
window of time with no eyes on me, and I can be out of these cuffs, out of this
house, and then….I’ll think of something after that. .
Five minutes alone, just five measly
minutes is all I need.
Time drips by, and Birdie doesn’t do me
the favor of going to play hide and seek by herself. I sit. She stares. I feel
my face throb with every heart beat. She keeps staring. The pick practically
burns the skin on my palm. Still staring. Shit, Team Crazy Knuckles is going
to come back before she even blinks.
Maybe I should just start screaming
hysterically and flailing in the chair. Birdie might get flustered enough that
I could at least unlock the first cuff. Or she could decorate your face with
a dozen tranq darts, Gabe’s voice
splitting open again. The chambers within release an ambient glow and waves of
heat.
“Not a full angel, huh?” Rain’s voice is
barely audible beneath the chemical chaos his aura is causing in my brain. “You
sure as hell look like one to me.”
Then he’s gone, tromping up the stairs,
leaving me to my dry eyes, my bleeding nose, and the reassuring feel of the
lock pick in my sleeve.
Chapter 12
A door opens somewhere above me in the
house, and I feel the auras leave together. All but one.
My fingernails dig into the hem of my
sleeve, pulling against the stitches that I made big and loose so they’d be
easy to break. My face is a single large pile of pain. The waterfall of blood
from my nose slackens to a drip. Those icy fingers of dread are back, wrapping
around me, squeezing me to pulp.
Tarren, I have to be Tarren again. I try
to find him within me. Slow. Careful. Plodding. But I can’t stop my heart from
clamoring like it wants out of my ribcage and this whole terrible nightmare.
The door to the basement opens just as
the first stitch snaps. I tug two more away, opening up a small hole in my cuff.
Light footsteps descend the stairs and stop halfway. I hear a long pull of
breath. My fingers dig, and I slide the lock pick out from my cuff, gripping it
in my palm as if it were the Holy Grail. My eyes run lovingly down its silver
body and the small bent heads on each end.
From the stairwell, the breath comes out
in a tight rush. The steps continue until a figure stands on the last stair. An
aura flairs, and the girl steps out of the stairwell. She is short and round
with brown skin and straight black hair pulled into a crooked ponytail. Her
thick blue jacket hides all traces of breasts, and I wonder how old she is.
Maybe my age, or even a little younger. She moves away from the stairwell, but
stays pressed against the back wall of the basement, about 12 feet away from
where I’m seated in the center of the room.
“Could I get some water?” I ask. It’s a
long shot, but at least the high emotions charging through her aura seem to be
uncertainty and fear, rather than hatred or those sick green hues that Puma
Mask has taught me to loath.
“Oh, um, I don’t…” For a moment she
honestly considers the request. Her hand flutters up, patting the yellow bird
mask that covers the top half of her face.
She chose Big Bird for her Totem thing?
“No,” she decides.
“But I’m really thirsty.” I soften my
voice and go for my most innocent expression, the one that could twist Gabe
around my finger before he got hurt.
“No talking,” the girl snaps. Her naturally
high voice severely undercuts her attempt at a forceful command. She fiddles
with her jacket and produces a gun, which she holds out awkwardly in two hands.
I study the barrel. It’s a tranq gun…I think.
“Okay,” I say, and we lapse into silence.
I study my cuffs and find them to be a standard Smith and Wesson 100 model with
double locks engaged. Good, good, good. We have a pair of these at the
house. Gabe declined to tell me how they were acquired, but he did train me on
them. The double locks will slow me down, but not by much. I just need a small
window of time with no eyes on me, and I can be out of these cuffs, out of this
house, and then….I’ll think of something after that. .
Five minutes alone, just five measly
minutes is all I need.
Time drips by, and Birdie doesn’t do me
the favor of going to play hide and seek by herself. I sit. She stares. I feel
my face throb with every heart beat. She keeps staring. The pick practically
burns the skin on my palm. Still staring. Shit, Team Crazy Knuckles is going
to come back before she even blinks.
Maybe I should just start screaming
hysterically and flailing in the chair. Birdie might get flustered enough that
I could at least unlock the first cuff. Or she could decorate your face with
a dozen tranq darts, Gabe’s voice
Similar Books
