Landing (26 page)

“Ready?” he hisses under his
breath.

I quickly throw my arms through the
sleeves of my coat, but leave the buttons undone. “Do it,” I say, balling my
hands into fists and plunging them into my coat pockets.

Tarren wraps an arm around my waist
and pulls me into his big body.

Humans can’t see their own auras.
Don’t even know they exist, which means they let their energy run free, always soaked
with the shifting colors of their emotions. Tarren is different. He knows about
the auras – knows that I can read a personal’s entire emotional map in an
instant. Over the last six months, since this whole crazy thing started for me,
he’s become especially adept at holding his emotions at bay, hiding his true
feelings from this second sight of mine.

He can also let them go, which is
what he does now, relaxing his mental grip, allowing his aura to bloom with all
his repressed emotions.

The song.

Not the heavy techno-shit booming
out of the speakers. My hunger is a song that only I can hear; that only I can
feel gripping every neuron in my brain as Tarren’s energy laps over me. His
aura cloaks me from the eyes of the angel, but I pay a high price for our
subterfuge.
Control, control, control,
I chant to myself as my muscles
lock and every part of me wants to pounce on Tarren, hurt Tarren, drain every
last drop of energy from his body.

My brother’s grip is tight around
my waist, and he steers me towards the door.
Forward
,
forward
.  We
pass the angel. I’m on Tarren’s right side, away from the angel, hiding in the
shadow of his energy. Just a little longer. 
Hold,
I think.
Hold.
Hold. Bold. Sold. Cold.

Door opening. Closing. Grumble from
the smelly bouncer.

We’re out. I rip myself from
Tarren’s arm and stagger forward on wobbly legs. Distance. Need distance. My
hands are pouring heat, probably glowing up a storm, but my brain is worse. The
monster part of me purrs, wanting release.

Tarren gives me my space. His
hyper-vigilance is sometimes mildly threatening and more often just a huge
drag, but it has its uses. He’s really good about knowing what I need to
maintain control.

I take a deep breath of the cold
air, sucking in a myriad of scents dominated by car exhaust and fried food.
Then I look behind me to Tarren. He’s pulling in his aura, tucking away all
those emotions into the huge vault he keeps inside his heart. Before he gets
all of it completely locked away, I see thick, heavy browns splashed across his
aura like a tumor. I’ve noticed hints of it before – ever since he came home
after Gabe got hurt – but I never realized it was this bad.

Brown for worry, for anxiety. 

Tarren worries a lot; about pretty
much everything, actually, but this rotting hue is different. This is something
big.

“He won’t try anything while he’s
in the club,” Tarren says, all business. “He always follows his victims home.”

“Looks like we’ve got some
strippers to save,” I say lamely, trying to iron out the shakes in my voice. I
quickly slip out of my heels and hook them with my index finger. The cold
concrete chills my feet and sharpens my focus. My muscles are beginning to
unlock with each step forward.  Tarren peels off his beard as we hurry back to
the jeep and the sniper rifles in the trunk.

***

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