whispers to me in ironic tones. Patience, Tarren tells me, even as Birdie’s aura teases at the predator part of me.
The hunger grows, and my control is starting waver.
Birdie switches the gun to one hand and
wipes her palm on her jeans. She glances up the stairs, probably wishing the
rest of the group would return. I’m guessing guard duty isn’t exactly her
chosen line of work.
Cookies, you want to bake cookies so bad
right now, I think at
her. The boys would love some warm, gooey cookies when they get back from
trying to kidnap people.
A half hour drags by and then another. Go
up and dust, I think to her. No one likes a dusty house. Wouldn’t the
boys be so pleased if the house was sparkling when they came back? You could
probably give the carpets a good shampooing while you’re at it. No time like
the present.
Birdie seems immune to my thought
projections, and I give up and slump back in the chair. I almost here Tarren
barking at me to do something useful with my kidnap time, so I try to stitch
together what I know about The Totem. It amounts to basically nothing except
that they are clearly amateurs. Rain had never heard the term “angel” before,
and these guys clearly don’t appreciate the strength level of full angels or
apparently know about the different ability each full angels possesses.
Not complete amateurs, Tarren corrects me. He’s right. The way
the team boxed me into the alley; the fact that they could even discover an
angel when Tarren and I came up empty for three days tells me that at least
some part of their operation isn’t completely reckless and sad. Tranq guns
aren’t easy to get, Gabe confirms to me. It’s all so confusing.How
in the hell did Rain and Milo get from Poughkeepsie to this? Where did
sociopathic Puma Mask and his nasty knuckle sandwiches come from? What about little
Birdie with the crooked ponytail? She looks like she should be at marching band
practice on some community college campus.
After another half hour, Birdie unzips
her big, blue jacket, revealing a white Hello Kitty sweatshirt beneath. As if I
wasn’t unterrified enough of her. She looks up and gives me a suspicious stare.
“It’s a good look for you,” I tell her
solemnly.
“No talking,” she says. I notice pink jags
ticking through her aura with growing urgency. I know exactly what this means,
and now I’m sending her thoughts of waterfalls, rushing rivers, tap water gushing
out of a sink. Drip, drip, drip, I think to her.
She lasts another fifteen minutes,
rocking forward and back on the balls of her feet. I hunch my shoulders,
looking as sad, innocent, and non-escapy as possible.
“I have to go to the….” she starts and
then stops. We stare at each other. She frowns, puts her gun down on the floor,
and climbs the stairs. Did she just seriously put her gun on the floor? I can’t
wait to tell Tarren that someone in the world is more inept at vigilantism than
I am.
Look who’s chained to a chair by the Zoo
Pals, Gabe’s voice
sneaks in.
Shut up! I think back as I pull the pick from my right
sleeve.
Gabe’s face breaks into my thoughts, and
a familiar rush of guilt stills my fingers. Tarren will keep him safe ,I think and reapply myself to the task. I’ll need to disengage the double
lock first and then release the single lock to get out of the cuffs. No
problem. The picking process is almost the same; it’s just the direction of the
rotation that changes.
I slide the hooked edge of the pick into
the small hole of the lock. Easy, easy, I hear Tarren whisper to me. Take
your time. Do it right. I move the pick gently, setting it against the
inner pins. I twist the pick counter-clockwise. My hands shake, and the pick
loses its perch as I swear and reapply. The positioning of the cuffs is so
awkward, but that’s no excuse for my clumsiness. Fear changes everything. I’ve
picked this cuff upside down, blindfolded, behind my back – anything Gabe could
think of when he trained me. But
The hunger grows, and my control is starting waver.
Birdie switches the gun to one hand and
wipes her palm on her jeans. She glances up the stairs, probably wishing the
rest of the group would return. I’m guessing guard duty isn’t exactly her
chosen line of work.
Cookies, you want to bake cookies so bad
right now, I think at
her. The boys would love some warm, gooey cookies when they get back from
trying to kidnap people.
A half hour drags by and then another. Go
up and dust, I think to her. No one likes a dusty house. Wouldn’t the
boys be so pleased if the house was sparkling when they came back? You could
probably give the carpets a good shampooing while you’re at it. No time like
the present.
Birdie seems immune to my thought
projections, and I give up and slump back in the chair. I almost here Tarren
barking at me to do something useful with my kidnap time, so I try to stitch
together what I know about The Totem. It amounts to basically nothing except
that they are clearly amateurs. Rain had never heard the term “angel” before,
and these guys clearly don’t appreciate the strength level of full angels or
apparently know about the different ability each full angels possesses.
Not complete amateurs, Tarren corrects me. He’s right. The way
the team boxed me into the alley; the fact that they could even discover an
angel when Tarren and I came up empty for three days tells me that at least
some part of their operation isn’t completely reckless and sad. Tranq guns
aren’t easy to get, Gabe confirms to me. It’s all so confusing.How
in the hell did Rain and Milo get from Poughkeepsie to this? Where did
sociopathic Puma Mask and his nasty knuckle sandwiches come from? What about little
Birdie with the crooked ponytail? She looks like she should be at marching band
practice on some community college campus.
After another half hour, Birdie unzips
her big, blue jacket, revealing a white Hello Kitty sweatshirt beneath. As if I
wasn’t unterrified enough of her. She looks up and gives me a suspicious stare.
“It’s a good look for you,” I tell her
solemnly.
“No talking,” she says. I notice pink jags
ticking through her aura with growing urgency. I know exactly what this means,
and now I’m sending her thoughts of waterfalls, rushing rivers, tap water gushing
out of a sink. Drip, drip, drip, I think to her.
She lasts another fifteen minutes,
rocking forward and back on the balls of her feet. I hunch my shoulders,
looking as sad, innocent, and non-escapy as possible.
“I have to go to the….” she starts and
then stops. We stare at each other. She frowns, puts her gun down on the floor,
and climbs the stairs. Did she just seriously put her gun on the floor? I can’t
wait to tell Tarren that someone in the world is more inept at vigilantism than
I am.
Look who’s chained to a chair by the Zoo
Pals, Gabe’s voice
sneaks in.
Shut up! I think back as I pull the pick from my right
sleeve.
Gabe’s face breaks into my thoughts, and
a familiar rush of guilt stills my fingers. Tarren will keep him safe ,I think and reapply myself to the task. I’ll need to disengage the double
lock first and then release the single lock to get out of the cuffs. No
problem. The picking process is almost the same; it’s just the direction of the
rotation that changes.
I slide the hooked edge of the pick into
the small hole of the lock. Easy, easy, I hear Tarren whisper to me. Take
your time. Do it right. I move the pick gently, setting it against the
inner pins. I twist the pick counter-clockwise. My hands shake, and the pick
loses its perch as I swear and reapply. The positioning of the cuffs is so
awkward, but that’s no excuse for my clumsiness. Fear changes everything. I’ve
picked this cuff upside down, blindfolded, behind my back – anything Gabe could
think of when he trained me. But
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