One soldier to another. Iris nods. Aranea stays at the overlook, watching, until Iris disappears into the dark. Over the next few months, she makes the trip from Hammerhead to Lestallum frequently. Iris looks mostly the same, her hair a little longer, boasting a hell of a scar on her cheek.
She runs a gentle finger over the scar. I kinda think it makes me look sexy. We Amicitias wear our scars well. They are pretty great. Three nights before, Aranea got in a nasty fight with a naga that had appeared out of nowhere, two or three feet from the haven she was heading toward.
But it happened that way all the time. Just like someone was going to do when it was her, lying dead from whatever monster finally finished her off. It hissed and writhed around the edge of the camp for hours , and with no daylight to send it on its merry way, Aranea was all but trapped. Get on with it, already. The answer to her angry demand of a prayer was a pack of coeurls. Not daemons, but just as deadly. These moments of pleasure and companionship, are they worth the mind-numbing terror and boredom that makes up every other living, breathing moment of her life?
She thinks maybe they do. She thinks about the dead hunter, reaching toward the haven lights while his life bled out in the dirt. She wonders if anything was worth it, for him. They see each other again in Hammerhead. Iris is there to get her daggers sharpened, and they go in to the diner — less of a diner and more a weapons shop, now — and fall exhausted into a booth, drinking lukewarm terrible coffee and soaking up the light. A radio is playing in the distance, broadcasting the usual public safety information in fits and starts.
Takka comes over and hands them each a bowl of rice with what looks like honest-to-Shiva meat in it. You two go out there every day and put your life on the line. You need more strength than those chips and protein bars. It might be better. Sorry, Aranea. The expression feels rusty.
But, gods. The rice is good. Hammerhead has an old camper RV and Cindy insists they share it. She looks tired, but her smile is, as always, kind. You girls get some sleep. They go to bed, still damp from their shower and do it all over again.
Imagine the look on his face if he walked in and found us naked in his bed. She remembers Prompto in Gralea, trying to burn his MT code off his own wrist. I had a raging crush on Noct. About what it means when Noct comes back. Aranea lets the when go by without comment.
Noct will come back, defeat Ardyn, and then light will return. That he would come back only to — to die. Iris nods, and they lay down together, tangled beneath the covers. Somehow, without really talking about it at all, they spend the next few months together.
Traveling between Lestallum and Hammerhead, assisting convoys and, once, making a harrowing journey to Meldacio to check on the hunters there and bring some much needed supplies of weapons and food.
The havens they stay at are deserted, and they both know what that means without having to say it. There are fewer hunters out and about because there are fewer hunters. By tacit agreement, they decide to part ways when they get back to Lestallum after the trip to Meldacio. They stand at the overlook, and Aranea takes a deep breath.
You know that. Iris is — irrepressible in a way that Aranea finds both infectious and irritating. Mostly just infectious. Iris throws her head back and laughs — no girlish giggle but a full-out laugh.
Let it happen. Why we still do this. Everything else is just a distraction. Iris smiles, but it looks sad. Several months later, Aranea is out hunting when she comes across a body lying ravaged near a stream. Even an imp could have gotten the drop on her, so rooted was she in shock and horror at the thought of who that might be.
Sharing stale chips that night in Lestallum. Part of her wants to leave without knowing for sure. She should have guarded better against this. Should have never let herself —. Aranea hates herself for the selfish relief she feels when she realizes it. Dead and left to rot, without even a name to share with those left living. Iris leaves word in Hammerhead to meet her in two weeks at a haven outside Lestallum.
She signs the note with a little smiley face. She folds the note up and slips it into her pocket. Aranea runs into Gladio outside of Longwythe. I lean in close to the shutter, training my ears. The hair on my arms stand on end, and I straighten, calling again, this time louder. Are you okay? The glow illuminates his face, emphasizing his devilish grin. He smiles from ear to ear, his light-brown hair and cocoa eyes shining. Dropping the flashlight, he rushes up to me, and I barely have enough time to catch a breath before he dips down, lifts me off my feet, and tosses me over his shoulder.
He continues to chuckle as he sets me back on my feet, keeping his arm around my waist. I knock his hands away. Shorts or no shorts. I know what happened to the last girl who did that. Trey Burrowes is a house of bricks balancing on a toothpick. Something brushes my calf, and I look down just in time to see Ten crawling out from under the gaming booth. I move out of the way and push Trey back, noticing that Ten holds something in his hand.
Trey snickers. He turns away, growing quiet, his attention immediately drawn up to the Ferris wheel. So easily distracted. So easily bored. School ends in six weeks. I can fake this a while longer.
Trey Burrowes can be nice, but he can be a real asshole, too. A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, and he turns back around. And then he opens his mouth, slowly stepping toward us.
We both laugh as we race down paths thick with wet leaves and fallen branches, and whip around broken booths. The Zipper still stands, dark and rusted, and we weave through the old swings, the cold chains brushing against my arms. They squeak, probably giving away our position as I charge after Ten. I suck in a breath and follow as he dives into a small building that looks like it was meant for employees. Stepping into the darkness, I pull the door closed behind me and wince at the musty air that hits my nose.
Ten takes his phone out, lighting the room with his flashlight, and I do the same. The floor is littered with debris, and I hear a drip coming from somewhere. Ten heads for what looks like a stairwell, rounding the railing and taking a step down. The stairs lead below, underground. Fear creeps in, sending chills down my spine.
A lot of theme parks have them. Animals, homeless people…dead people. Come on! But I can feel the threat of Trey at my back, so I let out a breath and swing around the bannister, heading down after Ten.
My stomach somersaults. The long, subterranean path is built solely of concrete, a square tunnel about ten feet wide from side to side and top to bottom. There are scattered puddles, probably from rain run-off, a pipe leak, or maybe cracks in the walls letting in ocean water. They glimmer with the track lighting overhead.
A black void looms at the end of the tunnel, and I run my hands up and down my arms, suddenly cold. But lying to myself makes me feel better. I stay straight, though, feeling an excited smile creep up despite my fear. I hear footfalls behind us, and I glance over my shoulder to see a light bobbing down the stairwell. The door is missing, so we swing inside and hide behind the wall, breathing hard as we try to be still. Every day. Right before a scalding hot salt bath. Insert hair flip and giggle.
Not fucking likely. Pressing my head close to the wall, I train my ears, gauging how close he is to us. Did he turn back? Take a side tunnel?
But then I narrow my eyes, noticing a faint whine instead. And then I see him digging in his jeans for something. A moment passes, and then his phone casts a small glow into the room, and I turn, widening my eyes at the sight of a bed, mussed white sheets, and a small table. What the hell? Ten moves farther into the room, getting closer to the bed. Anything goes when everyone knows Where do you hide when their highs are your lows?
I wanna lick, while you still taste like you. My chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, and my thighs clench. I wanna lick… Damn. A cool sweat spreads down my back as a picture of lips whispering those words against my ear hits me. But no, the paper is cluttered with writing over more writing and scribbles and scratches. I follow to where his flashlight is shining, and I finally see the wall. Dropping the notebook to the bed, I peer up as Ten runs the light over the entire surface.
I inch backward, glancing around the room and taking it all in. Photos on the wall with faces scratched out, ambiguous poetry, mysterious, depressing words written on the wall… Not to mention someone is sleeping in here. In this abandoned, dark tunnel. The distant whine suddenly catches my attention again, and I follow it, leaning down closer to the bed.
I immediately drop the headphones, a breath catching in my throat. We need to go. Spinning back around, I dip down and rip the page out of the notebook. I have no idea why I want it, but I do.
And I fold up the page and stuff it in my back pocket. Holding up our phones, we step out of the room and turn left. Squirming, I pull out of his hold and twist around.
Lyla, J. He was obviously caught off guard by their sudden appearance, too. Dark corners, shadows, dank glimmers from the fluorescent light hitting the puddles of water… I see nothing. But I breathe hard, unable to shake the creepy feeling. Someone is there. I turn back around, ignoring my fear as I rush up the steps. And I resist the urge for one more glance back down the dark tunnel.
I climb the stairs, still feeling eyes on me. The girls giggle and whisper around me, and I comb my fingers through my hair, sweeping it up into a messy ponytail.
Cameras, huh? In the school? Good to know. I pull the top of my cheerleading uniform down over my head, covering my bra, and smooth my shirt and skirt down. Flapping ever so gently from the AC blowing out of the vent is a large piece of white butcher paper taped haphazardly to the wall.
I smile to myself, my heartbeat picking up pace, and turn back to finish getting ready. The school has been vandalized twenty-two times in the last month, and today makes twenty-three. Their days are numbered. Sometimes the messages are serious. But the next day, I heard, several parents called the school, because their sons and daughters had given them the third degree to see if it was true.
Who is he? What will he write next? How is he doing it without being seen? Strolling up to my locker, I drop my bag to the ground, pulling in a long breath. The sudden weight on my chest makes it a struggle to inhale as I twist the dial on the lock, keying in the combination. My head falls forward, but I snap it back up. Opening the door, shielding myself for all the eyes around me, I reach under my skirt, under the tight elastic of my spandex shorts, and grab my inhaler.
Lyla stands to my left while Katelyn and Mel hover at my right. Picking up my backpack, I dig out my books from last night and load them into my locker. The other girls laugh, and I turn back to my locker, retrieving my Art notebook and English text for my first two classes. Anything to get her out of here. I toss the smooth, tan fabric at her. I know you hate it. And thank you.
Everyone flits about, rushing upstairs, slamming lockers, and diving into classrooms…and I feel the ache in my chest start to spread. My stomach burns from the strain of trying to breathe, and I make my way down the hallway, my shoulder brushing the lockers for support.
A tiny whistle drifts up from my lungs as my breath shakes from the inside as if little strings are flapping in my throat. I blink hard, the world starting to spin behind my lids. The last door closes, and I quickly reach under my skirt and pull out the inhaler I usually keep hidden there. Holding it to my mouth, I press down and draw in a hard breath as the spray releases, giving me my medicine.
The bitter chemical, which always reminds me of the Lysol I caught in my mouth when I was a kid when my mom sprayed it around the house, hits the back of my throat and drifts down my esophagus. Leaning against the wall, I press down once more, drawing in more spray, and I close my eyes, already feeling the weight lifting from my chest. Breathing in and out, I hear my pulse throb in my ears and feel my lungs expand wider and wider, the invisible hands that were squeezing them, slowly releasing.
This one came quick. Whenever the air gets thick, I excuse myself to the restroom and do what I need to do. I hate when it happens all of sudden like this. Too many people around, even in the bathrooms. Slipping the inhaler up under the hem of my spandex shorts again, I take in a welcome deep breath and release it, readjusting the books in my arm.
Spinning back around, I turn right and take the next hallway, climbing the stairs up to Art. Gingerly opening the classroom door, I step in and look around for Ms.
She must be in the supply closet. I walk briskly across the room and head up the aisle, raising my eyes and pausing when I see Trey. He lounges at my table, in the seat next to mine. Annoyance pricks at me. I let out a small sigh and force a half-smile. A guy walks in, his tall form strolling across the classroom and up the aisle toward us. He looks familiar. Where do I know him from? He carries nothing—no backpack, books, or even a pencil—and takes a seat at the empty table across the aisle from mine.
I glance around for Ms. Is he new? I steal a glance to my left, studying him. He relaxes in his chair, one hand resting on the table, and his eyes focused ahead of him.
I tear my eyes away, clearing my throat. Prom is May seventh, and no one else has asked me, because rumor has it Trey was asking me. He took his time, and I was starting to get worried. I want to go to prom, even if it is with him. I let my eyes drift to the new guy again, looking at him out of the corner of my eye. Dirt smudges his dark blue jeans, as well as his fingers and elbow, but his slate-gray T-shirt is clean, and his shoes look in decent shape.
His eyes are nearly hidden beneath thick lashes, and his short, dark brown hair hangs just lightly over his forehead. I fold my lips between my teeth as I stare at it, imagining what it feels like to have a piercing there. We were talking about prom. Oh, you thought he was asking you to prom? Stupid girl. My armor deflects, and I advance. Manny Cortez jerks but keeps facing forward, trying to ignore us.
The other feelings are there, too. The guilt, the disgust at myself, the pity for Manny and how I used him just now… But I amused Trey, and now Manny and any shame I feel is far below where I sit. I look down at it.
You going to prom with my girl? Manny served a purpose. Eyeliner, black nail polish, skinny jeans, cracked and dirty Converse sneakers Check to all. I was the only one who got one from him. No one knows about that, and not even Misha knows why I keep it. I raise my eyes, seeing him quietly sitting there. I know that feeling. Till announces, coming out of the closet and setting a caddy of art supplies on her table.
She pulls down her screen, turns off the lights, and I glance to my left again, seeing the new kid just sitting there, scowling ahead. Does he have an admittance slip? A class schedule?
Is he even going to introduce himself to the teacher? Am I the only one who noticed him walk in the room? Till begins going through some examples of straight line drawing while I notice Trey tear a piece of paper from my notebook. The Emo look is over, man. Or does your boyfriend like it? Trey balls up another paper, and now my guilt—heavier than before—creeps in. It hits his hair before falling to the floor. Trey tosses another paper, harder this time.
My heart races, but I lock my jaw, trying to appear less shaken than I am. Only now the muscles in his arm bulge, and his jaw flexes. No one ever does that. I never get called out. I feel him next to me, and I want to look. Who the hell is he? And then it hits me. The warehouse. Holy shit. I blink, looking at him again. I still have our pictures in my phone. Does he remember me? After I left him and his friend, I was so pre-occupied the rest of the night, unable to stop myself from looking around for him again, that I never finished my hunt.
But I never found him. After I walked away from him, he seemed to disappear. Till finishes her brief instructions, and I spend the rest of the hour stealing glances and messing around on pointless little drawings. Designing his first album cover as a surprise graduation gift. Something to motivate him. No one knows about Misha Lare. Not even Lyla. All good things come to an end.
The new kid sits at a round table by himself, legs spread out underneath and crossed at the ankles, his arms folded over his chest. Black wires drape his chest, leading to the earbuds sitting in his ears, and the same hard expression from this morning is focused on the tabletop in front of him. I hold back a smile. So he is real. Ten sees him, too. And then my gaze drops to his right arm, seeing the tattoos scaling down the length.
A flutter hits my stomach. Glancing around the room, I notice others looking at him, as well. What makes you say that? His stare suddenly rises, and he looks up. I follow his gaze. Trey is walking this way, saying something to Principal Burrowes as he passes by, and New Guy watches them. I say the name in my head, letting it roll across my mind. I shrug, not looking up. I grab it and fling it over my shoulder, hearing him and J.
Kline asked him a question in Physics, and he just sat there. I drop my pencil to the table and raise my eyes, looking at her pointedly. And besides, he just started today. The vandalism has been going on for over a month. The one doing the vandalism, I mean.
I think he stays in the school overnight. Maybe he even lives here. The attacks are happening nearly every day now, after all. How else would someone get around the alarms, unless they hide out and wait for the doors to be locked? Or unless they have keys and the alarm code. Oh, wait. I forgot. See where he lives. The sinister tone to their voices unnerves me.
Trey gets away with everything, especially since the principal is his stepmother. I close my book and notebook, piling them on top of each other. Name it. His stoic expression is confusing.
They bustle about, passing by him, their voices carrying across his table, laughter to his left and a dropped tray to his right, but a bubble surrounds him.
Life carries on outside of it, but nothing breaches it. Turning back to Trey, I take a deep breath, shaking it off. I can hear the beat of drums and guitar pounding out of his earbuds, but he just sits there, the indents between his eyebrows growing deeper. Reaching over, I gently tug out his earbuds and cast a look over my shoulder at my friends, all of them watching us.
His warmth immediately courses through my hand, making my stomach flip a little. I take my hand off his chest and lean back again. You were at the scavenger hunt in February. At the warehouse in Thunder Bay.
The guy that night was of few words, but he, at least, ended up being friendly. Wanna give me your number? And then he stands up, and I tumble off his lap, landing on the floor. I shoot my hands out, catching myself.
Laughter echoes around me, and I dart my head around, seeing a few people at nearby tables chuckling as they stare at me. Walls close in around me, and I burn with embarrassment.
And then I watch as Masen Laurent grabs his notebook and pen, drapes his earbuds around his neck, and walks around me, leaving the cafeteria without another word. What the hell is his problem? I stand up, brushing off my skirt, and head back to my table. I just want to get out of here. This day threw me off track, and I need to regroup. I need to get home anyway. I was able to get Pre-Calc done at lunch, but I still have some questions from the Novel Study and Government to do tonight.
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