Darkness Calls

Darkness Calls Read Free Page B

Book: Darkness Calls Read Free
Author: Marjorie M. Liu
Tags: Fiction, General, Fantasy, Contemporary
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gallons of milk, piled high in her arms.
    I snagged two of them—nodded brusquely at her startled yelp of thanks—and kept walking. My leather gloves were back on, hiding my hands, and my long-sleeved navy turtleneck hid the rest of my upper body. I had a limited wardrobe. With some exceptions, I never let anyone see my tattoos. Raised too many questions, too many possible problems. The boys, after all, disappeared from my skin at sunset—and never slept in the same place twice.
    I could feel them all over me—beneath my hair, between my toes—in unmentionable places. My face was the only area the boys did not regularly protect, their one concession to my vanity, although a small trace of a tattooed body curled from my hairline, just below my ear against my jaw: a wink of dark scales, a silver glimmer of Dek’s tail. Just large enough to cover my only scar.
    The kitchen was hopping. Crazy clocks shaped like cats covered butter yellow walls, and a dozen calendars were tacked up, surrounding a white erase board where the day’s jobs were written—and that someone kept decorating with pictures of flowers. Grease sizzled, overwhelming the air with the scents of bacon and eggs, and a radio crackled; some deep voice dispensing the weather report in a vaguely ironic tone: rain, rain, and more rain, with a break tonight—maybe—and a shot at viewing the moon. All around me, a mostly female crew of yuppies and hippies bumped hips—a clash of pearls and hemp, cashmere and fleece, loafers and Birkenstocks—creating an earthy, irreverent vibe that was, nonetheless, just slightly pretentious. Seattle had that way about it.
    I hovered for a moment, soaking it all in—listening to laughter and shouts; the bang of pans, the squeal of rubber soles on the tile floor. Industrious noises, folks getting things done. I liked that. It was homey. Refreshingly normal. I had no sense of temperature during the day, but the sounds of good living made me warm on the inside in ways the sun never would—regardless of the weather.
    This is what you’re fighting for, I told myself. All the lovely moments of the world.
    I placed the milk on the stainless-steel counter, next to some bags of frozen blueberries set out to defrost. There were muffins within reach, and I grabbed one and took a bite. Banana and walnut. Very nice. I was suddenly starving. I had a lot of bodies to feed. Based on the way my morning had already started, I might not have another chance to eat for a while. And I was not a good grouch when the blood sugar dipped. Hell, no.
    “You’re late,” said a quiet voice, off to my right. No accusation, just a statement of fact.
    “Five minutes,” I replied, leaning against the counter. The tip of my scuffed cowboy boot nudged an equally dirty tennis shoe. “Sorry.”
    “S’okay. I knew you’d be here.” Said in that same matter-of-fact tone. Said with trust. A rare compliment, startlingly unfamiliar to me, and one that made my heart do a funny little twist. My mother would not have approved.
    The boy in front of me was young, no older than fifteen. Byron. No last name. Maybe not his real name. A mystery, in more ways than one. Thin as a rail, with black spiky hair that framed a pale, elfin face. Tough, sweet kid, in that quiet way people underestimated. No swagger, no charm—just a backbone made of pure intelligence. He had lived on the streets, been abused on the streets, and was finally adjusting to a roof over his head. Regular meals. Toilet paper. A lock on his door.
    He had jeans on, and a loose, long-sleeved gray shirt that was fraying around his bony wrists. Over that he wore a stained white apron covered in red lips, like some giant woman slathered in lipstick had kissed the hell out of him. Byron hated the thing, as any self-respecting teenager would, but the rest of the kitchen staff loved seeing him in it, and the kid was surprisingly polite—or appropriately terrified—when it came to talking back to an army

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