I flew to a large tree a few miles from Dr. Martinez's. I sat on the highest branch, staring ahead in hurt and shock, unblinking. How could Fang say such a thing? Did the last fourteen years not count in his mind?
I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning my head, I stared straight into the beady eyes of an Eraser.
"Hello, Max," it snarled. Before I could react, he balled up his fist and sent it straight into my face.
Everything is quiet. Too quiet.
Mr. Perv is kneeling on the ground, holding his hands to the bloody, swollen shape that was formerly known as his nose. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Fang stand quickly up in his chair, but I can't see his expression.
"What is the meaning of this?" A woman wearing too much make-up comes stomping into the picture. I recognize her as the person who forced me to change clothes. That, and the fact that she appears to be siding with El Pervo, make me dislike her immensely.
The man stands up. He has a double chin, and a fleshy, pink face. "Your waitress hit me," he spits, getting saliva all over his bushy moustache. I curl my lip at him, before realizing that I'm blowing my cover in a conspicuous, violent way. I put on the most innocent face I can and cast my eyes downward, wishing all the while that I could follow-up the initial hit with a knee to the groin.
The woman grabs my upper arm in a vice grip. "I am so sorry, Mr. Sanders," she gushes, all the while driving her sharp nails into my skin. I wince. Pain seems to be coming from all directions: the too-tight shoes, the death-hold the skirt seems to be inflicting upon my hips, and the fact that a large segment of my past is standing just a few feet away.
Mr. Sanders tells the woman exactly what he thinks of her apology, causing a few of the guests to murmur in amusement. She just smiles at him and pulls me a bit closer. "Wait in the kitchen. Don't even think of leaving." Then she shoves me in the general direction.
I would've caught myself if I'd been wearing decently-sized shoes, but just as I try to stabilize myself, the side of the shoe chafes the blister that's appeared on my foot. I've experienced pain in the highest degree--stab wounds, dog bites, et cetera, but nothing prepares me for the hideous sensation of a popping blister. My feet slide out from under me. I'm about to land hardly on my knees when a hand grips my elbow. I look up.
His appearance is almost exactly the way I remember it: olive-tinged skin, dark hair that he has slicked back, brown, but now icy, eyes. His face is a little longer, his cheekbones more prominent, and I see a crescent-shaped scar starting at his ear and extending along his jaw, to his chin.
"Clumsy fool," the woman hisses. "Hurry up."
I jerk awkwardly away from Fang and rush to the kitchen. As I'm leaving I hear him ask the woman, facetiously but purposefully, "Where are you getting your waitresses, Ms. Merrill?"
"Clearly at the wrong places," the woman says, expertly dodging the question. "Now if you'll excuse me, I should get Sanders some ice."
Conversations resume as I squeeze into the corridor. I lean against the uncomfortably cool and damp brick wall and curse myself. Why did I let Fang throw me off? I'm here to kill him, and yet I'm acting like some kind of lovesick baboon. Since when do I react to blisters? Seriously.
My mind clears in indignation when, after about a half-hour of cursing myself, Ms. Merrill enters the hallway. I would normally stare her down untiil she cried, but since I'm no longer Me, I can't. I look at the ground, trying to look scared and under-confident.
I fail miserably. This does not, unfortunately, escape her attention.
"I'd have lessened your punishment if you'd at least shown the slightest trace of remorse," Ms. Merrill says. Her assistant, trailing closely behind her, procures a small leather bag, opens it, and gives the handful to her boss. I wonder why Ms. Merrill would need jewelry in this situation when I realize that she's slipping a heavy-looking brass ring on each finger.
Brass knuckles! I realize instantenously. I feel queesy. Archer once told me that opponents who use that particular method usually comprehend that they have no chance of winning otherwise.
"One punch is all, and you're lucky," Ms. Merrill says, looking up at me (I have at least a foot's advantage).
"Please don't," I plead, meaning every word. Merrill ignores me, tightening her knuckles against her palm. She's going to do it! I stiffen every part of my body, pressing my soft wings against my back for comfort. It does little good.
"Excuse me," a voice booms down the hallway. Ms. Merrill stops her fist in mid-air. "I'm sorry, Ms. Merrill," Fang says, striding up to us. "I'd like to handle this woman's punishment."
"Don't be ridiculous. She's my staffer, I'll take care of it."
"No, I want to. You'll have her back in the morning." He clamps his warm palm around my elbow, leaving no more room for discussion. He leads me out the corrider, across the dining hall, to the stairs, up to his room...
He quickly lets go of me and locks the door behind him. Then he turns around, looks at me, and blinks. "Max..." he says, eyes widening in shock. "How did you get here?"
I shrug, trying to look nonchalant, while actually experiencing a buzz from being LOCKED IN THE SAME ROOM AS THE TARGET. I look around at the well-furnished room. The walls are painted a deep red, and the furniture looks French, with plush cushions and carved legs and armrests. A beautiful, if gawdy, crystal chandelier hangs from the center of the room.
Fang sinks down onto a lounge, still staring at me as if I'm a ghost. "When you abandoned us..." he murmurs, running a finger along his scar.
I look at my feet, now swelling out of the too-small high heels. "I didn't have anywhere else to go," I say quietly, reciting the lie I've been practicing for the last few days.
"What did you do?"
"I've just been working in big cities, off and on." I run a hand along the wall of his hotel room. God, this is akward. "I met someone when I was working in Paris and he offered me a job here." I look up to meet his eyes, which still look bewildered. "I still have my wings," I add.
He sighs. "Me, too."
"I don't fly much, anymore, though," I supply after a minute of silence. I realize that he's gone from looking amazed to looking angry. "Fang?"
"When you left," he says, voice quaking, "everything fell apart."
He lets this sink in. I want to yell the truth to him, but that would only make it harder for me to do my job. "I couldn't take being a parent any longer," I respond quietly, walking over to him. What crock. It feels like we're acting out a scene in a Harlequin romance. The cheesy ones you see in the bookstore, with titles like Seduction by Danger or One Sinful Night.
I pretend to itch my hip, but actually clutch the tiny, travel-size hypothermic needle that I hid in the spandex lining of my skirt. A graze with skin is all the liquid inside needs to do its job: disorient and knock-out. Under normal circumstances, I'm positive Fang would've seen right through the motion. But he's still sitting there, looking confused, angry, and nostalgic.
"I'm sorry, Fang."
I position the needle like a dagger and swipe at him. A thin, microscopic line appears on his forehead, immediately leaking blood. Fang gives me a surprised look, eyes glazing over. "Maaaax?" he drawls, beginning to weave unsteadily. "You'rrre not a waitrrrresss..." He slumps forward, unconscious.
I close my eyes, trying to mentally prepare myself. The next step will be much harder.
Sorry it took so long to update! My horse has been lame, and also I was hit with a massive case of writer's block. But, happy to report that I'm cured! And thanks to all the the people who reviewed the last chapter. I got over thirty of 'em, a personal record breaker. You guys hold the story's fate in your hands.