Page 67 of Vameer

The sound of crunching is drowned out by the whoosh of atmosphere as the car implodes.

I release my power, and a ball of metal and pulverized vehicle parts drops to the pavement with a solid thud.

Zaps of electricity dance up my arms. My gravito feeling smug.

Turning to face the men who are wide-eyed and no longer crouching, I reach into my pocket and pull out two gold coins. “Don’t settle for less than they’re worth.”

Their eyes move from the car ball to me.

I toss the coins.

They lift their hands.

And before they’re caught, I jump, dragging my reluctant passengers into the sky.

No one hears their attempted screams as we continue to climb.

Once we are half a mile up, I pause. From here, with my eyes that can see in the dark, I can make out the waves of the ocean in the distance.

I can smell the blood that is still dripping from the cops’ thighs. But I have no interest in consuming any. They may be predators, but only to those weaker than them. They hold no true power.

Whereas my power… It feels endless.

Plus, my mate’s blood is waiting for me.

I want nothing else.

Exhaling, I turn north, toward the scent of apples, giving the cops my back.

They start their muffled screams again. But the screams disappear as my gravito flings them south, over the Gulf.

A food offering to my sea-bound friends.

I forget about them instantly, my thoughts on my Little Human as I jump away.

Chapter 26

Rune

“Did you say the artist is from Argentina?”

I nod as I carry the brightly painted canvas to the desk in back.

I’m trying to be present with this woman; she’s very nice. But my attention is still focused on last night. On waking up with a start. On the mirror. On the way I swear I could feel his voice against my palm.

“Do you know what part?”

“Um…” I try to remember what we’re talking about. “I don’t think it says.” I set the painting on the desk and lower myself into the chair.

“I heard there was an earthquake the other day near the southern tip of South America. A big one.” She holds her hands apart, like she’s measuring the natural disaster. “Wonder if the artist lives near there.”

Unsure how to reply, I shrug.

“Then again”—the woman leans a hip against the desk—“I think the article said it was in a pretty unpopulated area. Mostly mountains and wildlife and whatnot.”

My hand stills.

Mountains.