Guardian

Prologue

She told me not to cry.

I leaned back and pressed out my foot. The sole of my black leather boot produced a crunching sound as my stiff fingers traced diamonds on the rim of the carton of Neapolitan. A sigh whistled from my lips. In only an instant, the warmth inside was replaced by a bolt of ice, my lungs pierced with a sharp blade.

I shuddered and locked my teeth. A moment passed before I felt blood ooze from the slit in my tongue- trickling down my throat, burning like a flame. Damp and irritating- but warm.

Shadows. Below my slumped shoulders, on the floor beside my right leg, light glowed from the crack at the bottom of the door- a thin line of yellow, the only thing to penetrate the darkness within. My heart leapt like a stone hurling from a cliff. Darn.

Puffing out another cloud into the thin air, sucking in the frost until my chest swelled with the pressure; I tossed my head to one side. This time, my cheek brushed something small and bumpy- probably the peas. My eyes, frozen nearly dry, darted away from the door before their lids gave a furious flutter and fell back to stick against the pupils. Not much longer now.

Feeling my limbs begin to tremble once again, I cursed- but my voice, hoarse and strained, was barley a whisper. Thank God for that. And the sounds from the back of the kitchen, also, were still muffled as snow. Still up! My body seized a final time before I at last settled, limbs finally calm. I breathed, the pain so sharp now I could not even stir.

Slowly I lifted my fingers- raw and numb from the ice- and slipped them between the wrinkles of leather in my jacket. The coat still hung around my shoulders, cool and slick, yet a welcome relief from the burning chill of my skin. I slid down, swinging my hair to hide my face like a veil of blackness. My eyes were still pressed tight.

At last. Everything I needed. Swallowing a lump like a hailstone in my throat, I tilted back once again. The cold swirled around me, curling over my skin to crawl into the depths of my bones.

********************

"You feelin' fine, Mr. O'Connell?"

My heart banged like the pots in the sink. Behind the counter, Sarah Rose Edison crouched on the floor, amber eyes glistening like jewels above the steaming bucket of water. I bit my tongue and turned hurriedly away, fingers tugging at the knots in the cords of my apron.

"I hear you've been troubled."

My eyes flitted distractedly towards the window, following the robin hopping in the bare branches of the maple outside.

"I been hearing," -she plunged her chapped fists into the bucket, ringing out the rag between tight knuckles- "about your quarrel with the boss." The water splashed.

"Quiet, bitch."

I took a long draught from the bottle of liquor before slamming it back down on the countertop. Weaving cords through my belt loop, I yanked away the apron and tossed it onto the counter. My eyes never left the window.

"Damn, O'Connell. "

I stole a glance at the woman on the floor. Her eyes were round as half dollars. "What with you drinkin' so hard, and the complaints 'bout the sinks these days, I'm surprised they haven't already kicked your hide outta the back door."

A glower touched my brow; with a quick sweep of the hand, I combed my fingers through my hair. "It ain't much. And the "drinkin' " ain't never except after hours- so it don't matter," I muttered. My voice was as raspy as the scratch of the rose thorns against the back door.

"I heard the boss was blown about what happened Saturday," she went on, never looking up from her tangles of chestnut-brown hair. She was scrubbing now, her arm curled tight around the handle of the mop; the linoleum foaming with suds. "You know we ain't the only ones who've snuck a cigarette before."