Kicking It

suspicions.

Hanover House. New Orleans.

I allowed myself to sigh. Here was my explanation, right before me. Today I had most likely gotten rat-arsed on the Hand Grenades and Hurricanes I knew they sold on Bourbon Street, and had stumbled back to my bed-and- breakfast room. I was on holiday, out for a good time. Liquor was the reason I didn’t remember a few pertinent details. Evidently I had destroyed key brain cells.

But then, why didn’t I feel as groggy or booze-bitten as I should have?

Instead of asking myself again the reason I could remember big-picture items such as how it felt to be hungover, I stumbled away from the desk, turning round, looking for a suitcase or a bag or anything else I had brought with me. Even a smartphone that could fill in my blanks. I searched drawers, under the bed, everywhere.

Again . . . nothing, unless you counted the unfurled paper clip on my nightstand.

Panic increasingly chipped at me as I told myself to think. Think hard.

Check your pockets, you git.

I did, but I didn’t have much luck there, either: merely thirty dollars.

The room was closing in on me. Even those boots felt tight. Too tight, as if they were gnawing at my skin. Unable to stand the sensation, I bent to remove them.

But . . . no zipper, no buckles. I attempted to draw the material away from my legs, but it was as if the boots were leeched on.

That couldn’t be. So I tried to wedge them away from me again, dropping to the carpet this time, pulling forcefully at them. My legs tingled, and I could have sworn the boots were a part of my flesh.

Impossible. Absolutely insane.

Resting my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands, I told myself not to give in to the anxiety strumming at my nerves. But I had no name, no clue, no idea what to do next.

After a few breaths, I realized the front desk would have my name. What a fuckwit. So I stood, catching sight of myself in a mirror across the room. I was young, mid-twenties, perhaps. Sandy hair that was straight and cut to the shoulders. And my eyes were a clear green color, my nose slightly tilted, my teeth with a bit of an overbite. I looked clean, as if I had recently showered, so I couldn’t have had that rough of a day out on the streets.

At least I didn’t look as insane as I felt. I took a moment to freshen up in the bathroom—the proprietors were kind enough to have toothpaste and other toiletries on hand—then left the room, taking care not to lock the door since I couldn’t find my key.

Just outside my door, I found a middle-aged woman with dark skin and black hair worn short and flipped up at the ends. She sported a print skirt and a white blouse, and carried an armful of those hospitality baskets, as if she were an employee or owner.

At first, her smile welcomed me. But then she glanced at my boots and frowned. When her gaze traveled to the room number on the door, the frown only deepened.

“Hello,” I said, my pulse pounding. I would have wagered she’d never seen me before in her life.

“What’re you doing in that room?” she asked in a thick Southern accent. “It’s unoccupied.”

I recalled the unbent paper clip on the desk. I didn’t have a key at all, did I? I had the feeling that I had picked that lock, showered, then fallen asleep as sweetly as Goldilocks before the Three Bears had come home. Why?

I knew somewhere deep down that I didn’t want this woman to contact any authorities, so I smiled at her, assuring her that I meant no harm. She dropped one of the baskets and clutched at the other one’s handle with both hands, as if to swing it at me.

“Carlos!” she yelled, obviously summoning an employee. “Call 911!”

I bolted toward the staircase, and she wasn’t far behind me.

“Get back here, little girl! What did you steal?”

No time to answer as I easily flew down the steps. Very easily, but that had to be my adrenaline kicking in. I burst through the front door, sprinting out the gate to the street, where people had paused, watching the screaming woman emerging from Hanover House.

“Get back here, you shit!” she yelled.

But she sounded far off in the distance as I gained speed, the sidewalk spinning by under my boots, the buildings a blur as I pumped my arms, going faster, faster, faster—

No time to think about how I was managing to move so rapidly, because I heard a siren ahead. The law already?

I skidded, taking a right turn into an alley. Shadows enveloped me as I slowed, then crouched behind discarded crates, at the rear of a restaurant, judging by the seafood aromas coming from the back door.

As the siren faded into the distance, common sense caught up to me, and now I had a moment to wonder how I had been able to run so quickly. I had been literally zooming along.

I glanced down at the boots.

While I brushed my fingers over them again, they throbbed into my skin, as if they truly were a part of me.

I continued inspecting them while also listening for any sign of trouble round me. Soon enough, I was able to relax, but only somewhat, because I was still wondering how I could start backtracking in order to discover how I came by these boots. More important, I had the sense that they would lead to my identity.

Just as I was settling on which way to go next, a prickle of awareness brought me out of my questions. Someone near. Someone . . . watching?

Staying huddled behind the crates, I held my breath. Then I shivered as a shadow appeared across the alley, on the wall. A shadow that was sitting on top of the crates . . .

And it was aiming what looked to be a weapon at me.

It was as if my body took over, and without another thought, my hand zipped up to the shadow’s wrist. I grasped it, yanking it down from the crate with a strength I hadn’t known I possessed. I didn’t even stop to see who my attacker was as I disarmed it, a Taser clattering over the ground as I targeted a kick at the shadow’s throat.

But my attacker was nearly as fast as I was, and it had dodged, flipped to its feet, crouching, its hands in front of it, ready for another attack.

For a suspended second, I saw its entire black form, its electric-red eyes cutting through the falling night.

I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t, and as I automatically spun round and whipped out my leg to catch it square in the head with my boot, the creature did a back handspring.

Fuck this, said common sense.

I jumped into a sprint, my heart nearly exploding as I zoomed through the alley, took a corner, then began weaving through the drunks on the lantern-lit, karaoke-blaring street, feeling a splash of liquid on my arm when I upset someone’s plastic cup on my way.

What had that been back in the alley? And how could I make certain it didn’t follow me?

Light, I thought. Just head for a light.

I whooshed into the first doorway I could find, slowing down only when I was inside the building and trying to blend in behind what I realized was a rack of herbs and bottles of oils.

My heart was throbbing, my head swimming, my breath chopping when I heard a low, drawling voice behind me.

“Well, cher,” he said. “It’s about time you arrived.”

2

It was as if some sort of power had hold of me. I spun round toward the voice, one of my hands in a bladed position as I slashed at my target.