The Art of Imagination

Chapter 9

The only downside was that there wouldn’t be any more girls in the group, meaning she would be on her own this time.

“Do you remember me?” he asked, grabbing an extra seat beside her. “Er – or maybe you’ve heard of me? Most people call me Harry.”

“No, sorry,” she replied with a frown, repeating his name internally. Harrison Kennedy?

“Maybe my father?” he tried again. “Andrew Kennedy?”

“Kennedy,” she repeated under her breath, knowing she couldn’t be heard over the noise. It did ring a bell – “Oh!” A hand flew to her lips in surprise, heat flushing her cheeks. “The man my mother arranged for me to marry.”

Luckily her words had been drowned out by the ruckus but Harry had still seemed to have heard, a wry smile on his face. “Neither of us really wanted it and I never got the chance to thank you for cancelling it.”

“I’m so sorry,” she blurted out, chest twinging with guilt. “It wasn’t that I didn’t find you decent.” Her eyes widened, realising the extent of her words. “I-I mean – well you are very decent and handsome –” Ingrid snapped her lips shut to prevent herself from rambling. An embarrassed heat flooded every inch of her face, right to her ears. Judging by the grin on his face, he’d heard her. “Please accept my apologies. In no way did I mean to offend or hurt your feelings.”

“Quite the contrary,” Harry replied, chuckling. “You do at least find me handsome.”

Ingrid wanted to sink into her seat and hide behind her lightpad, a sinking feeling in her stomach. How had she become such a babbling fool so easily? She wanted to smack herself.

“Why don’t we ask for a library pass, away from all this?” he suggested, gesturing to the young men that still hadn’t sorted their partners out yet. Her rambling must have broken the nervous ice between them because Harry appeared much more relaxed and easy-going.

“That would be a good idea,” she agreed, rising to her feet.

Blood seeped between his grimy fingers. Leaning against the nearest ruins of a building, he let out a grunt of pain and pulled his hand away. The thick liquid squelched as he rubbed his fingers together slowly. The open gash on his arm was merely collateral damage.

Still, he couldn’t help the wince as he staggered upright.

Multiple guttural snarls tickled his ears, pulling his attention towards the source. Four large disfigured wolves crouched down before him with their teeth bared and dripping with acidic saliva. The soft hissing of the cement reached the man’s ears as he flicked a loose strand of black from his burning hazel eyes.

“Give it your best shot,” he growled, flexing his injured arm and fought off the sharp sting as the ruptured skin twitched.

In a split second, they’d pounced. Their claws reached out and glinted wickedly beneath the red sun. He stood up straighter and smirked in anticipation. Before he was sliced to ribbons and ravaged upon, the man vanished. He closed his eyes and pictured his destination very clearly in his mind as a distant tug plucked him from the ground.

Madam Matilda checked her watch and leaned back impatiently. She tapped her ringed fingers against the desk with a rhythmic clunk. He was late, again.

Her shoulders slumped in a frustrated sigh. For a single, rare moment, Matilda forgot all her etiquette and slouched like a commoner. Then she was straightening herself up, shaking her head.

He would show up in due time. He knew when he was late and he would have a reason. He always did.

She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the poor boy. Only twenty-one winters and yet, he suffered the burden of a fully grown man. He didn’t deserve to see the horrors of this dreaded war, the violence and the death, not to mention the blood. No. One could never forget the bloodshed in war.