Bereft

- 20 -

"That's it," I muttered, raking my fingers through the tangled web of my hair so I could tie it back. Darting into my bedroom, I stripped off my rank, brine-saturated attire and pulled on the first set of viable pants and shirt within my reach. I slid my feet into a pair of bent flip-flops before returning to the kitchen and the waiting demon. "We're getting food, c'mon."

Darius followed without verbal protest, sitting in the car's passenger's seat with a wet squelch as I went to the driver's side and jumped inside. I refused to glance in his direction as the chugging motor turned over, and I drove away from Spruce Street, ignoring the car's vehement complaining and the sickly smog coughed out from the muffler. I had many things on my mind, none of which included my aging vehicle.

Darius tilted his head, watching with mild, irreverent interest when I didn't race down Spruce Street toward the freeway—the most direct route returning to Verweald—and instead continued past my house into an eastward climb out of the sleepy neighborhood. The lights of Evergreen Acres faded behind the crest of dusky brown hills, leaving Darius and me to speed through the undeveloped outreaches of the high desert with the car's headlights chasing the cracked highway in front of us. The hills rose and then fell to reveal Verweald glittering below in the valley's belly, while farther to the east, Lake Verweald lay in a smooth patch upon the stubby desert plateau, the Agoura River spiraling away like loose thread from a spool. South from the lake, in the tail ends of the scrubby hills and patched canyons, the city's dismal projects lurked dark and sullen.

Our destination wasn't far. The highway dipped out of the hills and turned westward, away from Lake Verweald, curving into the lower-end commercial district, and just outside the district's borders resided a stucco diner on a partially cleared lot alongside the highway. The outdated sixties roof needed refinishing, and the flickering, lopsided sign provided the only spot of light aside from the distant city's glow. I passed the place whenever I took this route home, though I'd never been inside before. With its seclusion, faded decor, and sketchy regulars, the diner hadn't struck me as an establishment a small, single woman should dine alone at—but it did seem the kind of place where the management wouldn't ask questions of the clientele, even if they stomped inside wet, bloody, and stinking of ash and seawater.

The Sin slipped on his dark sunglasses as I parked by the chain barrier separating the thinning gravel from the untamed brush in the lot's extremities. Without a word, we left the car and hurried toward the diner's single entrance, gravel popping underfoot, the cold following Darius like a palpable raincloud of ill-tidings. Worry ate my insides as I kept a step ahead, wondering just what the hell I was doing, and if bringing a starving demon into a diner full of people was a wise idea.

Too late now, Sara.

The interior of the diner wasn't any more impressive than the exterior; the lights hummed and struggled, the carpet left threadbare from years of traffic, stools at the counter bent and crooked. The hostess in a greased apron glanced up, popped her Nicorette gum, and proceeded to seat us at a marginally cleaned booth near the back with a window scarred by careless lines of crayon wax. It offered a partial view of the city, the lot, and a side of the dark hills. Roughened bikers and truck drivers drank from dusty bottles at the bar, neon signs glinting on the amber glass.

My heart still thundered with adrenaline when I dropped into the booth, leaning on the sticky table situated between me and Darius, who managed far more grace when sitting than I did. Pain prickled in my side and I winced, peeling a hand from the dubious surface to brace myself, willing my pulse back into acceptable climes. My hearing had improved, but the resounding ring lingered, strong enough for me to miss the hostess asking for my drink order. Twice.

"Uh—," I floundered as I blinked at the annoyed woman. "Can I get a beer?"

Her heavy lids flickered, gaze jumping up and down my person. "Got some ID, hon?"

I reached for my purse—only to realize it'd been left behind in my careless rush to feed the black-eyed demon now sneering at the unsuspecting waitress. Shit. My ID and my wallet were both in my purse. How was I supposed to pay for this?

Darius grabbed a fistful of the woman's apron and forced her to bend nearer the demon's pale, terrifying face. He flicked his free hand, and his sunglasses landed on the table by the salt and pepper shakers, baring his reptilian eyes for all to see, their unearthly appearance impossible to miss even in this dark, distant booth. I stopped breathing.

"Get us whatever we ask for, then forget we were ever here," he hissed, voice laced with a strange but pervasive undertone I couldn't quite describe. His words flowed with purpose, dancing on my skin, tiny footprints of heat and persuasive power settling in my limbs before dissolving to nothing, like walking into a thick, hot mist and feeling it pour through my lungs. Had the feeling been anything thicker, it would become smothering.

I expected the hostess to scoff at Darius, to smack his hand away for touching her—but the woman straightened, her gaze unfocused, and calmly recorded our drink and food choices before she tottered away without another word.

Dumbfounded, I stared at the hostess as she went to the counter, reported Darius' substantial order to the pass-through, and then returned to her station at the diner's front—all without a single glance in our direction. I looked at Darius, and my confusion must have been evident because the bitter creature smirked and displayed a slim line of edged teeth.

"What did you do to her?" I asked as I turned on the ripped vinyl to watch the woman seat a new customer and again return to her station without comment. What?

"I spoke to her in the Tongue of the Realm," Darius said, his tone bored. I waited for an explanation as he wiped sweat from his brow and shut his strange eyes, lips moving in silent patterns like the Sin was asking a higher power for patience against my curiosity. "It is a form of language innate to my kind. It's a magic power, if you will. We speak directly to the essence of objects, of beings, and of people."

"It's like mind control?"

Darius' lip curled, and he tracked the movement of the bearded bartender as he dropped off a bottled beer—no glass—and a mug of water for the Sin. "Not mind control," the Sin drawled, waiting for the man to drift farther away. He drank what he was given in one generous gulp, then sank deeper into his seat with his shoulders slumped, teeth discreetly digging into the side of his fisted hand as if he wished to gnaw the meat off his own bones. Blood welled.

I dismissed my mounting questions and traced the rim of my bottle with one finger. Don't push him, Sara, he's liable to take your head clear off. I lifted the glass and drank.

The first taste of malt and hops almost had me retching when the cheap, warm liquid spilled over my tongue—and suddenly the smell returned me to Sunday night, to a filthy alleyway with cold metal under my hands and the stench of foreign alcohol filling my nose, the nauseating glare of dated security lights overhead. My sister called my name, terrified. She kept calling my name.

The Sin's hand passed my own, taking the beer away. He drank, throat moving with every swallow until it disappeared, and I watched red flicker to life in the endless tunnel of his stare. I was drowning still. Ever so slowly.

Neither of us looked away, seated together in a filthy diner at the city's edges, bloodied and bruised and haunted in ways others would not understand. The word betrayer fluttered like my tired heart, like Tara's fading screams, and I wanted to ask what does it mean? But I wouldn't. I wouldn't. I would wait.

The Sin of Pride tipped his face away from the light and said, "What a shit night."

I couldn't agree more.