TWO MONTHS AGO
The doorbell chimes behind me as I walk into the chilly night air. I didn’t mean to stay late at my favorite coffee shop, Jack’s Magic Beans, but I had just signed the lease on my apartment and a little celebration was in order. My late-night commutes are about to get a lot easier, and to top it off, crime in the city had been quiet lately. Things are looking up.
I should have known something wasn’t right.
I board the bus, pop in my earbuds, and close my eyes for one second. The rumble of the engine hums underneath me, and even with the odd bump it’s sosoothing.I open my eyes and nothing looks familiar outside the dark glass.
“Excuse me?” I call to the woman across the aisle. She looks up from her knitting project, her eyes red-rimmed, but filled with kindness. “Did we pass Ashberry?”
“That was about five stops back, honey.”
Shit.
I get off at the next stop and immediately regret it. Broken buildings line the streets as far as I can see. This part of town was full of empty places and shadows long before the factories closed their doors. It has only gotten worse in the time since.
Not the kind of place you want to be at this time of night.
A whistle sounded in the doorway on my right, the man within slumped on the ground. “Smile for me, pretty girl.”
Great. Waiting for the bus isn’t an option. I skirt around the man and quickly but purposefully begin the long walk home.
Twenty minutes later, I’m cold, tired and still nowhere closer to meeting up with my line. Sweat coats my brow and cools as a gust of wind cuts right through my clothes. My chest aches, heaving under the murky film of city smog.
And then I see it.
A Nissan GT-R. Black, with windows tinted almost as dark. No license plate, and immaculate paint polished to a mirror’s sheen. I run a finger down its curved surface, convinced it wasn’t real, then use the hem of my T-shirt to brush away the mark my finger left behind.
The building connected to the fenced parking lot it’s parked in is rough. It spans almost a whole block in length. Two stories rise above the main floor area, maybe more. There are at least four in the office space to the right side of the structure. Its surface sports a painted blue aluminum skin. Any windows not spray painted or ringed in shattered glass are covered in old boards, and garbage litters the perimeter.
What is Charade doing here?
Ducking into an empty glass factory about a block away I change into my gear, lovingly hidden in a pocket I stitched into the lining of my backpack. The mask glides over my face, and I relish the feel of its silken weight against my cheekbones.
A quiet settles over the night as I backtrack to the abandoned factory. My nerves alight. It’s more than a lack of noise; it’s thelack of life. The roar of traffic that fills downtown is no more than a distant murmur. Even the air feels stagnant despite the tunnels created by the huddled factories.
My knees shake as I mount a shoulder-length ledge and take the impact of falling onto a threadbare carpet within. The lemony-citrus zing of industrial cleaner fills my nostrils until it’s all I smell. The outlines of large, industrial desks are imprinted into the thick layer of dust coating everything. Bits of carpet are brighter where missing pieces of furniture once stood, where the dirt and debris hadn’t had a chance to stain the fibers.
My eyes adjust as I roam the halls. My prey will be wherever the light is. Slowly, I pick my way to one end of the hall and start my journey down the dark stairwell at its end and into the heart of the production space.
A flood of light leaks through the double doors at the bottom. They remind me of the kind my old elementary school had, with blonde wood and a clear glass windows lined in some type of metallic grid. They squeak as I press against them.
Rows of fluorescents shine from the tall ceiling. Stacks of wooden pallets taller than I am form walls that spread out in every direction. A faint pine scent and the lingering traces of old gasoline drift in the air.
OSHA would have had a field day with this place.
I navigate the floor at a snail’s pace. Every step could signal my arrival, and around every corner, my enemy might be waiting. My stomach knots as I roam with no end in sight.
I stumble slightly as the pallets fall away, and suddenly he’s there.
Dropped to the floor, I hold my breath and scoot away from the opening. Peering through the slats, I watch Charade rifle through a box at his feet.
The fumes are stronger here. Pungent. They lace every breath until I’m full of it. Until my head throbs in the frontal cortex of my skull and my eyes water.
I take my eyes off him for one second to rub away the ache building behind my brow. One second, but when I look back, he’s gone.
A warm, electric knowing raises the fine hairs at the back of my neck a moment before his fingers curl around my wrist and shove. I fall with the momentum, use it to roll into an inelegant crouch a few feet away.
Looking up at him is like looking at an element. He’s pure electricity, unpredictable and raw, with a mouth that smirks like the Devil’s lips. A shadow of scruff lines his jaw, a day or two past its prime, but he still looks good. Healwayslooks good, much to my chagrin.
