Charcoal Tears (10 page)

“Seph?”

“Yeah?”

“They’re following.”

“I know, Tariq.”

He sighed and relaxed back against the seat. “They make me pretty uncomfortable, and I really don’t know what to say about the way they act around you… but—”

“But there’s no real basis?” I couldn’t help the bite to my tone, and I worked to soften it. “They’re helping.”

“I know they are. That’s sort of what I was getting to. You’re smiling, and laughing, and painting again.” He shrugged. “If it’s because of them, I guess I’d prefer them to hang around.”

We parked down the road and made our way to the house, Tariq dropping behind me as we passed through the door. Silence greeted us, and I did a quick sweep of the rooms, trying to ignore the new computer that sat in the unused dining room, conveniently tucked away beside the sagging cupboard that used to hold our mother’s fancy dinner set—but now housed a small rat colony, no doubt. I suspected that nobody ever came into this room, and the mysterious Silas had clearly come to the same conclusion—though it wasn’t a far reach, as there was a thick layer of dust that coated the floor, table, and windowsills.

Gerald was gone, I concluded upon returning to the kitchen,
and so was the money
.

I said goodbye to Tariq and ran back to my car, waving to the boys before I got inside. I waited for them to take off before I put my car into gear, determined that they didn’t find out about the club just yet. I arrived at work only ten minutes early as opposed to my usual couple of hours. Sally seemed relieved, and I could tell that she had been wondering if something had happened to me. I almost never missed a shift. I prepped the bar and then moved down to the entrance as people started to file in.

I stamped hands, ignored pickup lines, and ground my teeth together at the touches that lingered. I wasn’t even looking at their faces anymore, and when someone’s hand pulled at mine, the difference in touch was immense. It robbed the air from my body. Every other hand had been cold, clammy even. This one was warm, it sparked something to life inside my chest, and I didn’t have to look up to know that it was my silent stranger. He gently turned my hand outward, using it as a cradle to display his palm, and he reached for the stamp with his free hand, his fingers closing around mine. I watched, my breath halting and the meaningless motions of the world grinding to an abrupt halt. There was an unexpected deliberateness to his movements this night, a heavy rumination tinged with enquiry, and it weighed down on me as I waited for him to stamp himself.

He didn’t.

He tugged, and I fell forward a step, my eyes snapping to his. Wild, dark and dangerously wilful, he wasn’t smiling—but then again, I’d never seen him smile before. He quickly pressed the stamp against his skin, releasing my hand, and my breath rushed out in an embarrassing struggle for equilibrium as his thumb lightly touched upon my cheek, a caress that lasted a moment longer than it ever had before.

In a flash, he was gone, and my heart was threatening to dive out of my chest and leap up the stairs after him.

I shook my head, forcing my attention back to the line, as someone was starting to complain. I thought about my reaction to his touch while I worked, wondering at the differentness in feeling between the man whose name I didn’t know, and the boys whose names I
did
know. The scratchy feeling was there—barely—but where I had grown used to the confusion and unease that usually accompanied it, there was underlying warmth to this cold, frightening man.

Normal
, I thought.

It was normal.

It was almost closing time before I finally slid into his booth, my feet aching and some unknown substance forcing the side of my shirt to stick to my skin. He didn’t look at me, but I got the feeling that he knew who was sitting next to him. How could he not? Nobody else dared to speak to him.

“Things are getting stranger,” I told him, rubbing the back of my neck. “I’ve started getting this feeling, like my life is taking off without me, like it’s making decisions for me. Do you ever get that feeling?”

I looked at him and caught the curve of his mouth before he hid the smile behind his glass. He found something amusing, but I wasn’t sure if it was an ironic amusement, or if he was laughing at me. I passed my eyes over his fingers as he drank, noting the scars criss-crossing over his knuckles. I could easily imagine this man being jaded by life, having his decisions stolen from him, but I couldn’t imagine him as a victim, it just didn’t agree with the hardness in his eyes. This man was a fighter; he probably didn’t
allow
life to decide things for him.

“Well,” I continued, picking at the corner of the table. “I have friends now. I think.”
And someone out there doesn’t like it.
I watched as he lowered his glass back to the table and turned his eyes to me, interested. It wasn’t so easy to talk to him when he was meeting my gaze, so I stared at the table instead. “Cabe and Noah,” I muttered, almost to myself. “They’re a little protective, and they try to control everything, but they’re nice and they know about what makes me different. Not even you know that about me.”

“What makes you different?” His voice was familiar to me, though I had only heard it once before that I could remember. It had a clipped, Slavic undertone that warred with what I had guessed to be a Mediterranean complexion.

I turned to study him as though his speaking had been an invitation to learn more about him. His eyes tilted up at the corners and his jaw pivoted sharply, giving the impression of broadness and making the stern line of his mouth even sharper. The longer I looked, the more like Quillan he seemed, but if Quillan had grown up with a Slavic accent, he had certainly learned to hide it well by now.

“I know how to survive,” I finally answered.

He inclined his head slightly and then went back to drinking. Maybe that was why I felt a connection to him. Maybe we both knew how to survive.

I arrived back home at a little past two in the morning. My shoulders were stiff and my legs were aching as I forced myself up the stairs. I didn’t see the shape at the top until it separated itself from the shadows.
Gerald
. He lashed out and I fell back against the railing, a whimper catching in my throat.

He wasn’t shouting obscenities or calling me names; he wasn’t making a sound at all, which meant that he didn’t want Tariq to wake up and intervene. My blood ran cold and I dodged his next swipe, keeping as quiet as he was. This was no drunken brawl. The moonlight filtered in enough for me to see him clearly by now, and I hoped that the mysterious Silas wasn’t watching, because I was pretty sure that I was going to need to use my electricity. Gerald’s fingers snagged on my book bag and it ripped, thumping to the ground. One of the zippers must have been pulled, because my tips from the night were rolling down the stairs. The sight of coins scattering over the last few steps arrested me, and for the briefest moment, I completely forgot about my father.

My blood had turned to ice.

I painted this
.

His fist slammed into the side of my face and I went down, smacking my forehead into the stairs. I pulled up onto my hands and knees, groaning at the ringing in my skull, and his eerie chuckle echoed in the hollow house. It was low and contained; I supposed I might have mistaken it for a neighbourhood sound, carried on the moaning wind, or a remnant of some nightmare… had I been tucked safely in bed. He pulled my hair back, and the sound of a zipper being drawn down sliced through my shocked senses.

I surged with energy and placed my palm against his thigh without hesitation. He flew back from me, tipping over the stair railing and tumbling into the living room below. I heard the splintering of wood, but didn’t dwell on what had broken his fall. As far as I cared, everything in this house was doomed. Either my father would throw it at me, or I would throw him at it. I supposed that it was a good thing that he had sold all of our valuables years ago. I quickly collected all of my stuff and held my bag together as I fought a lingering dizziness to make it up the stairs. I bypassed my room altogether and fell into the opposite end of Tariq’s bed smelling like a bar.

There was no way in hell that I was sleeping in a room without a lock tonight.

He nudged me with his leg, and I heard the ragged breath he let out. He had been listening to the whole thing.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Go to sleep, baby brother.”

He made a gruff sound, turned on his side, and gradually relaxed into sleep. I remained staring at the dark ceiling, my face throbbing.

I had
painted
it.

The next day I rose early and showered. I washed my hair and dried it into blown-out curls, using the mass of it to hide the purplish bruises that mottled the right side of my face. I tried to put on some foundation too, but you could still see them. I had woken up with dried blood encrusted around my chin, but the swelling in my split lip was minimal, the cut small.

I dressed in plain shorts and an oversized t-shirt. It was decorated with a skull that had flowers growing out of it, and the word ‘Tool’ was scrawled beneath, indicating that it was probably Tariq’s. I pulled on my chameleon shoes and we left the house quickly that morning, avoiding looking at the sitting room. We had groceries, so Tariq had already eaten, but I hadn’t wanted to linger, so I stopped for another subpar coffee on the way to school.

We parked and I grabbed my book bag. It was secured together with straining safety pins. I spotted the jeep and walked toward it as Tariq ran off. The front door opened and Cabe got out, opening the back door and motioning me to get in. He wore a grim expression. I swallowed, slipping into the backseat. He followed, pushing me into the middle. Noah sat on the other side and they both glared at me.

“Silas was watching.” I knew that I sounded disappointed.

They stayed quiet, and something else occurred to me. I snapped my head up, fixing them each a look. “You were
all
watching?”

Noah grimaced. “Silas recorded it. He showed us this morning.”

“I didn’t know it was this bad.” Cabe’s voice was low and growly: hard, like I had heard it on occasion. I immediately wanted the light and happy Cabe back.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, glancing at my lap and fitting my hands together. I didn’t know what to say to them. I shouldn’t feel like I had betrayed them in some way by allowing myself to get hurt.
I
was hurt. Not
them
.

Noah made a sound of frustration. “Don’t be sorry. We aren’t angry at you.” He tilted my face, checking out the damage under the glare of the sun streaming through the windows.

He brushed a finger beneath my swollen lip, and Cabe captured my hands, pulling them into his lap. “You blew the bastard over the railing.”

I didn’t know what to say.

Cabe chuckled and Noah’s mouth tilted, almost smiling.

“How do you know about… how are you not…?” I couldn’t seem to get the right words out.

“It’s called
valcrick
, the lightening power.”

I sat unmoving between them, hardly daring to believe. They were going to tell me. “I thought I was crazy for years.”

“You’re not. There aren’t many people with the valcrick power, but there used to be, a long time ago.”

“Am I an alien?”

Cabe cracked up, falling back against the car door, and Noah shot him a chastising look.

“You’re one of us,” Noah corrected. “A
Zevghéri
.”

I tried to pronounce the name in the same way that Noah did, but failed terribly. “What are Zev… Zeg…”

“Zevghéri?” Cabe saved me. “In ancient times, they called us the Paired People. At some point it made the transition through too many languages, and the proper translation for it became a little muddled. Mostly we stick with Zevghéri.”

“Right,” I answered, because that seemed logical. Almost. “So I’m not from space.”

He dropped a hand onto my head as Noah tried to swallow a smile.

“No,” Cabe laughed. “You’re pretty out of this world, but you’re not an alien.”

We spilled out of the car as the bell signalled the start of homeroom and split up at the doors. I ran with Cabe and still managed to burst in late to Mr. Thomas’s class, interrupting one of his usual lectures. He frowned and waited for us to take our seats, muttering something sarcastic about how he was glad we could make it. Cabe found it funny, but I was blushing furiously.

Someone leaned over to me as I sat down. “Making out with your boyfriends in the car park? Tut tut, Miss Black.”

I blinked at the unfamiliar boy who apparently knew my last name. He smirked at me, and I quickly turned to ignore him. I pulled out a notebook—easily ignoring Mr. Thomas—and hastily wrote something for Cabe.

How long did you know about it?

I dropped the notebook onto his desk when the teacher wasn’t looking, and he glanced down and wrote something back.

Immediately
.

Well… that explained everything. Suddenly, I felt an enormous weight lift from my shoulders, but it only made me want to cry. I snapped my notebook shut and shoved it into my book bag. One of the safety pins popped out, and I ignored it. The new gods of our high school hadn’t just been struck with the obscure urge to be friends with me. It was because I was a different classification of human. Not an alien, but—
ugh
. I wanted to ask
how
he had been able to tell that I was one of them, but I buried the question instead. I didn’t care. Not really. I packed my stuff up early and was out the door at the first hint of the bell.

Cabe had quick reflexes, but I was used to being invisible. When I wasn’t with him, it was much easier to slip between people and disappear. I made it to the nurse’s office and sat my shaking body down onto a bench. A woman rushed out.

“Are you unwell, dear?”

I nodded my head; she pressed a hand to my forehead, felt my trembling, and urged me into the room she had come from. She asked me questions, directed me to a bed, and I stayed there until lunch time. I couldn’t stop shaking. A good ten minutes after the bell had rung, I walked into the cafeteria and sat in my usual seat, across from Matthew. He glanced up, paused, and then looked back down. I could have kissed him.