Читать книгу Ignite the Shadows - Ingrid Seymour - Страница 14

A bar?!

He has brought me to a bar? Does he realize I’m only sixteen? I follow James, looking all around me, expecting someone to jump in front of the door demanding an ID. No one does. In truth, the whole area looks like a ghost town. There’s a gas station across the street. Its sign flickers. The gas prices flash with askew numbers. The large metal building on its right looks as if it sprouted out of the weeds that surround it.

The bar itself is the nicest-looking building on the street, and that’s not saying much. A blue neon sign of a wolf howling at the moon shines on top of the door, illuminating the cracked sidewalk. James pulls the door open.

“Welcome to Howls,” he says, showing me in with an extended hand.

I hesitate, then step inside. The back of my skull—which hasn’t stopped humming since James appeared in the alley—vibrates a little harder. I wince and throw my head back a few degrees.

James watches me intently. I feel like he notices everything—reading me as if I was a simple “hello world” program—and filing everything he learns about me inside his bald, shiny head. I can’t blame him. I’m doing the same. I’m a lost sock that’s just found its match. He rolls his neck to indicate he knows my head feels like it’s being assaulted by a million frantic hummingbirds.

“C’mon, Clark and Xave are here, if it makes you feel any better.”

I’d already noticed Clark’s bike outside. And no, it doesn’t make me feel any better. Clark’s a punk, and with the way Xave’s been acting lately … well … let’s say I’d rather drink antifreeze than endure all that drama.

The smell of cigarette smoke mixed with sweat and stale beer makes me wrinkle my nose. A few men sit at the bar, staring at their drinks or at empty space. They ignore us as we walk in. The patrons look like they belong on the bikes parked outside. Faded jeans, leather jackets, heavy boots, scraggly beards. I look back at James and get the impression that he belongs in this place about as much as I do.

He stops at the bar. “Whiskey, on the rocks,” he tells the bartender.

The guy doesn’t even give me a second glance. After James gets his drink, he heads to the back of the building. We walk through a narrow door and go down a flight of stairs. Posters of women in skimpy bathing suits line the walls.

Before crossing a doorway with a bead curtain, James stops. “Not all in there are like us. I trust you won’t say anything about our earlier conversation,” he orders, then walks through the curtain.

I bristle. I don’t like orders. In fact, I’m tempted not to obey just on principle. But who am I kidding? I’m not about to start telling anyone that shadowy specters live inside my head. I crack my neck and cross the threshold. Behind the curtain, I find myself in a dimly lit room and the center of attention to five distrustful pairs of eyes.

“Crew, this is Marci,” James says, then takes a sip of whiskey and makes a face as if the drink isn’t good enough.

No one says anything. They just stare. Xave sits on a shaggy sofa to my right, his expression unreadable. My body tightens in response to what feels like open hostility.

A pale woman with jet-black, freaky hair stands up. “Another one?” she asks in an angry voice. “What are we now … babysitters?” She looks me up and down, as if I’m here to force her to give up hair-styling gel. Because really, how else could she have accomplished that Medusa-looking mess on her head? I narrow my eyes and return her gaze, unwavering. I swear she looks like she jumped out of a Resident Evil video game, all tight black leather pants and knee-high boots with more straps than an electric chair. A see-through black top rests over a red camisole that stops midriff. She even wears studded arm warmers and it’s not even Halloween.

James introduces her. “This is Blare. Spelled B-L-A-R-E, mind you.”

She gives James a nasty look. He ignores her.

“Relax, Blare. Marci has skills,” James offers.

“You mean unlike this dimwit, here?” She gives Xave a patronizing look.

Somehow Xave manages to limit his anger to a glare and a jaw twitch. No Dumpsters to kick in here, huh? Not in front of his big brother, anyway. He’s always had anger management issues that might stem from being the middle child. I keep hoping he will grow out of them, but maybe I should give up.

“What kind of skills?” a guy as pale as Blare and with hair just as black asks.

He’s wearing dark slacks and a blue button-up shirt. His tone is forced as if he really doesn’t want to know. A tie hangs around his neck, the knot loose. James seems out of place, but this guy clearly is. He’d do better behind a cash register at the local bank. He makes my head hum. We exchange knowing glances and both nod imperceptibly, the way two lions might nod at each other in a den full of tigers. I take a quick look around. He’s the only other one making my head feel like a bee hive.

I turn my attention back to James, wondering what skills he’s talking about. He opens his mouth to answer, but Blare interrupts him.

“Do they include wiping her own butt and feeding herself?” She barks out a laugh.

I don’t know what her deal is. Maybe she feels threatened by other girls. Either way, I’m not putting up with it. “Hey Medusa, herself is standing right here.”

If you don’t stand up to bullies from the start, you’re doomed to become somebody’s punching bag. I learned that in the first grade when Will Hooper thought it was funny my dad had died and figured pushing me around was a nice way to remind me I was fatherless. Sick little bastard. I brought his bullying days to a halt before he could do any real damage to someone vulnerable.

“What did you call me?” Blare says, her pale face growing noticeably red.

“Ooooh, catfight,” Clark says, pushing himself to the edge of his chair and rubbing his hands together.

“You heard me,” I tell her in a steady tone.

James sits back, the twinge of a smile resting on his lips, as if he knows something no one else does. I get the feeling that’s often the case for him.

Blare marches toward me. When she’s two steps away, her hand comes up, ready to shove me. Lightning quick, I step aside, grab her wrist, and pull it behind her back, then wrap my free arm around her neck. She yelps in surprise. I hold her in a lock for a fast beat, then push her away from me.

Xave’s eyes twinkle with something like pleasure. When he sees I’ve noticed his reaction, he looks away. It appears Medusa’s been busting his chops, too. But he needs to do his own shoving if he expects to gain her respect. Besides, I would hardly do any shoving for his benefit, not after he told this bunch of misfits where to find me on the net.

He’s supposed to be my friend. Some friend.

“Look, I didn’t come here to fight,” I say.

Blare is fuming, rubbing her wrist and neck and trying to hide her embarrassment.

“I don’t even know why I’m here.” I turn and step backward to be able to see everyone at the same time. “So unless you’ve got something to say, I think I’ll leave.”

“We have something to say, all right.” A muscular man sitting next to Bank Teller guy stands up and extends a hand my way. He’s of average height, but his torso looks like it belongs on a much taller man. He cracks a wide grin, as friendly as I’ve ever seen. Our handshake is a firm, brisk squeeze. “I’m Walter, but everyone calls me Oso.”

The simple sound of his nickname fills me with a strange sadness. From somewhere in the depths of my brain I conjure the meaning of the word “oso.” Amazing how ten years of disuse haven’t erased the knowledge that Dad so zealously tried to ingrain in me. Oso is Spanish for bear and, given this man’s bulk and hairy forearms, it’s easy to understand why they call him that.

“You’ll have to excuse Blare,” Oso continues. “She can be a bit … feisty sometimes.”

Clark rolls his eyes. “To say the least.”

“That one is Clark,” Oso says, “and that’s his little brother Xave.”

I try not to laugh. Xave hates being referred to as Clark’s little brother.

“We’re neighbors, you oaf,” Clark says.

Oso frowns, then hits his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Oh, she’s that Marci. I get it now. Anyhow …” Oso turns and points at Bank Teller guy. “This white-collar dude over here is Aydan.” The comment makes Aydan self-conscious, and he loosens his tie further and gives me an indifferent nod. This time I notice his casually mussed hair and the purple half-moons under his dark eyes. He looks like he needs some serious sleep, and probably a transfusion or some sun. He’s way too pale.

James points at the chair next to him. “Sit, Marci.”

I pull the chair away and sit. My muscles are taut, ready to spring. They may be trying to make me feel comfortable, but psycho Medusa’s still staring a hole into my forehead, even as she reclines against the wall, looking nonchalant. Maybe she’s trying to turn me to stone.

“Apparently you have more skills than I gave you credit for,” James says, eyes darting a quick, mocking glance toward Blare. She crosses her arms and shifts her weight from one foot to another.

“She’s been doing karate since she was four,” Xave says, sounding proud and amused at the same time. I give Xave a don’t-do-me-any-favors look. He rolls his eyes and shifts position in his seat.

“Has she?” James asks.

“My dad wanted me to know how to defend myself.” I don’t know why I feel the need to explain. So this is how it feels being the center of attention? No wonder I’ve always avoided it.

James appraises me with a knowing expression. “I’m sure it’s taught you much more than that.”

I nod and more passes between us than those in the room can understand. The focus karate gives me has been essential in keeping the shadows at bay.

Slapping his palms on his jeans, James shifts his attention to Aydan. “Marci wants to know how you hacked into her computer.”

I blink, surprised. Bank Teller was the one who hacked me?!

Aydan shrugs. “You mean she’s Warrior? I’ll send you the code,” he says. “It’ll speak for itself.”

I wait to hear more, but it seems he’s a man of few words.

James fills in the blanks. “Aydan is a programmer. He works for Sylica Rush.” James says the name as if it explains everything. And well … it does. Getting into Sylica Rush is almost as exclusive as becoming an astronaut for NASA. I’m mildly impressed. Okay, I’m very impressed. Now I don’t feel so bad about being hacked.

“He was impressed by how tight your system was. And if he’s impressed, then we should all be,” James says, giving Blare a pointed look.

Aydan and I exchange a glance. We see eye to eye, even if we’re not saying much. He and I share a unique wavelength. Computer bits and bytes could be our language. His code will tell me much more about him than his words could. He nods. I nod back.

“So undoubtedly,” James continues, “he agrees our team could use someone with your skills. You see, he has to work for a living and doesn’t have as much time to take care of the technical side of our operation. He could use a hand.”

Wait a minute, what is this? I look at James and shake my head, trying to show him this is not why I came here for. I followed him thinking he’d have answers to my questions, but it seems he’s just trying to drag me into whatever activities they’re up to—which no doubt are criminal as all get-out.

“A hand doing what?” I demand.

“All in due time, Marci.”

My expression tightens. “Listen, I’m flattered that you’re impressed, but I don’t get the feeling I’m going to like what you guys are up to.”

Medusa chuckles, “derisive” written all over her black painted lips. “That’s an understatement.”

I stand, making the chair screech across the floor.

“Settle down, Marci. This is not the sort of thing you’re imagining.” James points at the chair with an extended hand.

“Just tell me.” I will count till ten. If I don’t get a straight answer, I’m out of here. I’m not going to get involved in anything that will land me in jail.

One.

“Good luck with that,” Xave huffs, sarcasm wrapped around all four words. They haven’t told him anything either. Cult tactics vary, and I wonder if the lure of something enigmatic and dangerous is what they use to entrap thrill-seeking idiots like Xave and me.

Four.

Blare exhales with frustration. “This isn’t child’s play. And the sooner you two get that into your heads, the better. Besides, it’s not the sort of thing that can be told. You have to see it to be able to believe messed-up shit like this.”

“Oh c’mon, Blare,” Oso says. “You’re gonna spook them.”

Seven.

“Good! ’Cause this is spooky crap.” Blare’s eyes swivel my way. A pierced eyebrow goes up and her lips tighten for a second before she says, “Crap that’ll make you run crying to Mama. Make sure you understand that before you go joining.”

Ten.

I’m outta here. The only scary thing here is Medusa’s hair-do.

“Ooh, I’m shaking in my boots.” I snigger. “I don’t know about you, Xave, but I need more than just empty talk and secret meetings,” I draw quotes in the air, “to buy into bogus crap.”

That said, I head for the door and invite Xave to follow me with a quick nod toward the door. I’m still mad at him, but I can’t leave him at the mercy of this bunch. I can’t believe Clark has dragged his little brother into this.

Oso lets out a hearty chuckle. “The girl has spunk. I’ll give her that.”

Xave’s attention shifts from side to side, apparently considering the option of leaving with me. If he’s still the smart boy I know, and testosterone and jealousy haven’t skewered his brain, he’ll come with me. I doubt Clark even knows what’s really going on here. “Marci.” James stands and takes a deep, deliberate breath, a clear reminder of our earlier conversation in the alley. “Promise me you’ll think about it.”

He knows he has answers I’d kill to have and he’s using them as bargaining chips. The question is: are the shadows somehow linked to what they’re doing here? Or are they just bait to suck me into their cult? I’m afraid accepting a deal with James might be too high a price to pay for learning what I need to know. Anger seethes behind my breastbone. This isn’t fair. I was so stupid to think I could get something for nothing.

I hesitate and look at Xave. His brow furrows, as his eyes dance from James to me and back again. Everyone watches with interest, even aloof Aydan, who I’m sure understands why James’s offer is so tempting to me.

Decisively, I exit the room without an answer or backward glance. I didn’t say no. That should let James know I’ll at least consider it. No harm in that, I suppose.

Outside, I crank the bike and slide on my helmet.

“Marci, wait!”

Xave runs up to me. I lift the visor to look at him, but he avoids eye contact and looks toward the road instead.

“Um.” He bites his lower lip, blinks in slow motion as if his long lashes weigh a ton. Finally, he meets my gaze. His Adam’s apple goes up and down. “I …” His pause stretches for a full minute.

I sigh and roll my eyes at his fantastic eloquence. “Want a ride home?”

“Y-yeah, that’d be great.”

“Hop on.”

Xave gets behind me, wraps large hands around my hips then leans forward until I can feel the length of his torso against my back. My throat locks, keeping my breath captive. My eyes close and I find myself leaning back, pressing closer to him. My body’s reaction shocks me.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers in my ear, then he pulls away slowly. Cold air slides up my back, making the distance between us feel as wrong as a sixteen-year-old in a bikers’ bar. His warm breath quickly turns frigid at my earlobe. I shiver and snap the visor shut. My fingers feel numb. It’s too cold to be out tonight.