So it begins...
Blood Aura, Chapter One for you!
CHAPTER 1
Against my better judgment, I hand the plate across the counter. Nick, my oldest and closest friend, grips it with both hands. His deep brown eyes blink a thousand unspoken thanks before he turns and heads back to his table where Antonio, the guy he thinks he can’t live without, sits staring out at the snow beyond the shop window.
I should probably show some discretion and look away, but someone needs to protect my overly emotional friend. Nick slides back into his seat and pushes the plate across the table, the almost fluorescent pink frosting on the cupcake practically glowing. He starts bouncing his knee up and down beneath the table, a sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead.
I don’t need that to tell me how Nick feels, of course, not with his aura screaming his emotions loud and clear to anyone who can read it. A bright pink cloud of deep affection shimmers around his entire body. It’s mingled with a streak of orange hormone, a pale blue shot of nerves. He smiles a perfect smile born of eight years of orthodontia; he sits and waits.
If Antonio is feeling the same way, I don’t see it. His aura is the steady baby blue of a guy oblivious to the charms of the totally hot guy seated in front of him. But then I’ve never found the clarinet playing, chess loving Antonio to be an emotional dynamo.
Antonio turns his attention back from the snow and smiles. It has an explosive effect on Nick’s aura and I start to feel like a creepy stalker as I read his innermost feelings. That, however, has never been enough to detract me.
Antonio reaches out and takes the half of the cupcake that Nick offers. I’ve given strict instructions not to give him the whole thing at once unless he wants his honey to have a heart attack. Antonio takes a tentative bite and then, just like a teenage boy, shoves the rest of it into his mouth.
If he has any interest in Nick at all, Antonio should start feeling the effects of my most special of special recipes any second now. Nick and I wait and watch. His knee is bouncing so hard, coffee slops out of the mug onto their table. Nothing. I slam my hand against the countertop, sending my fourth espresso of the day splashing all over my apron.
This kid is an idiot. Besides, I read his aura - multiple times - at the request of Nick who, for the record, isn’t supposed to know I can do that kind of thing. Antonio seemed like he was into him. What went wrong? I frown at him and it takes everything in my limited supply of self control to keep me from storming over there and asking him what his problem is.
And then it happens. The mild pastel rainbow that has been floating above Antonio’s head deepens into brighter reds and blues, shot through with orange. He straightens up and pushes his shaggy dark bangs out of his eyes, returning Nick’s smile. When he looks straight into Nick’s lovely brown eyes, I find what I’ve been waiting for. It’s like he’s seeing him for the first time. And he definitely likes what he sees.
The way they stare at each other finally has me squirming, so I turn away and grab the cake plate, returning it to its proper place on the distant corner shelf. I flip up the handwritten“Reserved” sign.
As I pull my hand back, a thick glob of unnaturally pink frosting drops onto my index finger. I contemplate it.
What if I tried it - just a taste? Yes, that would be breaking one of the major rules - but still. Would the I find the first guy I come across irresistibly attractive - like Lenny the Fedex guy or Henry from Chen’s Chinese Garden across the street? I snort out a laugh and stare down at the sugary concoction coating my finger. I lift it closer. What the hell?
“Tristan.” My Aunt Miranda has snuck up beside me. She arches a perfectly waxed black eyebrow at me, her green eyes flashing.
I take a napkin and wipe away the frosting like I wasn’t just thinking of licking it off.
“You need something?” I ask. I’m hoping Miranda will let me off without yet another speech.
“Just checking on things out here.” She glances out into the shop, the corner of her mouth lifting into a smirk. “Nice job.”
“Yeah, right? Who knew?”
“You had a doubt?”
A doubt? That I could use an old family recipe and a dose of hocus pocus to get my best friend’s crush to wake up and notice him? The whole thing would seem ridiculous if I hadn’t already done it dozens of times.
“You can’t ever be sure how these things will turn out, can you?” I offer. “Still,” I look out at Nick and Antonio. Their heads are centimeters apart, their fingertips touching on the white linen tablecloth. “He’s my best friend, you know? I couldn’t refuse.”
Miranda nods, knowing that this could have been a disaster, but understanding that sometimes having power means hoping against common sense that it works the way you intend it to.
There’s a sound of chairs scraping along the floor. When I turn back, I find Antonio shrugging into his parka and heading to the door. Nick turns at the last second to offer me a thumbs up and a giant grin, another satisfied customer.
“He’s not going to report this to every kid at school, right? We’re not going to be overrun with hormonal, heartsick teenagers looking for the witches?”
“Oh Miranda, it’s Nick we’re talking about.” Nana has walked up behind us, her apron splattered with flour and cake batter.
“Well done, Tristan,” she smiles. “You recognized potential between Nick and…”
“Antonio.”
“Of course. Antonio. You’re becoming a very skillful Seeker.” She pauses and adds, “Just like your mother.”
References to my long dead mother are few and far between and are usually followed by uncomfortable silences. Still, a warmth spreads through my body when Nana compares me to my mom, a beautiful woman, a talented Seeker, but most of all, a well-adjusted human being - not an easy task when you can literally feel the emotions that motivate everyone around you.
“Well, what do you think? Is it time to close up?” She unties the apron and slings it across the counter.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” my aunt responds. “I told Graham I would meet him at an hour ago.” Graham is my aunt’s long-suffering boyfriend, the one guy who can take her icy demeanor for more than a few dates. His resilience is pretty impressive.
“I’ll close up,” I offer. After a day being assaulted by the emotions of my high school classmates, closely followed by the tension of Nick and his almost unrequited love, I could use five minutes of peace.
Miranda doesn’t waste any time. “I’m out.” She waves over her shoulder, her stilettos click-clacking away toward the kitchen and the back door.
“That would be wonderful,” Nana answers. She’s exhausted after a day in the shop handling tasks both magic and non-magic alike. “Mexican tonight?”
“Hell, yeah.” I probably shouldn’t get this excited about tortillas, sour cream, and cheese but I’ll take my comforts where I can. “You order. I’ll finish up.”
Nana pats my arm and heads to the stairs that climb up toward our apartment.
Left alone in the shop, I dim the lights, turn off the world’s dullest soundtrack, and gather up the stray dishes, smiling at the crumbs scattered across Nick’s plate. I can’t be sure how things will work out between them. The romance induced misery written in auras everywhere I go - in the shop, at school, on the subway - makes me wonder why anyone even bothers going through all the drama. And in my experience, there is no pit darker than the heart of a teenage boy. Then again, as Miranda likes to remind me, not everyone is destined to be a bitter old woman at seventeen.
I take one final spin around the room, setting chairs straight and flipping the “Open” sign over. The light snow is just starting to coat car windshields and the spots where the sidewalk squares meet up. Kids in karate pants shuffle by, their parents following behind carrying gym bags and backpacks. Couples huddle close, heads together, carrying bags of takeout. Patrick, our next door neighbor, lunges past being dragged by his golden retriever, Molly.
No romance for me but, luckily, there’s always Mexican food from Nick’s parents’ restaurant, my bed complete with body pillow, and my laptop with a Killer Couple Confessions binge-a-thon loaded and ready to go. I reach for a stray tip, a crisp, sharp five dollar bill. Very sharp. Sharp enough to cut a person’s finger. Which, naturally, it does. Blood immediately wells up, dripping pouring down the length of my index finger. I curse and squeeze it tight, because I am convinced that those two things will stop it from hurting. It does not.
Turning around to reach for the first aid kit I stop, my foot suspended in midair. Something is...wrong. This wrongness is not something I’m familiar with, like a particularly unpleasant aura. I feel those all the time. This is an otherness. A distinct feeling that something is out of whack. It is a dark energy, the blurry edges of something that isn’t right. It tingles along my spine like lightning striking in the distance.
The sensation is a new one. Most of the things I sense come at me fully formed, sort of like the way a smell can instantly trigger a vivid mental picture of the place or person you associate it with. This is more the uneasy feeling you get going up the basement stairs, like something is about to grab at you. Which is stupid and not going to happen.
I shake my head and reach under the counter for a band aid, but I can’t shake the feeling; in fact, it is growing stronger. If my love of crime shows has taught me anything, it’s that you have to trust your instincts. It’s the ones who ignore their gut that end up in a shallow grave.
Closing my eyes, I steady my breath and try to hone in on the source of the turbulence. Whatever it is appears to be getting closer. It is not a comforting thought. With my heart pounding against my ribs, I duck behind a dilapidated couch and scan the street.
The emotions of people passing by filter through the plate glass window. Anxiety and contentment, love and jealousy, a dose of disappointment, a hint of optimism. Nothing extraordinary there except that the things I normally feel loud and clear are becoming muffled by the strength of whatever is heading my way.
My hand automatically reaches for the bracelet circling my wrist, a cheap looking leather band with a small iron medallion that hides a powerful protection charm Nana put in there. She gave it to me, along with a canister of keychain pepper spray, when I started taking the subway by myself. I close my fingers around my wrist and take a breath, trying to zoom in on the thing that’s starting to make my head pound.
Crawling behind the buffet where we store the table settings, I peer out at the street. The noise in my head gets louder, and the sensation changes, transforming itself from a collection of sounds and disjointed electrical impulses into clearly defined emotions: anger, sadness, loneliness, desperation. An abyss of negativity reaches up and wraps itself around me, rattling around in my head and weighing down my body.
A surge of sadness crashes into me strong enough to force out a sob and tears begin flowing out of my control. I consider moving further back into the store, but since I don’t actually feel capable of moving, that option is out. I’m pretty sure Nana has told me about something like this, but I no doubt zoned out halfway through the lesson. Dammit.
The thought of the lesson brings up yet another helpful TV tip: don’t sit around and let yourself be the victim. I wipe away the tears with the back of my hand and crawl out from behind my hiding place to check out the street. I’m still shielded by the rickety sideboard but I get a good look at what is - or is not - going on out there. The snow falls faster, and the crowds are thinning out. Henry heads out for a delivery. Patrick and Molly come sliding back, disappearing down the driveway between our buildings. In other words, things look perfectly normal. I looked harder, using less vision, more insight.
And there they are, the source of the problem, across the street in the pink and green neon glow of Papa Gino’s Pizza - est. 1976. While everyone else is on the move, intent on getting home, getting out of the snow, getting some dinner, this couple, a man and a woman, face the store, completely still. Their posture - straight and strong - is so far removed from mine, curled up into myself on the floor, that I know they are not feeling what I am. Which me with one very uncomfortable conclusion: they are doing this to me.
I squint at them from my hiding spot, trying to make out features but the February darkness ensures that’s almost impossible. Even if I could see what they look like, I doubt that I would recognize these two. I live in a very small world inhabited by a cast of recurring characters - customers, store owners, family. This couple definitely doesn’t fit into any of those.
A wave of something that I can only describe as doom lays me out flat and I consider my options: panic and die, stay calm and survive. So what to do? Get away. Get upstairs. Find Nana. All of which would be easier if I could actually stand up and run, but I’m not sure I have the strength to even get myself up to sitting. Still, I have to move.
Slowly, painfully, I put both hands flat on the floor and stretch out onto my stomach. The prone position hurts since it exposes me completely to wave after wave of negativity. My legs don’t want to cooperate, so I drag myself forward on my arms, happy for once that I’ve spent so much time hand mixing baked goods.
I manage to make it about four feet from my hiding place to the middle of the room when a body crashes into the door, rattling the handle with one hand and pounding on the glass with the other. Screaming once, I scuttle back behind the sideboard and pull my knees up against my chest. My heart throws itself off my ribs, pounding again and again at a speed that can’t be healthy. This is definitely panic. I squeeze my eyes shut and try getting Nana on board with what’s happening down here. Nana? my brain shouts. A little help maybe?
“Hello?” The voice is unexpected. Male. Young. Maybe not the voice of a killer. “Are you OK?”
The door handle rattles again. “Do you need help?”
The panic recedes just enough that I can peek out. A silhouette stands outside the glass. It’s a guy, tallish, leaning in with his hands cupped around his eyes, peering into the dark. Whoever this is, I feel fairly sure he isn’t the problem, mostly because there’s pretty much no emotion coming off him.
More door rattling. “Listen, I’m going to call the cops,” the voice says. “Just stay where you…”
“No!” I shout. The image of the store swarming with New York’s finest snaps me back to reality. Dignified gal that I am, I crawl out from my hiding place and push myself up on wobbly legs. “Don’t,” I say.
“What?” He leans into the door and I’m forced to get closer.
“I’m good,” I shout.
When he steps back into the glow of the streetlight, I see a guy who, in spite of my hard and fast rule to never judge a psychopath by his looks, seems to be safe enough.
“You sure?”
“Yup; all good.” The shaking is probably a giveaway that I’m lying.
“OK then.” But he doesn’t move. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “So...uh...sorry but are you guys closed?”
Lights off. Door locked. But he did stop and see if I needed help.
I spin the key and open up letting in a swirl of snowflakes and icy air and, hopefully, not a crazed killer.
“Did you need something?” I ask. “Coffee? I can’t vouch for the quality of what I can dig up right now.”
While I’m talking, trying to rein myself in and act like a normal human being, I’m also peering over his shoulder. The waves of emotion have receded, but the snowflakes are falling too fast now for me to see much of anything beyond the front door.
“No,” he says slowly. He’s no doubt put off by the crazy girl who won’t look him in the eye. “I was, uh, supposed to pick something up but I got busy at work and I almost forgot, which would be a disaster. Are you sure you’re OK?” More shifting.
Outside, all seems calm again. No sign of anyone. No sense that anything isn’t exactly as it should be.
I finally focus on my customer. It’s obvious he thinks I’m totally insane and just a bit concerned that there’s something else going on here. This, I suddenly realize, is something I figure out the old-fashioned way - observation. It’s not because I read his aura. Because this guy? This guy doesn’t have one.
All Rights Reserved: Eileen Lepetit
Blood Aura, Chapter One for you!
CHAPTER 1
Against my better judgment, I hand the plate across the counter. Nick, my oldest and closest friend, grips it with both hands. His deep brown eyes blink a thousand unspoken thanks before he turns and heads back to his table where Antonio, the guy he thinks he can’t live without, sits staring out at the snow beyond the shop window.
I should probably show some discretion and look away, but someone needs to protect my overly emotional friend. Nick slides back into his seat and pushes the plate across the table, the almost fluorescent pink frosting on the cupcake practically glowing. He starts bouncing his knee up and down beneath the table, a sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead.
I don’t need that to tell me how Nick feels, of course, not with his aura screaming his emotions loud and clear to anyone who can read it. A bright pink cloud of deep affection shimmers around his entire body. It’s mingled with a streak of orange hormone, a pale blue shot of nerves. He smiles a perfect smile born of eight years of orthodontia; he sits and waits.
If Antonio is feeling the same way, I don’t see it. His aura is the steady baby blue of a guy oblivious to the charms of the totally hot guy seated in front of him. But then I’ve never found the clarinet playing, chess loving Antonio to be an emotional dynamo.
Antonio turns his attention back from the snow and smiles. It has an explosive effect on Nick’s aura and I start to feel like a creepy stalker as I read his innermost feelings. That, however, has never been enough to detract me.
Antonio reaches out and takes the half of the cupcake that Nick offers. I’ve given strict instructions not to give him the whole thing at once unless he wants his honey to have a heart attack. Antonio takes a tentative bite and then, just like a teenage boy, shoves the rest of it into his mouth.
If he has any interest in Nick at all, Antonio should start feeling the effects of my most special of special recipes any second now. Nick and I wait and watch. His knee is bouncing so hard, coffee slops out of the mug onto their table. Nothing. I slam my hand against the countertop, sending my fourth espresso of the day splashing all over my apron.
This kid is an idiot. Besides, I read his aura - multiple times - at the request of Nick who, for the record, isn’t supposed to know I can do that kind of thing. Antonio seemed like he was into him. What went wrong? I frown at him and it takes everything in my limited supply of self control to keep me from storming over there and asking him what his problem is.
And then it happens. The mild pastel rainbow that has been floating above Antonio’s head deepens into brighter reds and blues, shot through with orange. He straightens up and pushes his shaggy dark bangs out of his eyes, returning Nick’s smile. When he looks straight into Nick’s lovely brown eyes, I find what I’ve been waiting for. It’s like he’s seeing him for the first time. And he definitely likes what he sees.
The way they stare at each other finally has me squirming, so I turn away and grab the cake plate, returning it to its proper place on the distant corner shelf. I flip up the handwritten“Reserved” sign.
As I pull my hand back, a thick glob of unnaturally pink frosting drops onto my index finger. I contemplate it.
What if I tried it - just a taste? Yes, that would be breaking one of the major rules - but still. Would the I find the first guy I come across irresistibly attractive - like Lenny the Fedex guy or Henry from Chen’s Chinese Garden across the street? I snort out a laugh and stare down at the sugary concoction coating my finger. I lift it closer. What the hell?
“Tristan.” My Aunt Miranda has snuck up beside me. She arches a perfectly waxed black eyebrow at me, her green eyes flashing.
I take a napkin and wipe away the frosting like I wasn’t just thinking of licking it off.
“You need something?” I ask. I’m hoping Miranda will let me off without yet another speech.
“Just checking on things out here.” She glances out into the shop, the corner of her mouth lifting into a smirk. “Nice job.”
“Yeah, right? Who knew?”
“You had a doubt?”
A doubt? That I could use an old family recipe and a dose of hocus pocus to get my best friend’s crush to wake up and notice him? The whole thing would seem ridiculous if I hadn’t already done it dozens of times.
“You can’t ever be sure how these things will turn out, can you?” I offer. “Still,” I look out at Nick and Antonio. Their heads are centimeters apart, their fingertips touching on the white linen tablecloth. “He’s my best friend, you know? I couldn’t refuse.”
Miranda nods, knowing that this could have been a disaster, but understanding that sometimes having power means hoping against common sense that it works the way you intend it to.
There’s a sound of chairs scraping along the floor. When I turn back, I find Antonio shrugging into his parka and heading to the door. Nick turns at the last second to offer me a thumbs up and a giant grin, another satisfied customer.
“He’s not going to report this to every kid at school, right? We’re not going to be overrun with hormonal, heartsick teenagers looking for the witches?”
“Oh Miranda, it’s Nick we’re talking about.” Nana has walked up behind us, her apron splattered with flour and cake batter.
“Well done, Tristan,” she smiles. “You recognized potential between Nick and…”
“Antonio.”
“Of course. Antonio. You’re becoming a very skillful Seeker.” She pauses and adds, “Just like your mother.”
References to my long dead mother are few and far between and are usually followed by uncomfortable silences. Still, a warmth spreads through my body when Nana compares me to my mom, a beautiful woman, a talented Seeker, but most of all, a well-adjusted human being - not an easy task when you can literally feel the emotions that motivate everyone around you.
“Well, what do you think? Is it time to close up?” She unties the apron and slings it across the counter.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” my aunt responds. “I told Graham I would meet him at an hour ago.” Graham is my aunt’s long-suffering boyfriend, the one guy who can take her icy demeanor for more than a few dates. His resilience is pretty impressive.
“I’ll close up,” I offer. After a day being assaulted by the emotions of my high school classmates, closely followed by the tension of Nick and his almost unrequited love, I could use five minutes of peace.
Miranda doesn’t waste any time. “I’m out.” She waves over her shoulder, her stilettos click-clacking away toward the kitchen and the back door.
“That would be wonderful,” Nana answers. She’s exhausted after a day in the shop handling tasks both magic and non-magic alike. “Mexican tonight?”
“Hell, yeah.” I probably shouldn’t get this excited about tortillas, sour cream, and cheese but I’ll take my comforts where I can. “You order. I’ll finish up.”
Nana pats my arm and heads to the stairs that climb up toward our apartment.
Left alone in the shop, I dim the lights, turn off the world’s dullest soundtrack, and gather up the stray dishes, smiling at the crumbs scattered across Nick’s plate. I can’t be sure how things will work out between them. The romance induced misery written in auras everywhere I go - in the shop, at school, on the subway - makes me wonder why anyone even bothers going through all the drama. And in my experience, there is no pit darker than the heart of a teenage boy. Then again, as Miranda likes to remind me, not everyone is destined to be a bitter old woman at seventeen.
I take one final spin around the room, setting chairs straight and flipping the “Open” sign over. The light snow is just starting to coat car windshields and the spots where the sidewalk squares meet up. Kids in karate pants shuffle by, their parents following behind carrying gym bags and backpacks. Couples huddle close, heads together, carrying bags of takeout. Patrick, our next door neighbor, lunges past being dragged by his golden retriever, Molly.
No romance for me but, luckily, there’s always Mexican food from Nick’s parents’ restaurant, my bed complete with body pillow, and my laptop with a Killer Couple Confessions binge-a-thon loaded and ready to go. I reach for a stray tip, a crisp, sharp five dollar bill. Very sharp. Sharp enough to cut a person’s finger. Which, naturally, it does. Blood immediately wells up, dripping pouring down the length of my index finger. I curse and squeeze it tight, because I am convinced that those two things will stop it from hurting. It does not.
Turning around to reach for the first aid kit I stop, my foot suspended in midair. Something is...wrong. This wrongness is not something I’m familiar with, like a particularly unpleasant aura. I feel those all the time. This is an otherness. A distinct feeling that something is out of whack. It is a dark energy, the blurry edges of something that isn’t right. It tingles along my spine like lightning striking in the distance.
The sensation is a new one. Most of the things I sense come at me fully formed, sort of like the way a smell can instantly trigger a vivid mental picture of the place or person you associate it with. This is more the uneasy feeling you get going up the basement stairs, like something is about to grab at you. Which is stupid and not going to happen.
I shake my head and reach under the counter for a band aid, but I can’t shake the feeling; in fact, it is growing stronger. If my love of crime shows has taught me anything, it’s that you have to trust your instincts. It’s the ones who ignore their gut that end up in a shallow grave.
Closing my eyes, I steady my breath and try to hone in on the source of the turbulence. Whatever it is appears to be getting closer. It is not a comforting thought. With my heart pounding against my ribs, I duck behind a dilapidated couch and scan the street.
The emotions of people passing by filter through the plate glass window. Anxiety and contentment, love and jealousy, a dose of disappointment, a hint of optimism. Nothing extraordinary there except that the things I normally feel loud and clear are becoming muffled by the strength of whatever is heading my way.
My hand automatically reaches for the bracelet circling my wrist, a cheap looking leather band with a small iron medallion that hides a powerful protection charm Nana put in there. She gave it to me, along with a canister of keychain pepper spray, when I started taking the subway by myself. I close my fingers around my wrist and take a breath, trying to zoom in on the thing that’s starting to make my head pound.
Crawling behind the buffet where we store the table settings, I peer out at the street. The noise in my head gets louder, and the sensation changes, transforming itself from a collection of sounds and disjointed electrical impulses into clearly defined emotions: anger, sadness, loneliness, desperation. An abyss of negativity reaches up and wraps itself around me, rattling around in my head and weighing down my body.
A surge of sadness crashes into me strong enough to force out a sob and tears begin flowing out of my control. I consider moving further back into the store, but since I don’t actually feel capable of moving, that option is out. I’m pretty sure Nana has told me about something like this, but I no doubt zoned out halfway through the lesson. Dammit.
The thought of the lesson brings up yet another helpful TV tip: don’t sit around and let yourself be the victim. I wipe away the tears with the back of my hand and crawl out from behind my hiding place to check out the street. I’m still shielded by the rickety sideboard but I get a good look at what is - or is not - going on out there. The snow falls faster, and the crowds are thinning out. Henry heads out for a delivery. Patrick and Molly come sliding back, disappearing down the driveway between our buildings. In other words, things look perfectly normal. I looked harder, using less vision, more insight.
And there they are, the source of the problem, across the street in the pink and green neon glow of Papa Gino’s Pizza - est. 1976. While everyone else is on the move, intent on getting home, getting out of the snow, getting some dinner, this couple, a man and a woman, face the store, completely still. Their posture - straight and strong - is so far removed from mine, curled up into myself on the floor, that I know they are not feeling what I am. Which me with one very uncomfortable conclusion: they are doing this to me.
I squint at them from my hiding spot, trying to make out features but the February darkness ensures that’s almost impossible. Even if I could see what they look like, I doubt that I would recognize these two. I live in a very small world inhabited by a cast of recurring characters - customers, store owners, family. This couple definitely doesn’t fit into any of those.
A wave of something that I can only describe as doom lays me out flat and I consider my options: panic and die, stay calm and survive. So what to do? Get away. Get upstairs. Find Nana. All of which would be easier if I could actually stand up and run, but I’m not sure I have the strength to even get myself up to sitting. Still, I have to move.
Slowly, painfully, I put both hands flat on the floor and stretch out onto my stomach. The prone position hurts since it exposes me completely to wave after wave of negativity. My legs don’t want to cooperate, so I drag myself forward on my arms, happy for once that I’ve spent so much time hand mixing baked goods.
I manage to make it about four feet from my hiding place to the middle of the room when a body crashes into the door, rattling the handle with one hand and pounding on the glass with the other. Screaming once, I scuttle back behind the sideboard and pull my knees up against my chest. My heart throws itself off my ribs, pounding again and again at a speed that can’t be healthy. This is definitely panic. I squeeze my eyes shut and try getting Nana on board with what’s happening down here. Nana? my brain shouts. A little help maybe?
“Hello?” The voice is unexpected. Male. Young. Maybe not the voice of a killer. “Are you OK?”
The door handle rattles again. “Do you need help?”
The panic recedes just enough that I can peek out. A silhouette stands outside the glass. It’s a guy, tallish, leaning in with his hands cupped around his eyes, peering into the dark. Whoever this is, I feel fairly sure he isn’t the problem, mostly because there’s pretty much no emotion coming off him.
More door rattling. “Listen, I’m going to call the cops,” the voice says. “Just stay where you…”
“No!” I shout. The image of the store swarming with New York’s finest snaps me back to reality. Dignified gal that I am, I crawl out from my hiding place and push myself up on wobbly legs. “Don’t,” I say.
“What?” He leans into the door and I’m forced to get closer.
“I’m good,” I shout.
When he steps back into the glow of the streetlight, I see a guy who, in spite of my hard and fast rule to never judge a psychopath by his looks, seems to be safe enough.
“You sure?”
“Yup; all good.” The shaking is probably a giveaway that I’m lying.
“OK then.” But he doesn’t move. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “So...uh...sorry but are you guys closed?”
Lights off. Door locked. But he did stop and see if I needed help.
I spin the key and open up letting in a swirl of snowflakes and icy air and, hopefully, not a crazed killer.
“Did you need something?” I ask. “Coffee? I can’t vouch for the quality of what I can dig up right now.”
While I’m talking, trying to rein myself in and act like a normal human being, I’m also peering over his shoulder. The waves of emotion have receded, but the snowflakes are falling too fast now for me to see much of anything beyond the front door.
“No,” he says slowly. He’s no doubt put off by the crazy girl who won’t look him in the eye. “I was, uh, supposed to pick something up but I got busy at work and I almost forgot, which would be a disaster. Are you sure you’re OK?” More shifting.
Outside, all seems calm again. No sign of anyone. No sense that anything isn’t exactly as it should be.
I finally focus on my customer. It’s obvious he thinks I’m totally insane and just a bit concerned that there’s something else going on here. This, I suddenly realize, is something I figure out the old-fashioned way - observation. It’s not because I read his aura. Because this guy? This guy doesn’t have one.
All Rights Reserved: Eileen Lepetit
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