Damsel[ed]: Some Rescue Required (#2 of the Damsel[ed] series)

Chapter Fifteen: Ensemble

Angelos.

Did you know? The fastest way to draw attention to yourself is to walk into a mall shirtless with your wings exposed. I try to move fast, hoping people will only see flashes of a flesh-colored beast and chalk it up to their imaginations. Though I have a growing feeling I'm jostling my innards with all these sharp stops, I ignore it and slink through the upper and lower decks.

I notice everything. The flicker of lights, the white gleaming tiles, the temperature a few degrees too cold.

I hate this mall. I hate the smell of bleach and perfume that permeates its every inch. I hate the hip people and their stylish clothes and no cares in the world. I hate myself for being so angsty. I creep through the cold, sterile halls eventually find the marker of doom—the Super Supply store sign—hissing above my bruised face.

I still have no plan, and I don't think waltzing in there and asking, "Hey, do you know where Syndicate holds its prisoners and how to infiltrate it?" is a particularly grand idea.

I sigh and push open the cracked glass doors, lace drapes brushing past my face that smells like rats and cigarettes. The whole place smells like rats and cigarettes, and honestly, nothing's changed since last time I was here. The place is still crammed with merchandiaw, still blanketed in dust, still a fire waiting to happen. It's almost eerie.

The bell-chimes ring. I brush my hair out of my face, moving my head side to side to make up for my blind eye. The darkness, the smoky smell, they make me feel like I've entered the set for a film noir. "Um, hello?"

It occurs to me that maybe I shouldn't call attention to myself, but that occurrence comes too late.   

"You should get out of here, kid," booms a voice from behind a counter. I jump, a fresh wave of pain tearing up and down my leg. A man smirks at me as I whirl around, his chin propped up on his knobby hands. His hair is up in a ponytail, tied back with a big, blue bow. Looking at him, I miss my back-lengthed mess.

"I need help."

"I see that." The man swings his legs on the counter. "Do you need to wash up or something? Or buy a shirt?"

I hug my chest, fighting a blush. "Um." I walk up and lean my hands on the filthy counter. To the  right of my elbow sits a box of pepper spray keychains. I wonder if they have much effect on supervillains. Even if they don't, one would be awfully comforting have.

"Yes?"

I look down. The teller's glasses gleam under the cold fluorescent lights, sending a jolt up my spine. "Uh." Intimidation. That's a thing. "I know about this place and I know what you do here." Lies. Both lies. But they sound okay, so I continue. "I have a friend, see? He's in a little bit of trouble with Syndicate." I unfold my wings, stretching them to their full length so their shadow falls over the man. He visibly stiffens, so I continue. "You do know something about them, don't you?"

He sets his glasses down and rubs his face. "Kid, you're putting me in a really bad position." He has a grating, uneven voice that makes him sound like he has sandpaper with his morning milk.

I fold my wings back against my throbbing spine. "Look, he's being held by Syndicate. I know you can't disclose any—"

"Kid, you really ought to get out of here." His mouth presses into a hard line, his green eyes big. My heart flutters. And then I hear them.

Heartbeats.

My body tenses up, every muscle recoiling. Slow and even breaths sound loudly behind me and I whirl around. A hand slams down on my shoulder. Its owner smiles down at me, his dark aviators shielding his eyes and reflecting a bruised, pale-faced boy with his mouth quivering in a silent scream across his lenses.