A Banshee's Wail (The Banshee Curse #1)

Chapter Eight

MY BREATH PUFFED out in front of my face in clouds, making it look like I was smoking every time I breathed out. The wind blew my hair away from my face as I walked hurriedly down the sidewalk. It pinched my cheeks and turned my nose pink, but I didn't slow down. I needed to get as far away from St. James's as possible.

     On more than one occasion, I felt like I was being followed. Each time I turned around, though, there was no one there. The last time I checked behind me, I grabbed my hood—I know I said I'd stop wearing hoodies, but I sort of needed it now—stuffed my hair into it, and brought it close to my face. Even if no one was awake to notice that I was gone, I couldn't risk people recognizing who I was. And my bright red hair was kind of a dead give away.

     I kind of felt like the people passing by in their cars took one look at me and thought that I was trouble. I wasn't—at least, not in the way they thought. I wasn't going to run around, pulling guns or knives on people and demanding they give me their wallets. As much as the money would be helpful right now, I wasn't that type of person. I did seem to attract the murderers and rapists, though, so I guess that could be considered trouble.

     The feeling that I was being watched crept up the back of my neck again. I frowned and stopped, turning to scan the street behind me. It was empty, save for the car turning at the intersection. Once it was gone, though, the street was literally abandoned except for me. The wind pushed a piece of paper across the asphalt, flipping it over and over. I watched it move noisily across the street until it hit the curb, pressing flat against the cement. Then I turned and began walking again.

     At least, I tried to.

     “Oomph!” I muttered, bouncing off whatever was suddenly in my way and falling on my butt. I winced and glanced up, glaring up at the person standing in front of me. Not that they could see me since my hood cast my face in shadow. “Sorry,” I said, my tone not very polite. I started to stand again.

     “You've been walking for quite a while,” the person said observantly. “Would you like a ride?”

     I glanced up sharply at the man. “Excuse me?” I exclaimed, taking a step back. “Have you been following me this whole time?”

     The guy crossed his arms across his chest. I squinted at him, trying to make out his features, but the streetlight was behind him, casting his face in shadow. “Since you left St. James's, yes,” he replied, tilting his head up slightly. “So, would you like that ride?”

     It was then that I noticed there wasn't a car in sight. “I don't think so,” I muttered, eying the empty street warily. “I'm good with walking.” I started to brush passed him.

     The guy caught my arm. “That's too bad,” he muttered, his hold on my arm tightening. “You see, Jemma, I wasn't really asking. You're coming with me.”

     I suddenly got the odd feeling that this guy was more dangerous than just creepy-stalker-guy dangerous. “Why?” I asked, feeling way too close to him for comfort. I was starting to get the idea that this guy was actually the Secret Admirer. Seriously, I couldn't walk a mile without being caught by this guy? I could barely pass as pathetic at this point.

     “The Boss has some words he'd like to exchange with you,” the guy explained.

     The Boss? Who was that supposed to be? Before I could get my mouth open to ask, though, a shadow came out from nowhere and punched him in the face. I squeaked and jumped back as the guy fell to the ground, releasing my arm from his hold. Then the shadow-guy, while still shaking his hand, turned to me and grabbed my hand, pulling me behind him as he ran. My squeal of surprise was lost in the wind as we ran. It took me a few minutes of staring at the back of his head while we ran before I realized why he seemed familiar.