CHAPTER 1 - CALL FOR POTENTIAL EMPLOYMENT DETAILS
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SUMMARY:
Ivy lives a pretty decent life for a homeless, mutant moonlighter. She's self-employed and her career fits her skill sets perfectly. Her hours are flexible, her wages are generous, and her commissions almost always allow for some creative freedom. Plus, she meets lots of interesting people. Usually, though, people don't try to "collect her" by any means necessary.
Ari Batchelder is the best in his field. He's highly skilled, thoroughly trained, goal-oriented, doggedly diligent, a little bit rakish, and ready to roll with the punches. He knows what he's good at, and he's good at what he knows. Unfortunately, Ari has lousy luck and some of the worst people skills you've ever seen. Then again, he's not technically a person.
—
Two days ago, I received a letter. That was pretty odd, considering my lack of permanent mailing address. The letter had just turned up in my backpack, looking as bland as could be—just a plain white envelope with my pen name printed on the outside in black ink.
At first, I thought foolishly that it might be a government solicitation. Perhaps the Census Bureau had finally realized I'd been dodging their data collectors? Of course, sneaking a letter into someone's bag without direct communication wasn't a particularly bureaucratic move, so it was easy to rule out that notion. Ignoring the discomfort of discovering foreign items on my person, I tore the envelope open. Surprisingly, the letter itself proved to be even more perplexing and disquieting than the appearance of the envelope—it simply read: "call for potential employment details," followed by a ten-digit number. Strange.
Later that night, I hunkered down in my favorite secluded computer carrel at the central public library and ran the phone number through a handful of online versions of the White Pages. No particularly useful information was tagged to that number; it was a mobile phone with the rare 312 enclave area code for a downtown chunk of Chicago. That was only noteworthy because 312 is one of the smallest serving area codes in the country. It covered a few square miles of the city at most. I didn't have a regular client base in that part of town and hadn't solicited business there recently either.
I hummed, gnawing on my bottom lip. This whole situation left me equal parts uneasy and inquisitive. Someone—a potential paying client—had violated my very meager personal space to slip me their number. They knew my pen name, which meant that they knew my current career orientation. They had to have gotten that information from one of my past clients since I operated almost entirely on word-of-mouth referrals. Therefore, they were probably a legitimate future sponsor of my financial success and I ought to at least call.
But how did they get the note into my bag without me noticing in the first place? If my bag wasn't on my back, it was very rarely out of sight. When it was out of sight, it was in a top-secret storage locker that I maintained. Also, how did this client find me physically? I didn't really "live" anywhere, hence the nonexistent permanent address. Who had told them about me and who knew where to look? Also, why the intense discretion in contact method? A paper note seemed so excessive—clients usually just called me directly; no one had ever asked me to call them. Why would they not use the referral number I had my previous clients pass along?
Perhaps those questions would make good conversation starters, at least. Sleep on it, I decided, and see how you're feeling in the morning. It's a problem for tomorrow-you.
I slept poorly.
Yesterday, after buying myself breakfast with the last of my available income, I made up my mind. On a cold, concrete bench in a quiet and empty public park, I pulled out my phone and punched in those digits, still feeling uneasy. The bitter December wind tossed my hair around like litter, and my generic sweatshirt did next to nothing to combat the chill. I stood up and started pacing to keep my body heat up as the number rang through, but no one answered. Instead, after about seven monotonous rings, it rolled over to the voicemail. I waited, hoping to at least learn the name of my new client. However, the usual "so and so could not take your call at this time" of a typical voicemail recording was replaced by something entirely different and intensely creepy—a feminine voice addressed me by name.
This is new, I reflected, snapped out of a cold stupor by the personalized message.
The woman offered me twenty-five percent of a specific target product's value, plus my standard commission fee. She gave me details to aid in my acquisition, including shift change times, camera rotation speeds, exit points, and cleaning schedules. She told me that if I was interested in her offer, I should acquire her requested item within the week and, upon completion, call this number again for an exchange location. She promised that if I succeeded in my task, she would gladly pass my pen name on to some of her acquaintances.
She never identified herself. Never shared how she'd found out about me. Never mentioned why she wanted this specific item. She never offered any explanation for her knowledge of the shop's workings. She just expected me to be interested in the value of her offer.
I sighed, sitting back down on the frozen park bench and thinking about her request. Unfortunately, I was interested in the value of her offer, regardless of how sketchy the whole interaction felt.
So, today, I sat in the atrium of a seven-story mall on Michigan Avenue, nonchalantly drinking a coffee, eyeing the entrance to a trademark blue-stamped jewelry store, and thinking about a diamond and ruby necklace worth $115,000.
This whole commission left me suspicious, but genuinely and perhaps dangerously curious.
Honestly, it just made no sense. Who took the time to hire a thief to rob a mall shop of an item that was so generic you could order it online? Of course, it wasn't a cheap product and I wasn't plundering a sunglasses kiosk or an off-brand perfume store, but still. The mall? Based on the absurd level of discretion from this client, I would've expected my target to be an art museum or something comparable. Part of me was genuinely offended by this task—my skill set wasn't so remarkable, but I thought I'd become a bit more distinguished than your run-of-the-mill shoplifter.
Sulking and sipping my coffee, I considered, you seriously need to think about rebranding.
Although truly weird and a bit insulting, the commission ought to at least be easy. Easy money, and good money at that. Twenty-five percent is usually not a great take, but if you're getting twenty-five percent of $115,000—which, by the way, is $28,750—plus your standard fee, you're doing pretty well for yourself.
All things considered, this job was a dream come true; it was an easy and entertaining way to pass an afternoon…but that's what made me so suspicious. I should've been grateful for the work, not questioning the client's circumspection and boring taste in jewelry. So, in an effort to appreciate the moment, I ignored my instincts and attributed the churning and gurgling of my stomach to my hunger. Though I'd found enough pocket change throughout the mall and in the atrium fountain to buy a cup of bitter black coffee—necessary for my scheme—I hadn't collected enough for a snack. If everything went according to plan, however, I would get paid later that night. A very filling dinner was on the horizon.
"It'll be fine," I muttered to myself, placing a placating hand on my grumbling stomach. "Soon—all you can eat Chinese buffet." It was a soothing idea, but my gut didn't seem convinced. Rolling my eyes, I shifted on the little atrium bench to better view the jewelry shop entrance. A few interesting looking characters had gone in and out in the last half-hour, but no one had left with a little blue bag. Unsurprising, considering the prices (and the undeniable retail apocalypse).
I tucked a stray strand of recently smoothed hair behind my ear and took a glance at my phone screen—the shift change was in about ten minutes. Time to go! Hopping up to straighten my clothes and take another swig of the java, I felt my body start to buzz with the addicting anticipation of an adrenaline rush. It was a common sensation right before a commission and I thrived on it—the element of risk combined with a 50/50 outcome (imprisonment or payoff) really got me going.
You seriously need some new, healthy hobbies.
Taking a deep, grounding breath and preparing to dodge gratuitous skincare samples from young and bored looking peddlers, I strode confidently across the atrium towards the jewelry store. The entrance was only a few paces away when I stopped up short—a heavy-looking mall security guard with thinning hair and a friendly face wrapped around the corner of an off-shooting hallway and toddled into the jewelry store just ahead of me.
Not at all convenient. Very poor timing.
Although my plan didn't revolve around being completely unnoticed in this jewelry store, the guard's presence complicated things. He would, in theory, know to question my intended behavior. My ability to exit as planned also revolved around playing off of the likely naïveté and gullibility of an employee—a security guard would be wiser.
Absorbed in begrudging reconsideration of my plan, I had frozen a few steps into the walkway and was staring at the jewelry store intently, arms crossed and head cocked—people were forced to go around me and they didn't seem too pleased. A few made passive-aggressive remarks that I tried to block out in order to focus. As a result, I didn't notice a man saunter up beside me until he spoke clearly, merely inches away from my ear.
"What's caught your eye, cutie?" I jumped—it was rare that anyone snuck up on me—and twisted to look at him. He had an interesting face and truly lovely eyes that immediately distracted me from the task at hand. I bet those eyes get him everything he wants, I mused in semi-frustration and semi-longing. They were amber-colored—very rare—and shaded by thick, ebony eyelashes. My musings were no doubt true—he blinked and the eyelashes fluttered in a mesmerizing fashion; if you watched too long, he could probably hypnotize. His face was interesting in that I had no idea what age he might've been. His jawline was well-defined and mature, but something in his expression suggested a juvenile mirth. His skin was nearly flawless, but he had a thin scar that cut an angle through his left eyebrow, across his eye socket, and into the upper part of his sharply defined cheek. He had an eerily perfect smile and pleasantly tan skin, but he also had dark circles beneath his flawless eyes that I'd overlooked at first. A common sign of sleepless nights. Those superb eyes had a disconcerting darkness to them that I'd originally missed too—like storm clouds rolling in on a sweltering summer day.
A glance downward revealed a clearly fit, athletic body, though he was ensconced in a tasteful business suit and dress shirt that hid his figure. The suit looked familiar—I was pretty sure it'd been on the cover of GQ last month, though that modelesque actor hadn't worn it nearly as well. Beneath the suit, the man had on a pair of Louboutin derby shoes that I certainly wouldn't have recognized had I not just seen them in the window display of a different mall shop. Expensive.
A glance up revealed a rather tall frame, sharply angled features, and a thick head of delightful hair. It was a full-bodied caramel brown, an average male hair length, side-parted neatly, and styled to neurotic perfection in some trendy, wavy version of a gentle pompadour. Although he'd likely put time into arranging it that way, his hairstyle still had a relaxed, approachable vibe that seemed oddly intentional. He tilted his head with an expectant smile and I noticed two incongruous tiny gold rings on his left ear—he had a double helix piercing.
Wow, I thought, a little dumbfounded and feeling decidedly average. Meeting his eyes again, I abruptly realized that I hadn't responded to his introductory question.
"Oh, uh, jewelry," I murmured. Great. Smooth. Very attractive.
The man grinned at me. "Daydreaming about a ring, huh?" He winked and it was simultaneously the most horrifying and charming thing I'd encountered in a while. No one with eyelashes that perfect should be allowed to wink. Also, as his question sank in, so did a weird mix of self-consciousness and indignation. Me, a ring!? Then I felt silly for being self-conscious. There was nothing wrong with daydreaming about a happy future with a partner who valued you—even though that hadn't been my line of thinking at all as I gazed at the storefront. Instead, I'd been contemplating thievery, a lifestyle choice that typically paid off but didn't provide a great bedrock for a loving, trusting relationship.
Oh, thievery! I checked my phone's clock again—I still had seven minutes. Focus! "Not a ring as much as a…necklace," I said with a controlled smile, pulling away from the man's nearness somewhat reluctantly and heading towards the entrance of the store again. I'd just have to think fast in light of the security guard—there was no time for any alternate planning, and I really didn't want to wait another day to try again.
The man chuckled, keeping pace with me, and his laughter rang like deep, soothing handbells in complete contradiction with the words that came out of his mouth next: "Necklace, huh? I'd kill to be the guy to put a diamond choker around your lovely throat." Well, that took an abrupt turn. "Maybe I could buy you something sparkly today? It'd be a pleasure." His tone was suggestive and maybe a little…hungry?
I didn't meet his eyes again, my brief attraction rapidly shifting through vexation and into exasperation. Plenty of people spoke to me like that or tried to do worse, though they usually weren't so appealing initially. In a way, I was flattered by his interest…but simultaneously and overwhelmingly disgusted and annoyed. "No thanks," I sighed scathingly. "I have really expensive taste." I also didn't like to feel indebted. Undoubtedly, he wanted this to be an exchange. He wanted me to be beholden to his requests. People don't buy strangers things out of the goodness of their hearts.
"Well, I've got a really thick wallet." He drew out a lingering pause between the last two words. My eyebrows shot up involuntarily, which seemed to amuse him. There's no time for this, I scoffed as he continued to follow me. He was still chuckling softly and at that point, it was borderline irritating. Something about his laugh just really made me want to slap him. Or kiss him. Or pick his pocket. Or—two birds, one stone? A viable idea popped into my mind, so I let him follow me into the store. He trailed me from a small distance right up to the security guard, who looked up from a jewelry case and smiled as I approached.
I smiled back, trying to make it look forced despite my inner glee—this was going to work. Then I beckoned the guard closer with my hand before he could speak. He leaned in and I whispered: "Sir, I'm so sorry to bother you, but this man behind me in the suit? He's harassing me. He's been following me all day. What should I do?"
The guard's pleasant smile faded instantly, replaced by a look of anger. "You don't need to do anything, miss. I'll take care of it." Give a man a task, I thought. It always worked. He slipped past me, hustling toward the attractive man, who just kept smiling a gleaming smile. Diving right into a dramatic rant about how stalking can be charged as a misdemeanor or a felony, the guard put a hand on the other man's chest and gently pushed him back towards the door. The attractive man, whose smile was beginning to appear strained, put both of his hands behind his head in a mocking pose and made some quip about jurisdiction. No one likes to be told where they are and are not powerless, so the guard's outraged response was at least understandable—he shoved the attractive man a little harder towards the door and snapped something about a blacklisting. As he was guided out of the store and down the hall, the attractive man looked up at me one last time and sneered, dipping his head to seemingly commend my actions. I sneered right back and took a little bow, feeling cocky.
What an ass, I concluded, shaking my head and turning back to the task at hand—crime.
"Hello, welcome!" the employee behind the biggest, shiniest jewelry counter boomed zealously. "Let me know if you have any questions or if you'd like to see anything from the cases!"
I had intended to "browse" a bit before I "shopped" to allay any suspicion, but time was wearing thin. "Yes! Actually, I saw this one necklace online and was wondering if I could try it on? It's a Cobblestone with rubies…yes, that one!"
The employee, a thirty-something woman in an elegant black and flower-patterned dress, joyfully unlocked a case and pulled out the necklace I had indicated, complete with a little velvet-padded box. As she laid out the necklace and started in on a spiel about its creation, the responsibly sourced diamonds used in it, and the stylistic choice to design it with platinum rather than gold, I purposefully set my coffee on the counter next to the cloth. I nodded eagerly in response to her sales pitch, grinning—my moment of truth was coming and my body was buzzing in anticipation again.
"Would you still like to try it?" she asked.
Nodding again, I said, "Yes, please!" Then I reached out for the necklace a little too quickly—my fist connected with the coffee cup and it crashed to the side, exploding all over the necklace and partially across the front of the woman's nice dress.
Direct hit! The employee yelped, instinctively jumping back to save her clothing from further disaster. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry! Oh, your dress! I am so sorry, I'm such a klutz! This is why no one will go out in public with me. Do you want me to—?" I bubbled, trying my darndest to be frustrating. It seemed to work.
"It's…fine," the employee said through clenched teeth, dripping and reaching for a polishing cloth behind the counter. I watched intently as she laid it flat on top of the now damp necklace and pad and patted gently. Intentionally trying to act like I had money to throw away, I offered to buy her a new dress and she said, "No, it's fine. My shift is up in…two minutes." Then she lifted the whole velvet pad, including the necklace and cloth that covered it, and placed it on the central counter behind her—it would need to be cleaned properly before being returned to its display. "Do you need to see anything else?" she said through an undeniably fake customer service smile, reaching for a roll of paper towels.
I smiled back at her, picking up my now empty coffee cup. "No, thank you, I think it's better if I don't." I shook the coffee cup teasingly as if to make my clumsiness even more apparent and humorous. The woman's eyes widened as tiny droplets of the dregs of the dark liquid flew. I fake-flinched and said "Sorry! I'll just…window shop…over there." She nodded coldly as I slouched away, towards the back corner of a different display. Now, all I had to do was cross my fingers, be patient, and scope out the security cameras to confirm my intel.
Genuinely browsing the jewelry collections while sneaking peeks at the cameras turned out to be fun. Everything was so sparkly and the lighting was so good—it was hard not to be enthralled. Although nothing in the display cases looked quite like me, I couldn't help but fantasize about a version of myself who could afford to justify wearing diamond earrings every day.
I meandered over to the "love & engagement" display and started thinking about the attractive man's question: Daydreaming about a ring, huh? Well, how could you not be when they glittered like that? Of course, his implication had been different (and perhaps more offensive if I over-thought it), but he wasn't entirely wrong. I'd stolen plenty of jewelry for various clients in my time and many of those clients had wanted the jewels for their lovers. It was always kind of sweet in an illegal and vain way. So no, I didn't frequently daydream about married life and the often-associated jewelry, but who doesn't sometimes wish for a healthy relationship that includes the exchange of shiny gifts?
To be fair, it can be hard to find that kind of connection when you're normal, let alone a twenty-something homeless contract larcenist. Add in a couple of decades worth of emotional trauma and built up secrets? Recipe for bad relationships, or a lack of lasting relationships altogether. Usually, it didn't bother me, but something about spending a little too much time at the mall addles the brain—plenty of other girls my age were wandering around, partners in tow. They were sharing tasty lattes, shopping for clothes for upcoming winter vacations, and laughing in photobooths. I was staking out a jewelry store…and being hit on by questionable, albeit modelesque strangers.
God, get over it, I scolded myself, yo-yoing back to reality and glancing around the shop. The female employee, still coffee-stained, was talking to her shift replacement. He looked a bit older than me but a bit younger than her, and his wide, gentle eyes just screamed "sucker." I turned and watched them talk in the reflection of a display case. The woman gestured towards my back in frustration, then to the counter with the velvet pad and dirty necklace, then to the young man's hands. He nodded. Then the female employee pointed at a couple—two giddy looking ladies shopping for wedding bands. The man nodded again and strode out from behind the counter to offer his assistance to the brides-to-be.
The woman, a poor victim of my very simple plan, finally clocked out, waved goodbye to her replacement, and left the shop with her parka wrapped tightly around her chest to cover the coffee stain.
Right on schedule. Walking slowly to keep from drawing anyone's attention, I made my way back to the main counter and leaned forward to look straight down at some other sparkly items, waiting.
This store had a fairly basic security camera system—all the cameras were of the bullet variety (rather than the now-standard dome), which allowed me to see the angle of each lens. I thought that might have been an intentional security tactic—if you know just how much you're truly being watched, you're less likely to do something immoral, right? Each camera pointed down and forward from just above and behind a display case, and all of them were stable but one. The camera directly above the round central counter, which I currently stood in front of, rotated to pan across the store on a slow and steady ten-second timeframe…exactly as the voicemail had said.
Taking a deep breath, I peeked over at the male employee and the shopping couple. The three of them were all facing away from me. Taking another breath to quell the standard anticipatory pounding of my heart, I glanced up just as the camera panned past my position.
Moment of truth! Then began the countdown. 10…9…8… I stretched out across the counter towards the secondary surface behind, fingers brushing soft, damp velvet. 7…6…5… My height, or slight lack thereof, was a curse. I had to hop forward a little, my feet leaving the ground and my torso briefly resting on the counter, to reach the necklace. I yanked it away quickly and the whole maneuver worked a little like a magician's tablecloth trick—the necklace came free but the cloth on top of it settled back onto the velvet pad. 4…3…2… A quick peep verified that the employee and his customers were still occupied, and so, feeling like a fool and ignoring the growing tension in my stomach, I tossed the diamond and ruby necklace down the front of my sweater. It was stupid, but there was nowhere better for it to go. If I got caught, lawmen would be more likely to check my pockets than the pocket created by my bra—this placement could buy me just a little bit of time. I looked back down, returning to my faux-admiration of a piece of fine jewelry and ignoring the cold chill of the platinum nestled against my bare skin. And…1. Say cheese!
The camera, nearly silent, completed it's rotation and began again. That was all there was to it. I waited for a second or two longer, then stood up straight, pulled on my jacket and zipped it up to my collarbone for added necklace security, and turned towards the clearly marked emergency exit in the back. Finally, the employee noticed me, spinning away from the beaming women and calling out, "Miss! That isn't an exit! Wait, stop!"
Still thoroughly embarrassed by the growing lack of sophistication involved in this whole heist but determined to avoid the front door's metal detector, I puffed out my cheeks and clapped a hand to my mouth. "I know," I spluttered, putting my other hand on my stomach and turning to make wild eye contact with the employee. "I just…didn't think I could…make it to the bathroom." My speech was punctuated with loud, gross, dry heaves. You know, for effect.
Eyes filling with terror, the employee dashed forward towards the door. "Oh, jeez, not the carpet," he breathed, shoving the door open. I crashed through the frame and out into the windy, frozen alley behind the mall, dropping to my knees beside a dumpster. The man watched, disgusted, ignoring the alarm that sounded as a result of the use of that door while I continued to fake vomit just out of his view. Finally, I stood up and wiped my mouth with my sleeve.
"Cafeteria food, man. I knew it tasted moldy."
"Are you…okay?" he prodded, nose scrunched.
Rubbing my stomach with a sigh, I replied, "Yes, thank you. Just…don't get the Philly cheesesteak from the food court." I grinned at him, fully aware of how disconcerting that had to have been.
"Uh, alright. Well…have a good day," he muttered, face filled with confusion as he popped back inside, pulling the door shut behind him and silencing the alarm in the process.
And that was that—a successful conclusion to an easy, albeit stupid theft. My heart was still racing with the adrenaline of the moment—it never got old. True joy was to pull off a job, even one that simple, and to know you were walking away with $115,000 worth of pretty rocks stuffed in your bra. I couldn't help but beam as I looked up and down the alley around me, saw that it was empty, and walked a bit farther north towards a more secluded, bisecting alley. When I turned the corner I found only a layer of dirty grey street snow and miscellaneous garbage—no loiterers besides me.
In the privacy of that gross, freezing alley, I gave in to my piqued but unfounded sense of pride and did a dumb little celebratory dance. Beginner-level shoplifting job though it had been, I was feeling brash. Commissions like this had been falling into my lap for the last ten years and I was starting to get bored with the monotony, but I never got bored of the thrill. Adrenaline can be so addicting that you find yourself willingly overlooking the potential consequences of your actions—that's part of what makes it so fun. The other fun part is the profit, of course.
You shouldn't enjoy this so much, I thought, raining on my own parade. Your choices are going to bite you in the butt someday.
In fact, that day might've already arrived: "Enjoying yourself, sweetheart?" called a familiar symphonic voice. Genuinely startled by the annoying, attractive man for the second time in the last half hour, I nearly tripped and my dance came to a jerky halt. He was lounging against the wall of the alley a little further up, cast in shadow. I could've sworn I'd just looked in that direction. Had I mistaken him for a pile of garbage? It would be an understandable mix-up, really, considering his personality.
"Ugh, you," I groaned. "Thought that guard handled you." I stood still, facing him, exuding an air of what I like to call "fuck off, buddy."
The man chuckled again—such a beautiful, frustrating sound—and pushed himself off the wall. He strode towards me, one side of his mouth quirked up. "He handled me? More like you handled him." He continued to advance towards me and only then did I recognize the suspiciousness of this situation. Had he been following me? When I'd claimed him as my stalker, I'd been joking…but how did he know I'd left the jewelry shop via the back door? How did he know to wait here, in an alley behind the mall?
If he was following me, what did he want? That question, at least, I felt I had an answer for. If I were ordinary, like those other girls my age in the mall, my heart would've been pounding with fear—instead, it started pounding in preparation for a fight. He seemed like a threat, but he was still just a man.
Wait, 'more like you handled him'?
"What do you mean by that?" I inquired, leaning back against the grimy wall with a hopefully coquettish expression—if I had to, I would reel him in. He seemed like he wouldn't respond well to standoffishness or violence anyway, and questions were beginning to fill my head—I wanted answers before I beat the snot out of him.
The stone behind me was ice cold and my jacket was much too thin for the Chicago December climate, making this whole situation more uncomfortable. Slushy snow was soaking into my boots now, too, drenching my socks. Nothing can set a person off on an angry spiral quite like soggy socks.
"I mean that that was some smart thinking—using him to get rid of me and vice versa." Oh. How did he catch that? "Would've been hard to pull off your little sting with that guard in the store."
My heart skipped a beat. How in the hell—? "'Little sting?'" I repeated innocently, smothering a tiny crack in my voice. He was standing directly in front of me now, his amber eyes shining brightly despite the dingy winter sunlight. "What are you talking about?"
The man put his hands on his hips and grinned. "You know exactly what I'm talking about." He cleared his throat and continued in a mocking tone, "But did you know that theft of an item valued between one-hundred and five-hundred thousand dollars is a Class 1 felony in the state of Illinois? You could spend up to fifteen years in prison and owe up to twenty-five thousand dollars in fines."
Good thing I'm about to earn over 28K, I thought darkly. I'll still come out in the black, at least. Who is this guy? A cop? A lawyer? Growing anxiety cut through my attempts to charm him into cooperation; standoffishness returned as my socks grew soggier.
"Did you know that cornering girls in dark alleys is also a felony? You could spend up to the rest of your days in the emergency room and owe up to all of your savings as financial compensation." With my most cagey, feminine smile, I cracked my knuckles. The man snorted, not taking my teasing threat seriously at all—no surprise. "Besides," I continued, tone shifting to tenuous sincerity, "I didn't steal anything, and I never would. I'm a good girl."
Stay calm. He's only a creepy businessman, and he's probably just trying to coerce you into something sexual. This is fine. You can take him. He's tall but he looks slow.
"Oh, really? Is that so?" he prodded, closing in on my bubble of personal space. He was grinning still and his posture was relaxed. I opened my mouth to reply, but before I could he'd crossed the small distance that'd remained between us and spun me around, my face to the wall. With the ease that only comes from extensive practice, he twisted one of my arms up and back, disabling it entirely, and locked the other one in place with his body weight. He jerked forward abruptly, squishing all of the air out of my lungs between the baling press of his body and the freezing cement wall. Then he leaned back, pulling me with him, and reached around with his one free arm, partially unzipped my jacket, and slipped his hand down the front of my sweater.
The moment he'd spun me, I just kind of dissociated. He was so quick! Not at all what I'd predicted. I didn't snap back to the present until I felt the top two buttons of my sweater pop off from his rough motions, but before I could start screaming and thrashing, he released me. Spinning away and feeling extremely violated, I put my hands up defensively, braced for more. How dare he!? This son of a—!
"A good girl, huh? So…you paid for this?" he was laughing at me now, and twirling the very expensive diamond and ruby necklace around his pointer finger the way lifeguards carelessly twirl their whistles. "That's funny. I thought that store was known for sending stuff home in blue boxes, not black bras." His eyes flicked to my chest. Beneath my field jacket, which was long, olive green and stolen, I had on a black button-up sweater. Beneath that sweater—which I'd stolen specifically for this gig so as to look like a fashionable mall shopper—I had on a fitted black camisole and beneath that, a black bra. It was a lacy number that now peeked out. The entire top left edge and an inch below were visible.
"Oh my God," I hissed, pulling my camisole up and my flopping sweater lapels together to try and right this wrong. It was futile and that made me angrier. Struggling to squelch my growing desire to spring forward and tear this handsome but suspicious and problematic man a new one, I took a deep breath and spoke calmly, arms crossed. "Look…I have a client who's made me a very nice, convincing offer for that piece. If you've got a problem with me stealing, you should take it up with them." It was an absurd conversational long shot, of course, but maybe he'd reveal something useful if I could just get him talking.
Instead, he burst out laughing. Not a promising response. "You know what? That's a great idea, babe. Got your phone on you?" Frowning and befuddled, I nodded. "Call 'em. Maybe we can negotiate." He winked, still twirling the necklace and pacing back and forth with a casual lope.
This is fucking ridiculous. My stomach growled, painfully empty, because this whole thing wasn't uncomfortable enough. Shaking my head and pulling my phone out of my pocket, I snuck a look at the man. He was watching me intently and smiling as he paced. Although I still couldn't guess his age—though he had to be somewhere between eighteen and thirty—his smile was utterly childish. With a frustrated huff, I redialed the number from the letter and put the phone up to my ear. I expected it to ring a few times and then roll over to the voicemail—which should've included a recording to guide me to the drop location—but instead, I heard it ring through…and then a phone in the alley with me rang too. Coincidence? It happened again. Then again. My tension was mounting in tandem with my confusion. Then, finally, on the fourth ring, the man stopped pacing, reached into his suit jacket pocket, and pulled out a very generic flip phone. He answered it; the ringing on my end stopped. Then, dumbfounded, I watched his pretty mouth form the words that I could hear coming through the line: "It's nice to meet you, Ivy."
A wave of terror rolled over me as situational realization soaked in. All of those gut instincts I'd denied and bouts of queasiness I'd attributed to hunger pains bounced back and slapped me in the face. This was bad—a bad position to be in, and I'd put myself there in desperation and boredom. Then the terror was replaced by fury. I, an accomplished con-artist, had been conned by this creep!? I robbed a mall for this!? Just to be lured into a dank, bitter Chicago alley and—and what? Was I about to be ax-murdered?
Terror washed over me again as his words sank in—this man knew my name. My real name. I didn't give it out, finding comfort in a lifestyle of faux anonymity, but he knew my real name and he clearly knew my career choice. That put him on a list so short I could count the members on one hand.
He had too much power.
"You know, you're much cuter in person. Blurry security camera footage doesn't do you justice."
"Wow," I snapped, voice firm despite my trembling body. "So you really are a stalker. Great." My brain was still trying to process the implications of this situation, but I was very aware that I needed to make the next move. His plans and intentions were now a complete mystery and that made him much too dangerous. Anything could happen if I waited too long—action on my end was the only possible preventative measure. "How do you know my name?"
"It's my job to know everything about my targets. I do very thorough research." He snickered and resumed his pacing and necklace twirling after pocketing the little burner phone.
It was quite hard to be as horrified by the implications of his words when his voice sounded like that. Smooth, yet throaty and deep. "Targets, huh? Who the hell are you then? Are you a PI? Bounty hunter?"
"Definitely not," he replied, rolling his eyes. "My name is Ari. I've been sent to collect you."
Now, I'd been through some pretty crazy shit, but no one had ever come to "collect" me before. That probably meant that I was getting some serious clout in the world of thieves, or I had royally pissed someone off. Regardless, I wasn't so sure I wanted to be collected, so I started to formulate a plan.
The man—Ari, apparently—continued his casual pacing. Suddenly it was obvious that his pacing was that of a predator's, toying with its prey. Usually, though, prey didn't know how to fight back.
"Collect me? Okay, Ari. How do you intend to collect me?" I asked him casually, edging closer. "I'm not one to go along with that sort of thing."
His lips twitched and he smiled again. "Oh, by force, obvious—" he started, but he was cut off by the sudden slam of my total body weight against his chest as I lunged at full speed and leaped against him. He instinctively wrapped his arms around me but it was too late. As soon as he started to fall backward I pulled my knees up and wedged them into his sides, grabbing his collar, tucking my head, and holding on for dear life. His body made the perfect buffer for my descent. Ari crashed into the grimy snow with a surprised "oof." His back hit first, followed by his head, which bounced against the ground in an admittedly cringeworthy way. That was concussion-inducing in most people. His arms parted behind my back and dropped to the ground beside him like limp noodles.
I sat up, untucking my head from where I'd burrowed it against his warm body, and looked at his face, expecting to see him passed out or at least visibly dazed. Instead, Ari was trying to sit up too. When he saw my confused expression he seemed to change his mind, laying back flat beneath me with a winded laugh. "Wow. Aren't you the little linebacker?"
How was he forming sentences? He should've been drooling, or preferably unconscious. I scowled, frustrated by the apparent lack of effect of my tackle. Then again, he was still lying there. Maybe he was just a good faker—that head bounce had to have affected him. "Okay, I'm done with this," I seethed, ignoring the laughter that I could feel rippling from him between my legs—I was still sitting on his chest, after all. "This has been interesting but…don't ever contact me again." I leaned to the side, reaching for the necklace that he still held in his flopped right hand. Even if I couldn't complete my commission, given that it was apparently a fake one in the first place, I could at least sell the necklace to a pawnshop for some cash.
When I leaned, my weight shifted. In the same moment, his other hand, the one I wasn't watching, pushed hard against my shoulder, shoving me to the side. I rolled painfully onto my back to protect my head and before I realized just what had happened, he had reversed our positions and was now sitting on my hips. His warm brown hair, which had been artfully styled, was now messy, darker, and dripping slowly from the moisture of the disgusting alley snow. It looked better, oddly enough.
But, it seemed, he really had handled that fall just fine.
"No contact? Ever again?" he repeated back with a dramatic lower-lip pout, leaning down close and reaching behind my neck. It took me a second to realize that he was putting the necklace on me properly. Weird. Why? "I thought we had a real connection," he whispered in my ear and rolled his hips against mine salaciously. I could feel his smile without needing to see it and my blood boiled.
What a bad damn day, I thought, pressing my eyes closed and ignoring how good he smelled up close—like pine and crisp winter air. Then, deftly, I bent my left leg up behind Ari's back and wrapped my ankle around the outside of his. With all of my strength, I popped my hips up towards the sky, sending him flying forward. Thankfully, he was wise enough to throw his arms out in front of him, protecting me from getting crushed and his face from getting skid marks—ideal. Catching him off guard, I reached up and around one of his elbows and yanked hard, while simultaneously rolling to the right. He slid off me smoothly, his expression mildly surprised, and I used the momentum of his detachment to rocket my fist forward into the side of his nose. You know, for good measure.
Springing away and to my feet, I put my fists up and waited. Ari wasn't laughing anymore, but he still didn't look as shellshocked or beaten as I'd hoped. He sat up slowly and pushed a chunk of sodden, messy hair out of his face, revealing…no damage. My punch should've broken his nose, at least. It wasn't even bleeding. He rubbed it a little before sighing. "Wish you hadn't done all that, babe."
Wish I'd hit harder, I thought, backing up. This whole experience was filling me with doubt. Doubt that clearly showed on my face—it provided an advantage that Ari took. He was on his feet and lunged forward so quickly that I didn't even realize he'd moved until after his fist connected with my abdomen, pitching me forward.
It hurt like a bitch, but at least this pain knocked the pain of an empty stomach out of the field. Did I even have a functioning stomach after that strike? He'd clipped my diaphragm too, and I could feel my lungs burning.
I groaned as his first recoiled. "You really don't want to fight with me."
"Well, no, not particularly," I coughed, standing up straight again in time to see him loosening his tie. It was a horribly menacing action and it gave me goosebumps. "Can't you just tell me why you're here to collect me…and then maybe don't?"
Ari sneered again, circling. "No, not really." Then he dashed forward. This time, however, I was ready. I sidestepped, leaped up and to the left, pushed off of the alley wall to the right, and managed to land a solid sidekick to his throat. He stumbled back…one step. Seriously?! At least it made him gag and reach up, leaving his body briefly defenseless. I took the opportunity and pressed on with another string of attacks, this time trying out a palm heel to his collarbone, a hook heel kick to his lower back, an uppercut to his chin, a spinning back kick to his ribs, and a final hammer fist to his groin.
Though he was making me doubt myself, I knew how hard I hit. My first strike had enough pressure behind it to shatter his collarbone. Multiple ribs should've been fractured, and a few of his teeth should've cracked from being slammed together. He should've been rendered infertile, honestly.
All he did was wince. And then he laughed breathily. "Okay," he wheezed. "Okay, I'll admit, that last one kind of stung."
Are you joking? What is he, the fucking Terminator? I backed up warily again, watching his eyes, trying to predict his actions. He cracked his neck with a painful sounding pop, and his eyes found mine. There was a darkness in those amber pools for sure. I felt terror trying to take over my body again and realized with complete confidence that I wasn't going to win this fight. That left only one solution.
This was a solution I typically tried to avoid, as using it required me to share one of my most intimate secrets. I was trembling at this point, but not from the cold. Forcing my shaking hands to comply, I unzipped my jacket the rest of the way, removed it, and tied it around my waist. Then I undid the few remaining buttons of my sweater and discarded it, leaving only the thin black camisole. Ari was watching with obscene intensity and a bit of a sly smile that made me cringe, but I braced myself for the oncoming satisfaction that his next expression would yield and opened my wings.
They were just under fifteen feet of pure power and intimidation. Or so I thought.
Ari's eyes wandered somewhat lazily from my decolletage to one of my wings, but his expression never really changed. Finally, his gaze drifted back to meet mine and he flashed me a toothy grin. He reached up and undid the button of his suit jacket, removing it smoothly and draping it over his arm. Without it, I could see his physique much more clearly, but that didn't matter anymore because he rolled his shoulders back, cracked his neck again, and unfolded his own wings.
And I had thought that mine—which were a rusty auburn with dark vertical streaks and fine-featured barring—were intimidating. Ari's wings were monstrously large; his wingspan probably exceeded twenty feet and his feathers were a uniform deep, dark brown mottled with buff splotches across his coverts. Though I was sure his wings were pleasant up close, I was too terrified to see them as anything but another mystery.
Never had I ever met anyone else with wings. Could this be a trick? Had his "thorough research" really revealed everything about me, allowing him to stage a con this elaborate? Was I hallucinating? But no, he took a step towards me and the wind ruffled his feathers in a way that I knew was real. He took another step forward and I panicked, lurching back. He put his hands up, the universal sign of placation, and traipsed in my direction.
"You stop right there!" I shouted, faking tenacity. He did stop—a shock, really. "Who the hell are you? How do you have those?" My right hand moved of its own accusatorial volition to point at his added appendages.
He sighed and pulled his wings partially closed, giving the impression of an adumbral cloak. "As I already said, my name is Ari. I have these because…well, someone thought it'd be a good idea."
What the hell does that mean!?
"Wh-who gave them to you?" I demanded, fighting a stutter. He started to edge closer to me again. "Don't you take another step or I swear to God—"
"The same people who gave you yours," he interrupted, halting again with an obvious look of annoyance. My head was reeling. That couldn't be possible. "Now, if you're satisfied with this little show and tell session, it's time to be collected. Okay? So why don't you just—"
I didn't wait to hear the rest—that was enough bad news. The people who gave me my wings had traumatized me for life in a way that I would never be able to completely bounce back from. I spent the last decade in a state of constant paranoia, dodging those same people. If Ari was connected to them in any way, he was bad news too (even more so than was obvious). If he was sent to collect me on their behalf, which was starting to seem likely, I was already in danger. It was time to disappear again. So I took off, launching myself straight up into the air and managing to catch a breeze that made the takeoff less choppy. I flapped furiously and soared straight up, between the mall building and another tall downtown establishment, all while praying that no one was staring out their window nearby. Glancing down, I spotted Ari. He had watched me lift off and now he was shaking his head in clear frustration. He dropped his upscale suit jacket to the ground, faced forward, ran a few feet, and took off clumsily—his wings were much too large for the alley, and he had to twist almost immediately so they could run the right direction within the space. Even at that angle, he couldn't flap to the full extent.
Please, I begged mentally, looking away from him as he rose. Please just leave me alone.
Few things are quite as emotionally taxing as suddenly realizing and being forced to acknowledge the depth of your denial. Over a decade ago, I convinced myself that I was one of a kind. I believed wholeheartedly that no one else had ever been made quite like me. I told myself I was a pariah—and that belief justified my choices and permitted me to embrace a morally ambiguous, alternative life. Of course, I knew better. No one in their right mind would bake a perfect pie and then say, "well, that's enough, I'm never baking a pie again." Why would the creation of a genetic recombinant be any different? Still, I had spent years trying to block out my childhood, trying to create a story in my head to cope with my abuse and on some days it mostly worked, even in the face of the paranoia. Today, every bit of those stories was melting away, revealing repressed memories and a bundle of frazzled nerves.
I was not alone, and that meant that everything had been real. Every horrible abuse that I'd suppressed had been real, and my life was a lie that I'd created to keep myself safe.
So much for that.
Tears filled my eyes as I banked left and soared north, over the city. As those tears reached my cheeks, they froze, trembled, and then broke away from my face, falling to earth like tiny pieces of hail. Waves of pain and grief and anger and anxiety and panic flooded over me as other aspects of reality started to sink in and denial became more and more impossible. A new sensation bubbled up too—guilt. If Ari was like me, had he been tortured as I had? Had his childhood been taken from him, replaced with a horror story? Were there others? Should I have searched for them? Could I have helped them? Or would I have just died sooner?
"You know, Chicago has a lot of avid birdwatchers," Ari shouted through the roar of the wind nearby. It was a good thing the currents were strong enough for me to coast at that point or I might have fallen from the sky in surprise. I'd nearly forgotten that he was following me. "Flying a little low today, aren't we?" He was about ten feet above me and offset to my right—I would've seen his shadow on the few stringy clouds had I not been so wrapped up in my thoughts and blinded by my freezing tears. It was a menacing shadow, as was he. Ari's big, dark wings looked like a set of death's scythes slicing through the sky in the faint winter sunlight.
Of course, he was right. I could see the top of the Willis Tower now, not so very far below. We were probably gliding at an altitude of only 3,000 feet or so—anyone who looked longer than a moment would know that we weren't birds.
But did it matter anymore? Ari's presence was an omen: my life was undoubtedly about to reach an unsatisfying and early denouement. What'd I care if a handful of humans suffered an existential crisis as a result of my existence? If a few people had to seek psychiatric help in exchange for my possible survival…well, it felt like a justified trade.
I looked over my shoulder, making bleary eye contact with Ari. His dress shirt and pants rippled over his body in the wind; his damp hair had already dried out thanks to Mother Nature's blow dryer. As we held each other's gaze for a moment, I reached a firm conclusion.
Fuck it.
Ari seemed to see the choice I'd made reflected in my face. "Don't do it, Ivy!" he shouted with a snarl, dropping altitude to get a little closer. "This doesn't have to be any harder than you've already—"
I dove. The sudden increase in wind whipped my hair back behind me and around my face harder than before, and the normally soft tendrils felt like tiny lashes against my cold, bare skin. The city streaked by below as I rocketed down and to the southeast, trailing between the river and the lakeshore. It was a risky trajectory, but I hoped Ari would realize just how high the chances were that we'd be spotted and would willingly back off. At the very least, maybe he would change course in his pursuit, allowing me time to put some distance between us.
My wings were pumping furiously to aid in my acceleration, and they were throbbing. I didn't use them often enough and keeping them folded as tightly as I did when in public was physically taxing—for both my wings and my back, and all of the connected muscles and tissue. Everything hurt and now I was overworking my feathery appendages too, praying that they would hold out long enough for me to do…whatever it was that I hadn't yet planned.
I estimated my altitude at that point to be around 1,500 feet—I'd cut it in half in seconds—and chanced a glance over my shoulder. No ominous death-omen men flew behind me.
Thank God, I thought, leveling out in tentative relaxation. He must've given up and dropped back to avoid potential human detection. That made sense after his quip about the birdwatchers. Undoubtedly, people who created creatures like me probably valued secrecy—Ari had to be an extension of that. So, as much as I hated the idea of exposure, I realized that my safest choice now was to land again and stay in public. That would give me leverage. If Ari got too close, I could threaten to reveal my wings in a crowd. It sounded overwhelmingly foolish, but at this point, my life in Chicago was already over anyway. I'd either die at the hands of my creator that evening or vanish in a new city tomorrow, leaving a fresh legend of a winged cryptid in my wake.
I was coasting like an idiot, pondering a landing site, when something slammed into my back, knocking me completely out of my flight pattern and into a free fall.
The hit—which landed solidly between my shoulder blades—forced my wings to bend back, and then the drag pinned them there, useless. I screamed like a banshee as I careened towards the ground, body flipping through the below-freezing air uncontrollably. Screaming was a mistake—I lost control of my breathing and nearly crossed into hyperventilation as the wind tore my shout away from me. Panic set in as the altitude dropped. Only as I recognized that I hadn't inhaled in a few seconds did I manage to throw my arms and legs out beside me like a sugar glider to stabilize, and from there I managed to reopen my wings. The updraft that I caught felt like it might've ripped them off, but I spiraled to distribute the drag before straightening out and gliding again.
A dark streak rocketed past me, feet away, before curving up into a little loop-de-loop. Trembling and trying to regain physical control, I didn't understand what was happening until it was too late. Completing the last half of his vertical arching maneuver, Ari flipped down and landed a surprisingly solid punch directly to the radial bone of my right wing.
Aside from me, no one had touched my wings since my escape thirteen years ago. I wasn't sure I'd ever trusted anyone enough to allow them to. On top of that, it felt too intimate—I didn't want to share this part of myself, visually or physically, with just anyone. And so, for the first time in thirteen years, I re-experienced violation on a level that I considered comparable to sexual assault.
If I hadn't been in so much pain, I would have been alight with rage.
As it was, tears filled my eyes again, blinding me as I barrel-rolled from the strike and tried not to plummet. Another shriek wrenched itself from my throat, the pitch ratcheting up even higher as Ari attacked from above once more. Having never met anyone else like me, I'd never been challenged to or even considered the possibility of an aerial fight. It was pathetic—I felt like a feeble, useless child—and all I could do was watch through blurred eyes and hazy thoughts as Ari managed to snatch my right wingtip in his right hand and expertly smash his left palm into the phalanges.
His hair was blown back and his expression was focused, yet serene. This must've been a normal day for him. Watching his expression, I couldn't help but think of one of those famous baroque paintings of the Archangel Michael striking down Lucifer. When Ari connected with my wing, I had a perplexing flash of a question: was I the devil in this situation? Then a tiny crunch and the accompanying pain rippled up through my feathers, across my back, and into my spine, wiping my mind of everything but agony.
I veered to the left, using the emotional exertion that supplemented my newest wail to pull away from Ari's reach. My mind was blank, filled only with raw flight response. I had to get away. I had to land, or he'd force me to. If I could just get to the ground, maybe I could fight him off after all. It hadn't worked before but maybe…
He was dive-bombing me now. Never striking but coming in just close enough that my heart would stop in anticipation of a killing blow. It was a scare tactic and it was absolutely working.
Breathing shakily and trying to stay calm, I peeped over at my damaged wing—it hurt infinitely more than it looked like it should have. There appeared to be a small kink in it now, towards the center, and I could tell that the aerodynamics of that wing alone had shifted. I'd need to compensate for that to land. That could be achieved through spiraling, as soon as I spotted a safe place to touch down.
If you have to fight him on the ground right now, you'll get yourself killed even faster. It was an intrusive thought, but a valid one. I had to lose Ari before landing. So, as he dive-bombed again and looped far up and back, I made a recklessly stupid and fearful choice. I angled down, aimed directly at a cluster of skyscrapers.
My wings had ached when I'd started flying but now I was longing for a level of pain as mild as that. The right wing felt like a crushed soda can in comparison to the left, and it was in so much anguish that it was starting to go numb. Numbness seemed like a bad sign overall, but at that moment it was an advantage. Just before crashing into the huge windowed expanse of a corporate building, I jerked my body to the right, playing off of the wing's desire to falter. I ducked behind that structure and then circled another as fast as I could, trying to spot Ari nearby. Not seeing him, I swooped to the left, forcing the kinked wing to stutter its way into a glide. I hooked between a row of high-rises, flying at a very visible height. If anyone peered out their window over that street, they would be completely capable of identifying me, right down to my hair color and clothing…and, of course, my wings. Perhaps heedlessly, my hopes were still high that Ari would do everything he could to avoid public exposure like this. It was new for me and not a pleasant sensation—maybe he'd know better than to be seen.
A sting of fresh pain passed up the wing and to my spine. Land! Before you fall! Panicked, I picked the nearest logical landing site—just barely managing to angle my wings correctly, I spiraled down and then curved back up into some of the secure looking steel trestle of the Chicago "L" Green Line.
Unable to fold my wings, I scrambled across the framework awkwardly, making my way to the less visible inner side of one of the support beams. Once there, I wedged myself into a "v" of the frame, dropped my head back against the glacial steel, and held my breath. Relative silence settled in. No one tried to dive-bomb me. The only sounds were the standard ones of my city. The trestle trembled a little as a train approached a nearby station, but nothing attacked.
I sighed in mixed relief, closing my eyes to keep a fresh wave of tears in. Only then did I realize that the numbness from my wing seemed to be spreading, which felt unusual. Maybe it was a result of the cold, rather than the injury? I reached down to untie the jacket wrapped around my waist, recognizing then just how bitter it felt. My cold tolerance was pretty high, especially in comparison to most humans, but the air only got thinner and chillier the higher up you flew. Flying in the below-freezing air with only a camisole as core coverage had likely been a mistake. Cold temperatures only enhance the pain of physical trauma too. Trying to stabilize my shaky breathing and regain my wits, I leaned forward to start the undoubtedly excruciating process of folding my wings in tight enough to tuck them under the thin jacket. Every second of the motion ached, but I'd gotten them to a halfway folded point and had one arm into a jacket sleeve when something slammed into my temple, knocking me sideways out of my roost. With a yelp, I plummeted, falling faster than I could respond to at that point. Before my brain even caught up to the situation, my body slammed to the ground like a discarded kindergartner's backpack, buffered from directly striking concrete only by a conveniently placed pile of plowed street snow.
Sleeping on your back when you have wings is uncomfortable. Landing on them, under the full weight of your body, is horrid. The fall forced them to shut and bent the already damaged and distorted wing at a slightly new and equally cringeworthy angle. All-consuming pain erupted from my back. My head was throbbing with an instant migraine now too, probably from the hit to my temple. It felt heavier than usual, and when I tried to lift it, a searing ache flashed behind my eyes. I let my head drop back into the snow and tried to assess the fresh damage to my body. Could I get up? What hit me? Breathing shakily and starting to panic, I forced my eyes open in the dim sunlight in time to see the silhouette of an athletic man drop down from the trestle above me, his wings angled like a parachute to smooth his descent.
Ari swaggered forward, feathered appendages still wide open and on display, and got close enough to cast a shadow over my spiritless body. He was grinning, evidently unworried about being spotted.
This is the end, I realized, feeling the coldness of my body settle deeper within. Tears welled up in my eyes again, but I was too tired and miserable to indulge their flow. My body had betrayed me, now, just in time for my likely execution. I couldn't even get up, let alone fight back, regardless of how much I wanted to leap to my feet and slam Ari's beautiful face into the steel support beams of the "L." Was I really in so much pain, or was this just shock?
When it came right down to it, it didn't matter. Exhaustion settled in with the cold. I gave up. I let my body sink into the grimy snow. A crowd of humans was gathering in the periphery of my vision, but they couldn't—or wouldn't—do anything to help. I couldn't even turn my head to look at them and convey a need for assistance anyway. I could only watch dimly as Ari reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone—a much nicer one than the burner he'd used to mislead me earlier. With his wings still out, brandished audaciously in view of the gathering humans, he turned around, held the phone up at arm's-length in front of him, and blatantly snapped a selfie with my unmoving body in the background. A trophy photo. Feeling like a future work of taxidermied art, my chest constricted with rage.
If by some miracle, I managed to dodge execution, I was coming after Ari.
Cheerfully, he spun on one heel to face me again and snickered, looking up from the device and into my eyes as he sauntered closer. "Do it for the 'gram, am I right?" He winked again, playfully.
What kind of Gen Z bullshit—? My breathing was ragged, and my hatred was growing with every step that Ari took in my direction until the red sole of a Louboutin slammed into my face and kicked the world into darkness.
