At the shipyards, he followed the pavement as it angled along the river’s edge, and added being grateful for conveniently designed civilization to his mental list. He was not used to being grateful for anything, but tonight he found he was immensely grateful for several things—starting with having enough lead time to be able to accomplish something. He flashed past the huge lifts and storage tanks, conveyor belts and shipping containers, and left the industrial setting behind in seconds.
For a human, the road ahead would be a windswept, wet sheet of darkness, but for him, it was a glistening path with expediently delineated yellow marks directing him to her. To both of them. How was he going to tell her? Would she believe him? Trust him? He would not if the situation were reversed.
The road bowed along the river’s path to the ocean, and he sensed that if he broke through the brush to the water he could swim to her more directly—perhaps even faster than running—but the current and debris might create drag that would hinder him. Less than five minutes, so he elected to stay on the road. He was sure she would be prepared for his arrival. Somehow she would know.
A maverick gust of wind buffeted his body and his stride faltered, but he quickly resumed pace. His anatomy was much stronger and more resilient than a human’s—although not as extraordinary as it was once perceived to be. He doubted that any human was capable of running alongside him though. Not yet.
It was only as he neared her home, comparing the geography to the memorized landmarks, narrowing his target to the dirt and rock road branching from the pavement, that he realized he had not felt the pain of his modulators overheating. From the moment he had learned Servants were coming, he had been focused and productive. He had set his goal of getting to her and achieved it. And in spite of the fact that interference countermanded everything he had been trained to do and everything he believed he should do, he felt no emotional conflict.
One choice, long ago.
As he slowed, his heart rate decelerated. His punishment would be severe.
Time to Trust
“Why aren’t you in bed?” It was after ten and my kid had just pranced out of her room in jeans and a t-shirt!
“I should stay up, too!”
“Nope.” I continued scrunching my hair with a towel. “It’s late. Get your pajamas on.”
“But . . . !”
“Now.”
“Mom!”
“I’m not kidding, Eileen.” I wanted to sit with some coffee and worry in peace. Was that really too much to ask?
“But, I should be—”
“No!” I flopped the towel onto the couch. “I’ll be up watching the storm and I’ll keep checking for Peb—”
Loud banging shook the front door. We froze, then snapped together like magnets.
“It’s not Adam.” Her shoulder pressed against my arm, and I glanced behind us at the two unboarded windows. I’d forgotten to close the curtains. Someone could be on the dark porch right now, looking in . . .
Another round of knocking—louder than the first. If I opened the door, there’d only be the screened one for protection. Protection from who—or what—was a mystery, but I wasn’t taking chances with my daughter. Especially not at night on a secluded road during a storm. After being warned.
I whispered the emergency plan we’d rehearsed many times. “Get your phone, go to your bedroom, lock the door, and get in the closet. Dial 911 but don’t tap ‘send’ unless I need help.” I managed a small smile, “I’ll talk through the door. Nice Mr. Hopkins might’ve sent his grandson over to check on us.”
“He didn’t.”
We both jumped when a gust slammed the house just as the unknown person assaulted the door again. The violent sounds echoed strangely in our enclosed space, at once muted and threatening. I pushed Eileen toward her room, but she resisted.
“Wait! It’s someone you need.” She frowned as if peering through the solid wood, and a deep voice called from the other side.
“Lilith Ann! You need to let me in!”
My daughter spun to face me. “It’s that guy from the party? I knew it!”
“Go! Now!” I pointed to her phone on the mat, and wonder-of-wonders she obeyed me. Once I heard her bedroom’s lock engage, I approached the front door.
“Lila, please!” A whistle of wind made Sal’s voice sound plaintive, desperate.
“What do you want?!”
“I am here to help!” I jumped as he beat on the door again. “We do not have much time! Your daughter must be—”
I yanked the door open. “What about my daughter?!” The wind funneled eagerly through the screening and my damp hair blew wildly, Medusa-like. “Start talking, or so help me . . . !”
He stumbled back a step.
“Spit it out! What the hell’s going on?”
“I will explain, I promise, but—”
“Explain now!”
“We must leave first. I prom—”
“Leave? Are you insane?” I took in his soaked, muscular mass, my gaze trailing from the wet locks tangled across his forehead to the drenched pants sticking to him in odd places. Jesus! Don’t you ever wear a shirt?
“Lila, I—”
“How’d you get here?” I looked past him, but it was too dark to see. Damn it! I should have installed floodlights years ago!
“There is no time to—”
I cut him off with a flick of my hand. “Shut up and start talking!”
He took another half-step back into the blowing rain. “I ran. I do not have a vehicle to—”
“Car! You don’t have a car. Or a truck. No one says vehicle!” He seemed confused, and I pressed my advantage, shoving open the screen door and jabbing a finger at his face. “And no one can see screws from fifteen feet away. Or tattoos!”
