Cravings, and Other Stories

Cravings (Part 2)

1.

Next nightfall, a light mist crept from the river and into the inner city. He called the hotel, and they said they'd have a room ready by two tomorrow. Still in the flat, Nael took a nice, warm shower. After he'd toweled off and changed into a fresh shirt, he decided to take another stroll down the boulevard. He took with him all the essentials—his wallet, his phone, and a packet of Lucky Strikes.

The streets were nearly empty of people, at least for tonight. Those who wandered aimlessly about, wore heavy coats of dark colors. Their faces all registered in a haze—either a product of lost memory or maybe just the mist distorting everything in sight. If he strained to see, just concentrated a little more, he knew he would see the flourescent threads that spelled their lives. Of course, you don't just see them without wanting to see them.

Each invisible thread spun around their bodies, round their arms, legs and necks. Each as delicate as spider-silk. Each flowing out from a point of origin, which was the person's heart. He could count them, and tell how long each one was going to live. If not used for some ultimate divine purpose, it would at least make for good entertainment at parties.

The tall streetlamps that marked the sidewalk glowed ghost-like in the haze. He stopped in front of a store, which was only one of the few that never closed up.

The glass door swung open with a shudder, and a lanky kid with freckles hauled out a cardboard box, sealed up in packing tape. He shot Nael a curious glance over the shoulder, then went back in, as soon as he waved as a greeting. Nael leaned back against the glass window and lit himself a stick. Neon pink and green lights diffused in a tobacco fog.

"Those things'll kill you, don't you know?"

A curiously small girl, her violet hair cut and teased out in short spikes, appeared out of nowhere. She looked about fifteen, or even younger. She wore a dress under her white coat, whose cuffs were neatly rolled up.

"Aren't you a little too young to be out this late?" he scoffed. "You ought to go back to your Momma before she catches you and gives you a good grounding."

"A little too young? Yeah. I get that a lot." And she laughed. A full, charming laugh. By all means, woman's laugh. "You don't look all that grown up yourself, Pretty Boy."

Her dark eyes glistened in the faint light. Her face was chalk-pale, and shadows ringed her eyes. She moved with a sort of grace that seemed innate, not perfected by time or training. It didn't take much to notice that she was quite a looker—a sort of ill beauty, that somehow caught his attention and held it there.

"Judging from your accent, I can see you're not from around here either," he said. "Tourist?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Flew in from New York on business. But..." He checked his watch. "My company's clientele doesn't arrive till tomorrow. So for the whole night, I got nothing to do but rove around alone, see the sights. After that, it's business as usual, I'm afraid."

By accident, the back of her hand brushed against his. It felt cold and smooth, like glass, but Nael had a creeping feeling about it, which he couldn't quite place. He saw her flinch, as if she weren't used to any physical touch, or perhaps had had too much of it.

"So what do you do?"

"Professional transporter, as I'd like to be called. But the truth of the matter is, I'm no more than your average delivery boy." He heard a snort come from her—halfway between disbelief and delight.

"Off-topic, though," he heard the woman then say. "Under these lights—your hair looks almost white. Silvery, even."

Must be the mist. There was something inexplicably evil about it. Made him sick in his soul. Nael inspected his hands under his gloves, where his skin ran with patchwork blotches of cream and pinkish flesh. His guise was coming off.