Crux (4 page)

“They’s places you can go. Some churches. A day shelter on Ethel Street. Hosea House on Donnelly Avenue and the Guthrie Shelter, but you ain’t got no kids, right?”

“No.”

She scoots closer on her butt cheeks until our shoulders touch. “Then you can’t go there. You stick with Shondra, honey. I’ll help you.”

Since Shondra is sitting in the same pee I am, I don’t know what she thinks she can do for me, but at least I’m not alone. Maybe I’m not going to be raped, or murdered and stuck in a stainless steel box with a tag on my toe.

She lays her head on my shoulder and tucks her arm through mine. It’s a sweet gesture, but reflex has me stiffening until I give in. I try to act as if this is normal and not the freakiest experience of my life. I pretend I’m not a loser, not homeless. Whatever. I pretend that I’m camping with a best friend or sister. Yeah, there we go, camping with my sister. Sure. A tear slides down my cheek. I just leave it there. I’ve never pretended so hard in my life.

I guess I doze off because the next thing I know, Shondra is shaking me awake. “Run,” she yells. “Run!” Shoe scuffles precede panicked voices. The words that finally get me in motion are
The Snatcher.

The wha … ?
I don’t know who the hell that is, but the terror in Shondra’s voice is enough to get me moving.

My backpack slung across my back, I run down the street with no clue where I’m headed. I follow Shondra into the fray.

Two sets of headlights knife through the gloom. I stop as a bunch of guys in dark clothes pile out of white vans like rats from a burning granary. My legs go numb, and I just stand there, staring and shaking like a fool.

The men are all wearing masks. Skeletal-like faces glow in the dark; others look like flesh eaters from the
Dawn of the Dead
flick.

One guy holds a struggling woman by the arm. He grabs her head with his other hand and forces her tear-glistening face into the light. “Hey, Marshall, is this one any good?”

“Too old!” Marshall yells back. “The boss says young and hot. Look ’em over careful, you moron. Would you shell out money by the hour for that scag?”

The skeleton shoves the girl down on the pavement and storms away.

Marshall lunges for another girl as she darts past. Her shrieks pierce the night.

I stand, helpless, and watch as her boyfriend fights for her. He throws punches at the goon’s face and kidneys until a bat swings for his head from behind. He crumples to the asphalt and lies in a heap, body still twitching. The headlights show his face is destroyed as blood oozes across his flesh, pooling around his skull.

His girlfriend’s sobbing pleas are useless. Marshall shoves her in the back of his van and slams the door shut.

The sound of her desperate clawing carries through the door to rake the nerve endings down my spine. My stomach lurches until I think I might hurl. The whole world is screaming. Doesn’t anybody hear us? Where are the cops?

Shondra is running in place, pushing against my back, urging me on. “Let’s go!”
She came back for me?
She yanks my coat sleeve so hard I almost fall over. “Come on! We got to get out of here.”

I turn and sprint toward the main road. I’ve always been fast and pull ahead of my new friend, not much, just a step or two, but it’s enough. She trips and rolls on the pavement next to me. I whirl around to see a man on the ground behind her, his massive arms wrapped around her skinny little legs.

These men aren’t men. They must be demons, no hearts, dead from the neck up. They do their master’s bidding without conscience, and I hate them.

I reach out to grab Shondra’s hands, pulling with all my strength. My chest aches. I pant, trying to fill my lungs with oxygen. “Let her go!” I raise my knee and smash my foot against the guy’s face. A crunch fills the air as his cartilage dissolves beneath my shoe, and I’m pretty sure his beak’s been wasted.

Another goon jogs to help the one still shackled to Shondra’s ankles. She peers over her shoulder and back to my face. Her quiet words penetrate my panic far more effectively than yelling. “It’s too late. Go.”

The hell I will.
I pull harder but see the other man has almost reached us. My eyes dart around the loading area. Most of the other homeless are either caught or have fled. Our battle becomes the focus for the remaining ones, and they all head toward us.

The guy I kicked moans and curses. As he starts to rise, the other man reaches us. The new guy grabs for Shondra’s arms, but I won’t let go, so he punches me in the face. I fly back several feet, and my skull smacks the asphalt with a sick crack. My stomach muscles flex as I sit up, blinking. The back of my head is sticky where I touch it.

Shondra is screaming at me. “Run!” The spark I saw in her eyes goes dull, and I can tell she’s given up. “You can’t help me. Go!” A goon picks her up and throws her over his shoulder like a sack of wheat.

For one brief second, I hesitate and count the four skeletons approaching me. I gaze one last time at the retreating image of my only friend, and then, God forgive me, I run.

• • •

“Ahhhh!” I jolt awake and struggle to free myself from my tightly wrapped bonds. My chest heaves, heart pounding.

“Get. Off. Me!”

Like a mermaid plucked from the water, I flail around until my body rolls off one level and falls onto a lower one.
Ouch!
Eyes open, I realize I’m in my apartment.

I’m covered in sweat. Damp sheets envelop my arms and legs. I kick off the last of the covers and stumble into the kitchen for a drink. My head hangs over the sink as I fill my glass with water, tears still streaming down my cheeks.

Oh, Shondra.
I wish you were here, and these stupid dreams were random nightmares to wish away, but they’re not. It all happened. You’re gone—and everything is one hundred percent my fault.

5

I never go back to sleep after my nightmares. Instead, thoughts of Shondra fill my head. Lying there, I hate the Snatcher, the goons, myself for the cowardice that made me run instead of fight for her. I never once thought of my knife, or used what I’d learned about self-defense.

My fingers push my sweat-soaked hair back and scrub the tears from my eyes.

Rolling over, my mind turns to Jeff, wondering what he’s about, and what really happened in the bank the day before, taxi cabs … the hot guy with amazing blue eyes.

Lots of girls I knew had boyfriends. What’s it like to have someone you trust to talk to when you’re scared or worried or happy. I fantasized Grey was lying next to me, keeping me warm.
Ugh, whatever.
A dog can do that, too.

I’m definitely getting a dog.

Getting up and grabbing the shiny new laptop I bought with Jeff’s money, I slip back into bed and log on.

Jeff’s voice bounces phrases around in my head.
The warrior swore an oath to obey his King’s last request. Birdie, I cannot destroy the amulet. Only an heir of Orn Strong Wing can do that.

The words Orn Strong Wing appear in the search bar as I type.
I so love you Google
. The search ends, and a list of clickable options pops up.

A guide to Norse men’s names.

I scroll down.

Oddkell, Ongull, Ormr, Orn: Known in Old Danish as Ørn. Norse noun örn or “eagle.”

Jeff’s voice whispers through my mind again.
What is your name, Birdie, your full name? Do you suppose the name you use is coincidence?

My hands tremble. I make a show of closing the lid with precision and setting my laptop on the floor by my mattress. He’s crazy, right? His story is just that,
a story
, nothing more.

Jeff’s words continue to plague me.
The warrior swore an oath. Only an heir of Orn Strong Wing can break the curse. Do you suppose the name you use is coincidence? What is your name, Birdie?

Oh. My. Gosh
.
Orin.

“No. It’s no coincidence,” I say to the night. “Orn means Eagle, and my name is Rebecca.
Rebecca Starling Orin—
the bird.”

• • •

Since I can’t sleep, I get up and shower. My palm smears the steam from the mirror as I try to find a visible spot. I frown at my appearance. I’ve never worn much makeup, but my lashes are so blond, I usually wear dark brown mascara and eyeliner to help them stand out. My eyes are big, though, and elongated, like a cat’s. So even though I think they’re the color of mud, the shape is kinda cool.

My jeans are cold against my legs as I slip them on. Still shivering, I push my head and arms through the holes of my cream, turtleneck sweater—another addition to my pitiful wardrobe.

I pad to the refrigerator, reach past Ziploc bags of cheese and bologna, and grab a bottle of water. Although most of my money is hidden in a hole in the drywall of my closet, I drag my backpack around, still compelled to carry essentials with me.

At my front door, I stoop to grab the morning paper. My head tilts up as the super walks past in a navy bathrobe. “Hey, Johnny.”

“Morning,” he answers.

I straighten. “Dude, if I want to, like, get a dog, is that cool?”

“How big?” He’s barefoot and scratches one foot with the other as he stands there. The dry, scraping sound makes my skin crawl.

“I don’t know. I haven’t found one yet. But I’m pretty sure I’m not the purse dog type.”

Johnny’s blue hair sticks up in ten different directions, and he rubs it. His distant expression suggests he’s considering my request.

Sheez buddy, do you need delousing?

“A month’s rent as a nonrefundable pet deposit then we won’t quibble with a weight limit. Googledepuke.”

Googlede … wha?
His chin comes up like he’s done me a favor. I want to complain his price is an affront to dog lovers everywhere, or he should let me have a dog for free just to listen to his uber weirdness. Instead, I say, “Cool, thanks. I’ll check out the pound and let you know when I decide.”

Johnny grunts and shuffles down the hall.

• • •

I sit in the same coffee house I sat in last night with Jeff.
Atta girl, Birdie, return to the scene of the crime.

Maybe I hoped to see him here, I don’t know. The pages of half a dozen sketches I made of the snowy scene from the bank crackle under my hands along with the used auto section of the Atlanta Journal Constitution. A few car and pet ads are circled in red, but I wonder if I’d do better searching online.

The guy at the next table slaps a ruler against his chair.

I jump as I glare at him. “Knock it off.”

“What’s your problem?”

Chill out, Bird.
“Sorry. You startled me.”

He lifts a brow and shifts back to his friends.

Truth is, that sound freaks me out and always will. It reminds me of my fourth foster home with the Dixons. Mrs. Norma Dixon lived under the delusion she was manners guru, Emily Post. She also believed I, and the five other street urchins in her care, were going to be invited to eat at the White House with the President—any day. She considered it her personal mission to prepare us for the eventuality. Therefore, I had ramrod straight posture, a huge vocabulary, and understood the difference between an oyster and dessert fork. I could challenge Ms. Post to an etiquette duel.
Bring it, Emily.
Gag.
As if I’d really ever need to know that crap.

Mr. Bernie Dixon had a different agenda. His plan was to fill our minds with as much useless trivia as possible. This happened every Thursday night during dinner. He called it the ‘Fun Family Facts Game’.

Yea.

I thought of it like musical chairs, except instead of chairs, there were questions. If you missed nabbing a seat in musical chairs, you were out of the game, but nothing so fortunate befell the participants at the Dixon’s. If I missed a question, I had to lift my hand, palm up, so Mr. Dixon could smack it repeatedly with a ruler until he raised a welt.

One night, Mr. Dixon asked Blane Campbell, fellow foster-prisoner, what year Napoleon married Josephine. Blane almost always knew the answers, but the sight of Mr. Dixon’s ruler drove them from his mind. I watched as the blood drained from Blane’s face. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, and he licked his lips. “Seventeen ninety six?” Blane answered.

“What month?”

Seriously? I’d thought.

“I … uh, March?”

“Wrong! January. Hold out your hand.”

Blane obeyed, and Mr. Dixon proceeded to turn Blane’s flesh to hamburger. I Googled the answer the next day in the school’s library and found Blane had been correct. Happily, two days later, Mr. Dixon keeled over dead at work from a massive brain aneurysm. Too many fun facts stuffed in there, I guessed. Mrs. Dixon dissolved into hysteria and depression. She went to live with her sister, Myrna, in Reno, and the six of us were sent back to the state, shuffled like a deck of cards and redistributed.

My mental trip down memory lane is interrupted as cold air blasts through the front door. A group of kids laugh as they shove each other toward the counter.

I toss my charcoal down on my sketchpad. Since I’m not getting anything done, I sigh, gather my pencils and try to organize pages strewn across the table into some kind of order. My fingers stretch for the newspaper bumped to the far corner when chair legs on the other side of my table scrape the floor. My head snaps up. Glacial blue eyes stare back at me, the lips just below them curve into a smile.

“Hey,” Grey Mathews says.

I open my mouth but nothing comes out.
Idiot.
My heart pounds out some ancient drum tattoo in my chest, erratic and fast.

He spins the chair around and sits backwards on it.

The guy is way cool.

“Oh, my gosh! Birdie, is that you?” Kate, his sister, comes and stands next to her brother, all fresh and pretty in her red sweater and blingy jewelry. She’s everything I ever wanted to be. “We were just talking about you.” The grin she shares with me appears genuine.

Grey’s smile vanishes, and he scowls at his sister. She doesn’t seem to notice, or care, I’m not sure which.

“Hey, uh, yeah,” I shrug. “It’s me.”
Can I be lamer?

She eyes me. “You look fabulous. We were all trying to guess who you were last night at dinner, weren’t we, Grey?” Kate grabs the chair behind her and sits between her brother and me. The crease between Grey’s brows deepens. “We invented the most ridiculous stories, but you seemed so mysterious the way you just popped up like that. My brother says you disappeared the same way. Poof.” Her fingers wiggle in the air.

There doesn’t seem to be any way to stop her monologue, so I don’t bother.

She giggles. “Dad says you’re a Russian spy.”

“Gracious, you clean up good.” Scud appears from the front counter. He puts his coffee on the table and slides onto my one-person-seat with me. His arm wraps around my shoulders, alerting every self-defense nerve in my body.

I stiffen like a dead possum in the sun. “Uh, hi?” He’s too close. I try to make the point by peering around him to the empty chair on the other side of the table.

“I guessed you were an actress hiding from the paparazzi.” He’s half on top of me, half on my little red bench. His arm stays around me as he faces his friends. Scowls coat the faces of both Grey and Kate, and I’m not sure what I did wrong.

Scud’s words are not ones people use to describe me. I decide he’s making fun of me, and I stand. My hands find my hips. “Listen—”

Kate grabs a hand off one of my hips and pats it while she frowns at Scud. “He does this with everyone, Birdie, just ignore him. I do. But you
do
look nice.”

“Aww, Katie Jean,” Scud goes into a bad Irish accent. “You know you’re in love with me, darlin’.”

“I am not!” she says a little too loud.

Oh. Yes, you are.
I sink back into the bench with new insight into Miss Kate Mathews.

Scud moves to the empty seat but takes my newspaper and sketches with him.

“Hey, can I have my—”

“Now, Birdie, what have we here?” Scud drops the brogue. “Whoa, these drawings are good. Look at these, Grey.” He nudges the newspaper aside, bringing the sketches into full view.

“Uh, guys …” I make a wild grab for the papers and miss. I’m not sure I want them looking at my nightmares, but since they can’t know they’re real, I drop my hand. “… yeah, whatever.”

Grey’s expression is serious. “Do you mind our looking?” His words slice through to the bottom line. “We don’t have to.”

“No, its fine,” I say. “I was just doodling a dream I had.”

“These are amazing, Birdie.” Kate comes around and leans over her brother’s arm. “You should be an artist.”

I smile at her. “I’m going to start some classes this spring.”

Grey’s head pops up. “Where?”

“Georgia State.”

“That’s where I go.” Kate beams. “You’ll love it. The guys are so much hotter than where these two brainiacs go! They’re big deal sophomores at Tech.” She rolls her eyes. “What year are you? I’m a freshman. You have to show me your schedule. Wouldn’t it be awesome if we had a class together? Where do you live? We could study together.” I’m assuming she doesn’t want answers because her questions come like M-16 rapid fire, continuing on to tell me Grey and Scud are nineteen and studying engineering, which she’d never touch with a ten foot pole.

Grey appears to be suppressing a smile when he faces me again. “You want some help finding a car?”

This takes me back. “How did you know I—”

He taps on the newspaper covered in red circles.

I face him and shrug. “Oh. Right. I’ve sworn off taxis.”

He laughs—a raspy sound that squeezes my insides. “So … you want some company?”

“I’ll go,” Scud says. “Ow!” He leans back and peers under the table. “Kate, that wasn’t the table. You kicked my leg.”

“Did I?” Kate says sweetly. “Sorry.”

Grey sips his coffee while Scud keeps talking. “I see you in what, a red Mazda Protégé?”

I wrinkle my nose.

“Dude.” Grey says. “Did you even look at what she has circled? I got this.” He scoops my papers off the tabletop and meets my eyes as he hands them to me. “Spend the day with me.”

Everything inside me warns this is a bad idea. I’ve already said goodbye to the dream he represents once. I’m supposed to keep him from getting dirty, to protect him from my kind.

Kate grins at me. She nods yes, as if she can influence my answer through sheer will power alone.

Whatever resolve I had evaporates like summer rain off hot pavement, and I hear myself answer, “Okay, sure,” before I can stop myself.