kind of time, not with five dead Rangers and a homicidal Bane on the loose.
I forced my eyes open; the world had gone purple, like someone had taped a sheet of colored plastic over my vision. Another cramp seized my guts, and I swallowed hard. On my left, a small sign indicated locker rooms down the hall. I took a deep breath, launched out of my kneeling position, and bolted. I overshot the bathroom door and almost crashed into a wall as I turned around.
Ignoring the fact that it was the men’s room, I shoved the door open, ran into the nearest stall, and vomited into the toilet. It didn’t take long to empty what little was in my stomach. Mostly water and grit particles (probably that sand I had swallowed), all colored purple like the rest of my world.
The pressure in my abdomen decreased without going away completely. I spat again, trying to rid my mouth of the sour taste of bile, and pushed the manual button to flush. I pulled up on shaky legs to the tune of water swirling and stumbled over to one of the sinks. After a few mouthfuls of tap water to clean out that horrid taste, I hazarded a look at myself in the mirror.
My pupils were dilated, but I couldn’t judge any other changes with my eyes acting so strangely. Now I knew how Renee felt when she looked in the mirror and saw blue skin and wished it had been ivory.
“It figures,” I said to my reflection. “Not only did you possibly inherit your grandmother’s powers, but now it looks like you’re allergic to them. Bravo.”
The cramping subsided enough to convince me that I wouldn’t internally combust during dinner. I washed my hands, checked my hair for any residual barf, and left the safety of the men’s room, praying for the strength to get through the day.
Eating food that looked the wrong color—on top of having an upset stomach—made dinner an exercise in durability and stamina. The two-person kitchen staff surprised me with a selection of roast beef, parslied potatoes, and steamed carrots, and I surprised Gage by taking only a small helping. I made a joke about watching my figure and being hungry again in an hour. He didn’t push, and I appreciated that.
He did, however, watch me like a hawk as we ate. I tried to ignore the concerned glances and keep up idle banter. We hadn’t heard from the other group in almost two hours, and that elephant stalked the room and dulled conversation.
The cafeteria sparkled in a way that the rest of the building did not. Tiled floors were freshly mopped, each homey wooden table wiped down and waxed. The chairs were wood, with upholstered seats (the exact color I’d have to figure out later), and quite comfortable. We were the only people in a room large enough to hold two hundred.
Gage pushed half-eaten roast beef around his plate and asked, “Is this how you usually spend your Saturday evenings?”
“Absolutely not,” I replied. “I used to slave away at three different menial, dead-end jobs to pay my rent and buy food, because most good employers have a problem hiring convicted felons, so I blew off my steam any night I had a few free hours. I’d find a nice, dirty dive bar within walking distance of my place, hustle drinks from losers I wouldn’t let touch me with a three-meter pole, dance away my frustrations, and then go home and sleep it off.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is, especially in heels.”
His left eye twitched with … what? Annoyance? I almost added to my statement, wanting to assure him that I hadn’t slept with any of my dancing partners, only I had no need to defend my (lack of) sex life.
“So what about you?” I asked. “How do you normally spend your Saturday nights?”
“Saturday was movie night,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “Since the only open cinema was in the city, it was a once-a-week trek. Sometimes I’d go with a buddy from work, sometimes I’d have a date. Usually I went alone. Didn’t matter much what was playing or who was in
I forced my eyes open; the world had gone purple, like someone had taped a sheet of colored plastic over my vision. Another cramp seized my guts, and I swallowed hard. On my left, a small sign indicated locker rooms down the hall. I took a deep breath, launched out of my kneeling position, and bolted. I overshot the bathroom door and almost crashed into a wall as I turned around.
Ignoring the fact that it was the men’s room, I shoved the door open, ran into the nearest stall, and vomited into the toilet. It didn’t take long to empty what little was in my stomach. Mostly water and grit particles (probably that sand I had swallowed), all colored purple like the rest of my world.
The pressure in my abdomen decreased without going away completely. I spat again, trying to rid my mouth of the sour taste of bile, and pushed the manual button to flush. I pulled up on shaky legs to the tune of water swirling and stumbled over to one of the sinks. After a few mouthfuls of tap water to clean out that horrid taste, I hazarded a look at myself in the mirror.
My pupils were dilated, but I couldn’t judge any other changes with my eyes acting so strangely. Now I knew how Renee felt when she looked in the mirror and saw blue skin and wished it had been ivory.
“It figures,” I said to my reflection. “Not only did you possibly inherit your grandmother’s powers, but now it looks like you’re allergic to them. Bravo.”
The cramping subsided enough to convince me that I wouldn’t internally combust during dinner. I washed my hands, checked my hair for any residual barf, and left the safety of the men’s room, praying for the strength to get through the day.
Eating food that looked the wrong color—on top of having an upset stomach—made dinner an exercise in durability and stamina. The two-person kitchen staff surprised me with a selection of roast beef, parslied potatoes, and steamed carrots, and I surprised Gage by taking only a small helping. I made a joke about watching my figure and being hungry again in an hour. He didn’t push, and I appreciated that.
He did, however, watch me like a hawk as we ate. I tried to ignore the concerned glances and keep up idle banter. We hadn’t heard from the other group in almost two hours, and that elephant stalked the room and dulled conversation.
The cafeteria sparkled in a way that the rest of the building did not. Tiled floors were freshly mopped, each homey wooden table wiped down and waxed. The chairs were wood, with upholstered seats (the exact color I’d have to figure out later), and quite comfortable. We were the only people in a room large enough to hold two hundred.
Gage pushed half-eaten roast beef around his plate and asked, “Is this how you usually spend your Saturday evenings?”
“Absolutely not,” I replied. “I used to slave away at three different menial, dead-end jobs to pay my rent and buy food, because most good employers have a problem hiring convicted felons, so I blew off my steam any night I had a few free hours. I’d find a nice, dirty dive bar within walking distance of my place, hustle drinks from losers I wouldn’t let touch me with a three-meter pole, dance away my frustrations, and then go home and sleep it off.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is, especially in heels.”
His left eye twitched with … what? Annoyance? I almost added to my statement, wanting to assure him that I hadn’t slept with any of my dancing partners, only I had no need to defend my (lack of) sex life.
“So what about you?” I asked. “How do you normally spend your Saturday nights?”
“Saturday was movie night,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “Since the only open cinema was in the city, it was a once-a-week trek. Sometimes I’d go with a buddy from work, sometimes I’d have a date. Usually I went alone. Didn’t matter much what was playing or who was in
Similar Books
