This is the first section of a story I just started. There are two POVs, a girl's and a boy's. She has grown up with the idea that, as one possessing Demon Sight, it's her job to make sure the demons don't hurt those without. He has never known why he could see the monsters, until they meet. Kind of a first draft, having trouble with 3rd person POV (I usually write with 1st) so critique welcomed!
The kitchen smelled like coffee, a warm, heady scent that was more energizing than any damned alarm clock. Who on earth had invented alarm clocks, anyway? Shrinks were always publishing new articles in Science Times on the benefits on sleep and how overachieving (or just procrastinating) Americans never got enough R.E.M. to no avail. It was probably the do-gooder shrinks who had popularized the clock, anyway. More troubled insomniacs, more money in the bank. Such was the way of the world. Moira Meyers had an easy solution for this problem, and the evidence of how well it worked was lying broken and mangled somewhere in the corner of her room. That was where it had landed when she had thrown the new clock on its first use, but Henry could very well have abducted it. There was nothing the mottled cat couldn’t turn into a new toy. Still, giant mug of coffee heating her tiny hands or not, Moira had no desire to be awake at-
“Merry morning, Moira!”
“Nobody uses alliteration before eight o clock,” she muttered in reply, taking a deep gulp and scalding her throat. She took another, already feeling her frozen insides thaw like the park lake in spring. Christopher just laughed, a usual and unwelcome response given how early it was, and grabbed the Danish from Moira’s chipped china plate. She yelled, snatching for his arm, but he had already taken a bite, green eyes sparkling with suppressed laughter. The raspberry filling stained his lips and his face was as pale as the frosting on what had been Moira’s breakfast. He needed to get out into the sun more, she decided.
“Moira Meyers uses alliteration whenever she wants to, though I’m surprised she knows what it is,” he teased, taking another bite before dancing off to find whatever Chapman had left for his breakfast. Knowing Chap and Christopher, this probably made it a lemon pastry. Translation: the only disgusting pastry known to man. And Christian’s personal crack supply. Moira had offered multiple times to take him to an intervention clinic with no results. His addiction stuck. Still, he could at least love something she thought was delicious, too, so that when he stole her food, she could take his.
“Behold!” He exclaimed from the other room, undoubtedly having found Chapman’s pre-work delivery on the dining room table. Moira imagined his bright smile, the flash of pearly white teeth that always caught her off guard even if he returned to gloat. Unlike most things, Christopher’s smile didn’t dull with use. And there he was-brown hair still as messy as Henry’s fur after skulking in the basement, too-big pajamas draped on his skinny frame, and lemon pastry in hand. Leaving Moira with cereal, and upon discovering that Christian’s glass of milk washing down her breakfast was the last of the dairy, dry cereal.
Which was just one of the reasons that Moira did not approve of Mondays.
“Ah, c’mon, Moira!” He chuckled, settling into the other barstool and eyeing her closely. It was so disconcerting, having his undivided attention, that Moira nearly dumped her coffee on his head just to return him to normal. However, she had just used the last of it, and he wasn’t worth the loss of her own addiction.
Instead, she scowled. “What?”
Christian pretended to be offended, something he was extraordinarily good at, leaning back and spinning slowly in his chair. “Well, you’re about as cheerful as Mr. Capulet at his daughter’s funeral. God only knows why I deal with you.”
Moira yawned. “Likewise.”
“Chapman left money,” he continued, pinching up some of her corn flakes. “Wants us to go grocery shopping. Either that or we can catch a movie and say we did. There’s a new X-Men movie out.”
The girl narrowed her eyes, a shade darker than her black coffee, but the gesture had no effect on his optimistic attitude.
“What? It’s a superhero movie. You cannot go wrong with superhero movies. We should have a movie made after us. It can be called ‘CHRISTIAN THE MIGHTY, MONSTER SLAYING EXTRAORDINAIRE’ written in big letters.”
Still, she glowered. Who was he to go on about ridiculous men going around in too-tight suits after eating her breakfast? He knew she wouldn’t be in the mood for such nonsense even on a good day, like a Saturday, after waking up at twelve or maybe one P.M. and having a plate of bacon all to herself. He sighed.
“Oh, all right. We can have your name on it, too. In small letters. Deal?”
She couldn’t help herself. She cracked a smile. Christian smirked. “You should try that facial expression more often. Does wonders for your looks. Speaking of which, I’ve heard the cast of X-Men, particularly the female cast is very attractive. What say you?”
Moira crunched some cereal. “Are you suggesting I watch X-Men because I am interested in attractive females?”
He held up his hands. “Hey, I’m not judging. I’m all accepting-ouch!-Moira, I’m kidding. C’mon. It might have Johnny Depp in it!”
Moira scoffed, tossing a handful of stale flakes at his head. “Are you kidding? He doesn’t do superhero movies.”
“Reason number fifty-seven why I do not see his appeal.” Christian admitted, as serious as it usually got with him, though he was brushing corn flakes from his hair, which was an amusing sight.
“You only have one X chromosome.”
Christian coughed, and when he had finished choking, managed to croak, “Damn, Moira. You know better than to talk science to me this early.”
“X-Men has science in it. It’s about DNA mutations.”
“Ha! I knew you liked superheroes.”
She rolled her eyes, clearing her bowl to the sink, already full of dirty dishes from the night before-a negative side of living with two people lacking the second X-as she said, “I know how to tar-and-feather someone. I know how to slaughter innocent people enjoying the holidays in Times Square. I know that you called me Juliet Capulet’s father earlier this morning and I know that had I not left my knife over by the cereal, I would have run you through for that comment. And yet, I do not find myself liking any of these things. Except for maybe running you through. That holds some appeal.”
Christian gasped in pain and mimed thrusting a knife into his chest, breathing weakly with fluttering eyelids as he handed Moira the imaginary weapon. She thought about it, but was unable to resist dumping the dregs of my coffee onto his head. He would have to take a shower anyway. The girl grabbed her knife and saluted him before pushing the door open and heading to the bathroom.
“You owe me breakfast!”
*******
“Money?”
“Check.”
“How much?”
“Thirty-two and… what’s three quarters, seven dimes, two nickels, and a penny?”
Moira thought for a second, watching the sunlight reflect on the knife’s silver blade. It caught in the engraved designs, sparkling like the stars they never saw in the city. “A dollar sixty-six.”
“Thirty-three dollars and sixty-six cents, then.”
“So he can add.” Moira said dryly. Her friend smirked and stuffed the cash in a back pocket. He eyed the dagger she turned absently in her scarred hands. The weapons were runed to disguise them to human eyes, and he wasn’t sure what the humans would see, but he doubted it was cupcakes and roses. Moira always acted like this, like at any second a monster would jump her and she would be unprepared, which was a preposterous idea. He had no idea how she could move so lightly with her plethora of weapons, or so quietly given the countless bangles around her ankles and wrists. Moira Meyers was a conundrum.
“Moira. The humans.”
“What about them, Christian?” She muttered, deliberately focusing on the weapon in her hand and rubbing at a nonexistent dirt spot. “Are they made of decaying flesh and stumbling forward like they do in that stupid movie you made me go see, baying for brains? Are they-”
“Baying for brains. Alliteration.”
“Do not anger me when I have a knife on my person, Christian. I hold no responsibility for anything I do while angry.”
“The humans are staring, Moira. Put the knife away.”
Indeed. A few were staring. She supposed they had been dawdling in the shadows for some time, and even if they couldn’t see the knife, she was leaning against a wall and twirling something of mysterious origins in her hand. If she were a defenseless normal human, little things like odd people lurking in corners would worry her too. There was a young woman scooting her children quickly past, eyeing them as if she had laser vision and could run them through by glaring. Moira stiffened, but she was sure this lady wasn’t a demon, some of which were certainly capable of shooting beams of fire from their eyes.
“Paranoid,” she muttered, pocketing the knife.
“Says the walking arsenal.” Christian had already begun to walk, his words snatched by the wind and the grumble of morning traffic. Despite his scrawny frame, his limbs were long. He rather reminded Moira of the willowy elves from those Lord of the Rings films he loved, but had never told him. No need to boost his ego.
“You’re armed, aren’t you?” She asked, catching up quickly. The question came out a bit harsher than she intended, more a demand with an implied threat if he said that he wasn’t, but she set her mouth and tilted her chin up to look at his face.
“Depends on what you mean by ‘armed.’ Am I as armed as you are? The only people with as many weapons on their person as you are Navy SEALs. But yes, I have sharp and shiny objects on my person should a demon jump us while getting your almond milk. I hate almond milk.”
“And you think I care? C’mon. Maybe we can make the noon showing if you hurry.”
“Noon showing?”
“Either we make that one or we have to wait until 3:45 for Dr. X,” she admitted. “And I never plan that far ahead.”
Christian yelled in delight, punching the air with his fist before spinning and grabbing Moira’s hands and dancing her around the sidewalk, knowing it would frustrate her to no end.
*******
“Oscar! You’re going to be late!”
As usual, Oscar thought to himself, spitting the toothpaste into the sink and scooping up some tap water to rinse to overwhelming taste of minty-dentist-office from his mouth. No thanks to Althea, who sounded like she was still banging around in her room. Judging by the ghetto beats that practically shook the walls of the next-door bathroom, his sister was nowhere near ready.
“Good thing I’m driving, then!” He called back, grabbing his backpack and racing down the stairs, nearly into his mother. Marianne Lovelace laughed lightly and despite applying some sort of eye makeup with one hand and sipping tea with the other, managed a sort of shoulder hug. Oscar drew back, recalling many a day when he had walked around half the school only to find that there was a smear of something feminine on his clothes or that his mother had spilled tea-green tea, according to his classmates-all over his backpack. He had actually minded the tea more than the smear, living with two girls made him remarkably girl-friendly. He had been a hit at his grade’s seventh grade semi-formal dance when he was the only boy present who knew how to tie a tie, courtesy of Marianne.
“Not funny, Oz. You know I’ll take the keys if I think you’re driving dangerously.” She took another sip, her freckled brow winkled with worry. Ever since the accident, Marianne had always been anxious when it came to the safety of her remaining family. It had taken long enough to convince her that he could walk to Richard’s house, resident Dungeon’s and Dragons expert, fluent in Elvish, and the best sophomore on the cross-country running team. Richard had moved in eight years ago, and being the only other seven-year-old boy within a few streets of Oscar, they had quickly become fast friends. Richard “Riddler” Almsworth was the one who had gotten Oscar into cross-country and probably the only kid on the team who made wearing a D and D shirt look cool. He and Al would be picking the Riddler up on the way to school. Althea being like a younger sister to Richard, they would proceed to argue Eminem versus Howard Shore and Usher versus W. A. Mozart (he had also successfully converted the varsity cross-country team into die-hard classical fans, something Oscar still questioned, but even he had fun at their impromptu Ludwig van B. dance fest. The Riddler had also come up with hip-hop pseudonyms for most of his idols) until Oscar inevitably honked loudly just to make them think he was about to hit a pedestrian and shut them up. The Riddler would then talk amicably about the new Batman movie out, but insist that they could never get better than Michelle Pheiffer as Catwoman.
“You’re the only boy I know who knows who Michelle Pheiffer is,” Althea had sighed, pressing her forehead against the window of the beat up Volvo, fondly dubbed Goldfinger for its rusting-bronze sheen.
“Any boy who has seen her dress like that will make a point of finding out who she is so they can then plaster their closet with pictures from Google. Clearly, you don’t know many boys.”
She might have muttered something like “sexist pig,” but Oscar and Richard were laughing too hard to notice.
Oscar nodded to his mom, allowing her to kiss his cheek before she scuttled outside. He followed after, tugging on his shoes. “Al!” Oscar yelled from the front hall, hoping his voice would carry through their spacious kitchen and up the stairs, and that she had turned her music off. Fortunately, a few minutes later she came trooping in, already winding a scarf around her neck. Althea Lovelace took after her mother; fair skinned with a slight smattering of freckles across her ski-jump nose and circling around her blue eyes like a raccoon’s mask. Their mother looked exactly the same, save for a few less freckles, but they had the same curly brown hair. Althea’s was hidden under a knit cap with banana curls framing her face, and Oscar noted that this had probably been what she spent the last ten minutes assembling. Oscar took after his father with skin a shade more Mediterranean-olive, hair slightly darker and more wavy than curly, but his eyes were the same. “Marianne’s ocean eyes.” Older relatives always said. “Aegean Sea eyes.” His father used to say.
Goldfinger was hardly any warmer than the air outside. Oscar cursed at the faulty heating system-or lack thereof-and tugged his gloves on.
“Mom says you shouldn’t drive in gloves,” Althea told him, leaning over his seat to try and reach the radio. He used one arm to shove her backward and the other to grab the clutch. As usual, the car complained considerably, but consented to roll out of the driveway. Richard lived only a few streets away, but the siblings waited in the car for five minutes for the other boy to appear to no avail. Oscar huffed, consenting to get out of the car and throw a small rock at his friend’s always-open window. Richard claimed that he ran a few degrees above the rest of the world, and that nothing was better for a person than fresh air and some World of Warcraft. He was always complaining that he was too hot. This led to an open bedroom window even in mid-November. His parents didn’t appreciate the heating bill.
“Hey, Riddler! Get your butt down here!”
“Dude! Stop interrupting my train of thought! I’m in the middle of a translation.”
Believing he had just been sassed, Oscar beamed another small rock, tossing lightly even if Mr. and Mrs. Almsworth were always gone by seven, no exceptions. When the only response was some colorful cursing, Oscar rolled his eyes, leaning back against the house for a minute. The bricks were colder than his car. Funny, he had been debating on whether or not that was possible. He took a chilly breath, then called again.
“Riddler-dude-they’re fictional. I think the translation can wait til chem.”
There was the sound of some shuffling, drawers banged shut and books toppling followed by more language that his parents would have killed him for using if present. Richard’s neighbors lived a bit closer than Oscar’s, and he looked around warily, waiting for some nanny to pull out a phone and call the police because of the truants cussing in Dr. Almsworth’s yard.
Finally, the door slammed shut with the Riddler on the outside. “Right. Priorities.” he said, offering a fist for Oscar to punch, which was slightly difficult given the sports bag, backpack, instrument case, and extra textbooks he was carrying, but Oscar punched it anyway. Richard was taller than his friend by a few inches, as tended to be the case, being an inch shy of six feet. He was a runner through and through; exemplified by his lengthy and strong legs. He had shot up in middle school as a gawky seventh grader who by junior year had grown into his height well. Oscar popped the trunk, which Richard proceeded to dump his bag, then much more gently, his violin. The case having been the textbook stack’s support system, the books toppled onto the pavement. Oscar bit his lip-half in annoyance, half in amusement-as Richard dropped his backpack, scattering the translation he had been working on and half the papers in the bag. Giving way to amusement, Oscar chuckled as he gathered the Riddler’s graded work while he scattered about, gathering the Elvish. Richard was quite a good runner-one of the best on the team-but the moment you put anything into his hands he became a stumbling wreck. This was probably the reason that cross-country and track were the only sports he played while many of their classmates stuck to baseball or became Lax Bros. Before he could drop anything else, Oscar put the backpack in the trunk and got back into the car, trying not to visibly shiver.
“He has quite the vocabulary. I didn’t know you could swear in Elvish, which given the nature of what he’s saying in English, I assume the mumbo-jumbo is.” Althea observed, watching Richard grab the last of the papers-now dirt stained-before the wind could. Oscar nodded and looked at the green clock on the dash. 7:45. Crap.
Thirty seconds later, Richard ducked into the front seat and proceeded to roll the window down. Althea muttered something that made Oscar wonder what justified her commenting on Richard’s vocabulary, but he had long since given up on her colorful speech and just leaned across the Riddler to roll the window up.
“Oscar! C’mon, man, it’s ten degrees warmer than yesterday.”
“And it’s still ten degrees below freezing.” He replied calmly, looking to see if anyone was coming before stepping on the gas at the end of Richard’s street. He sighed resignedly and instead occupied himself trying to find the classical music station.
“Excellent! Tchaikovsky. I’ve been going through a Wagner phase recently, but this guy’s brilliant.”
Again, Oscar nodded. Normally, he could care less about being at school before the bell, but he needed to print his paper before American Studies first block. Ms. Troy was as fierce as her namesake city, even to students she didn’t utterly detest.
“What are you working on, Richard?” Asked Althea, flagrantly disregarding her seatbelt and leaning over his shoulder to look at the papers he was reorganizing. Oscar glowered at her.
“Althea…” He warned, “Thanks to you, we’re already running late. Don’t make a trip to the emergency nece-”
“Thanks for asked, Al.” Richard grinned, turning to look Oscar’s fourteen year old sister in the face. Oscar knew he was actually as enthused, as he seemed, too. Unless they were on the same team in one of Riddler’s various Lord of the Rings-themed video games or feeling particularly kind on a certain day, he didn’t always appreciate the ability of Richard’s to go on for hours about the Lord of the Rings universe. Ten minutes he could take… thirty, little painful, but he’d do it. Althea, he knew, was starting a discussion that Richard would gladly slash Goldfinger’s tires as an excuse to stop and continue.
“So there are two main Elvish languages, Quenyan and Sindarin, and basically one is more formal and…”
Oscar tuned them out, watching the pedestrians more closely in the busier section of town, even if at this time of day it wasn’t exactly busy. He forced himself to lift his foot from the pedal, perfectly aware of the fact that one ticket meant no license for a year, which meant a variety of things ranging from excuses not to go grocery shopping or bringing Althea and a mass of other ninth grade girls to the movies to not having the liberty that came with having his own license. If he had wanted to go watch the indie-small-town bands at Beats Café, he’d have to get a ride from his mom, who was much less willing to give permission if she had to drive. Not to mention that he could take more martial arts lessons if he was able to drive, and there was nothing more reassuring than knowing that if something attacked you, you could go all Jackie Chan-ninja warrior on their ass.
Given the sharp wind cutting around the close-knit downtown stores, there were few people out walking. That and the fact that it was 7:50 on a Monday morning. Oscar was slightly surprised to see two kids out walking. They were both bundled up pretty heavily, but he could tell the taller one was a boy and he had never seen him before. As Oscar watched, he tossed his head back, laughing uproariously over something that couldn’t have been that amusing because the small statured girl at his side was glowering. He couldn’t see much from this distance, but she didn’t seem very comfortable, as if afraid something would jump out at her any second. For a moment, he wondered if this dark-tanned girl, long and curly black hair whipping out of its ponytail, could see them too. Almost as soon as he thought it, he dismissed the idea as crazy. He was the only insane one, and that was that. He was the only one who saw… demons-there was no other word for them-where other people saw grandmothers, skulking emocore kids clothed in dark, or sometimes nothing.
Even as he watched she turned to snap something at her companion. His laughter dimmed, but Oscar could tell he was trying to hide a smile in a… Ravenclaw scarf? The kid was about Richard’s height and wearing a leather jacket and jeans, plus beat up grey shoes that looked like he had taken them from a once-fancy bowling alley. The girl could evidentially tell, yanking harshly on one end of his Harry Potter scarf and then pacing forward anxiously as if she couldn’t bear being in one place for too long. One hand was held in a fist against the front of her bomber jacket.
Stomach ache? He wondered, or maybe she was hungry. She was thin, he could tell, wearing raggedy skinny jeans that Althea tried to pull off sometimes but never got quite right. She looked tough and he wondered if she had always lived around here. He could have mistaken the boy, but she was pretty unique and he had never seen her before. Oscar almost entertained the thought that the kids were homeless, but he was closer now and could tell they were clean, and homeless kids didn’t grow so tall as the boy if they were starving. Besides, she held herself with a sort of confidence that read come at me, as if she would have no trouble in a fight. Her companion, who seemed confident but not as… fierce as the girl, said something else and she turned to snap something at him.
Oscar noticed all this before the clock could turn from 7:50 to 7:52, when the girl turned. Then, up the road, something shifted in the shadows and every bone and muscle in Oscar’s body locked. He was used to this, the creatures appearing out of nowhere, used to their repulsive appearance, and if he was close enough, the stench. This one was vaguely humanoid in appearance. It had two legs and two unnaturally long arms protruding from a torso so pale that Oscar could see each vein coursing black blood through his body. From his back jutted two leathery dragon-like wings, ragged as if they had been punctured with the flaming arrows from Richard’s LOTR: Conquest game. There were scars on its skin, some fresh, criss-crossing its ghostly flesh and part of Oscar wondered if the thing hadn’t been careful enough with the twelve-inch talons it had instead of fingers. But most of Oscar was noticing how it was trained on the squabbling pair he had just passed. It had a strange lumbering gait and it swung its hands as it accelerated. There was something sinuous about the movement, and Oscar believed it could reach much greater speeds even if its bald head was leaning to one side, lank white eyes rolling around. Oscar pressed the break ever so slightly.
“Riddler-”
“So then I said, ‘O man dôr túliel le?’ but of course the guy at the register thought I was psycho-funny how people think that when really you’re just too intelligent for their comprehension-”
“Richard-”
“Gwanno ereb nin, man.”
“Do you see that person?”
Oscar had no idea whether or not Althea or Richard would be able to see the monster advancing up the sidewalk at all or if they would mistaken it for something else. But he was sure it was real. He had seen… things. He had seen these monsters hurt people, take things, and other people would yell about a shoplifter or just completely not notice. But it still happened. And he couldn’t let anything happen to the girl and boy back there, not if he knew what was really happening.
Richard shot him a dry look. “You don’t have to make things up if you want me to be quiet, Oscar. You can always just ram into a wall or something, end all our misery.”
The thing had begun to lope. In seconds, Oscar’s car would pass. Instead he prayed to God he wouldn’t kill Althea-who I promise I’ll go to church if she’s wearing her seatbelt!-and Richard, then swerved the steering wheel sharply to the left.
Althea screamed, but it was just a fly on the radar as he pressed the pedal and turned the car as sharply as he could, leaning so far into he felt like he would tip over. Somewhere in the back of his mind he hoped he wasn’t really crazy, that he hadn’t just nearly hit an old woman and her knitting or something, and he bit down hard to avoid yelling himself. Richard yelled out, and was still cursing when Goldfinger came to a halt on the sidewalk. Oscar had barely registered the stop when the car jolted. Someone shrieked, or maybe it was the talons scraping against the metal of the car and the glass of the back window shield shattering to pieces. Oscar gritted his teeth, pressing the accelerator as hard as could but only getting inches before slamming into the brick wall of the building. He could smell it, an overwhelming, choking scent that made breathing seem like an impossibility. Whenever they had talked about the gas chambers during Holocaust units at school, he felt like had had an idea what the victims’ final moments felt like. He gagged, reaching for the clutch and trying to back up before he got anyone killed. He wanted to kill himself. Who were those two kids? He had seen these demons in action before, and they had no qualms with hurting innocent people like Althea and Richard who had no idea about them. But he couldn’t have just let him attack the others.
The car screeched against the pavement, but they were moving and Oscar allowed himself a shout of relief that he could get them out of the mess he had created when he hit another bump and the demon shrieked. It was ear-shattering, an abominable banshee noise so deafening, so painful that all thoughts of escape, of safety, of regret left Oscar’s mind and was taken over with Godjustmakeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop! It was unbearable, the most pain he had ever felt in his life…
By the time it had stopped, his ears ached and all he could hear were muffled sounds. Yells, car horns, something? Then he gradually came to realize that his mouth was bleeding, that his seatbelt was digging into his neck and that Althea and Richard were still in the car. He coughed. Something-the yelling?-had broken all the windows, and he steadily became aware of stinging pain all over his body. Glass. Out of the window, the few other cars out were swerving and people were dialing 911 on cell phones and leaning out of their windows and calling to each other. And in the midst of it all, Oscar could see the tall Ravenclaw boy sprinting away… after the demon.
“You guys okay?” He croaked, trying to wiggle out of the iron belt. There was silence and he-ouch-craned his neck to look at Althea, who was gasping for air, holding her backpack very tightly to her chest. She had buckled in. Richard was jammed in the minute corner between his seat and the door, his translation lost and his blond hair stained with red.
“What… the… hell… was that?” He gasped, chest rising and falling rapidly. “There was nothing in the road-why… what…?”
The brief hope that Oscar had felt that maybe Richard had seen the monster and maybe he wasn’t crazy disappeared in an instant, and he fell back on a trick used so often it was natural. He lied. “There was a cat,” he insisted. “I was slowing down because I thought I saw someone I recognized in one of the stores back there, but then this cat or fox or something jumped out and… God, I’m so sorry. Are you two…” He looked from one to the other. His slowly recovering ears recognized the wail of the ambulance. He wished all the people outside would go away.
“Mom is going to kill you.”
“Would you rather I kill the cat?”
“The cat you thought you saw,” she insisted, but her heart didn’t seem to be in it. She frowned, looking out over his shoulder, and as her lips formed the words, “Who’s that?” he turned, only to come face-to-face with the Indian girl he had seen just moment ago. It seemed like a lifetime.
For a moment, she hesitated outside the door, and Oscar got a better view of the face he had only glimpsed before. Her eyes, almost as dark as her hair, were unfathomable, unlike Althea’s. You could always tell what Althea was feeling through her Aegean eyes. Despite the darker tones of her skin, her cheeks were flushed as she leaned closer. Oscar could see odd, swirling tattoos originating under her earlobes, then getting lost in her mass of hair. She glanced once at his sister and friend, but then those eyes fell on him. It was in the flash of anger he saw flicker across her face, the harsh set of her mouth and the cut by her eye that proved it to him. She had seen the demon.
More appropriately, she had seen him hit the demon with his beat-up old Volvo. Hardly a weapon of mass destruction.
“You saw it?” She asked, and her voice was a surprise, lighter than he would have expected, though about ten times colder than the weather. She placed a tiny hand on the empty window frame, fingers curled around a silver knife. Oscar couldn’t help staring, and he glanced to his two passengers, but their eyes were trained on her face. Like the monster, they couldn’t see it. Either that, or they were going into shock. No one didn’t notice a knife that shiny, that sharp.
“You mean the cat?” Asked Althea, still sounding dazed but making an effort when her brother clearly wasn’t. “Was it your cat?”
She didn’t glance away from Oscar, and he hoped that she could tell from his bloody face what he needed the nameless stranger to say. Her jaw stiffened, but she nodded. In that moment, the message was clear. I can see them, but they can’t. And the girl nodded, almost to herself, before glancing at Althea.
“Yes. It was my cat. You nearly killed him. You’re lucky if I don’t sue you.”
Richard coughed, and having known him for so long, Oscar could tell what would be going through his mind. Sass the pretty girl, or let her think she knows what she’s talking about?
“Are you kidding?” He asked, stupefied. “Oscar here nearly kills us to save your precious cat. What the hell were you thinking, let it run wild around here?”
She turned the ice glare on Richard, and he gulped. Oscar wondered if she looked in the mirror every morning and practiced looking so formidable, but he had seen her friend chase after the monster, and he wasn’t so sure anymore.
“Tell me. Are you humans of any use to the world? Would anybody lose anything if you died?”
“Well, the girls in homeroom wouldn’t have anything to stare at.” Richard muttered, and Oscar figured he couldn’t be that bad off if he was being sarcastic. To his surprise, the girl almost smiled. Well, he thought, it wasn’t so much of a smile as something a little less than a scowl, but it was better than nothing.
“Did you see where it went? Your cat?”
The mask was back. “Yes.”
Althea tried to smile. “I hope he or she is okay. You must be pretty close.”
Being barely a foot away from her face, Oscar could tell that something had amused the tough girl. Maybe it was a twitch in her face, a slight relaxation as if something funny had occurred to her, though she still held herself like a bird ready to take flight, always ready to spring into action.
“Yeah. His name is Christian. Look, I’d love to stay and chat, but the cops are heading over and we don’t really mix. You, Mr. Cat Rescue League. You live around here?”
Oscar stiffened, aware that this girl had a knife, the upper hand, and something about her that made him think she was much more than a new girl on the street. He didn’t respond, and loyally, neither did the other two. She rolled her eyes, making a tch noise in the back of her throat before glancing nervously over her shoulder and back at Oscar.
“Look. You don’t look too bad. Next Saturday. The old furniture store by the corner? Be there by eight AM. You can meet my cat.”
. It also makes it seem more organized.