The Winged [HIATUS]

Chapter Thirteen

So let me get this straight, I say, running my fingers through my hair. Every Winged person has a unique power-

Sort of, Logan interrupts. There can be repeats, but everyone is a little different. Also, you have the set of basic abilities that every Winged person has: heightened reflexes and healing, invisible wings, telepathy among our own kind, etcetera.

I have a question, Tempest asserts. I can read auras and influence people. Doesn’t that mean I have two powers?

Aura-readers are an interesting bunch. When their abilities are honed, they can manipulate the auras they see. You redirect people by weakening certain fields and making the person open to suggestions, so it’s not actual mind-control. It’s just an extension of your gift.

I chew on my lip, digesting this new information. Okay, one more thing, I butt in. How come I couldn’t move things until two days ago?

Simple. While most of the Winged have some sort of contact with each other, you were isolated from your people. Therefore, your power was dormant, Logan explains. If we are raised by some other race, our gifts typically only activate during a time of great need, though you may have already been moving things without realizing it. She angles her wings and descends. Come on, my house is right down there.

Logan’s simple two-story home is utterly unremarkable, but that’s a good thing. The last thing we need to do is call attention to ourselves. Logan lets us in through an open bedroom window on the top floor, leading us down a flight of stairs and into a standard-sized kitchen.

“You two can go sit in the dining room and make yourselves comfortable,” she sighs, leaning against the granite-clad countertop. “I’ll whip up some turkey tacos.”

I shiver in anticipation. We haven’t eaten any real meals in what feels like forever, and my stomach is growling like a caged animal. I shroud my wings and practically skip into the next room, stripping off my scarf and sunglasses. Then I take a seat at the small round table and plop my pack on the floor next to me. I’ve missed dinner dearly.

Logan peers at us from around the corner. “Do you guys need some pajamas?” she asks.

Tempest and I nod with enthusiasm. In our haste we had packed only practical clothing, none of it particularly comfortable for bed.

Logan disappears for a moment before speeding back into the room with a bundle of garments in her arms. She tosses them onto the dinner table and returns to her tacos.

I rifle through the attire strewn across the wooden surface, eventually settling on sweats and an oversized marathon shirt.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tempest moans. I glance over and see her holding up a pair of bright green pants covered in dancing monkeys.

“What’s wrong?”

“This is the only pair that’s my size,” she pouts, eyeing them with distaste. “Look at them! They’re blowing bubble gum!”

“So? I think they match your eyes.”

“Oh, shut up!” She flings them at my face and instead slips into a set of baggy Aéropostale pajamas. She looks like she’s wearing a potato sack. I can’t suppress a snicker, even when she gives me the evil eye.

Logan emerges from the kitchen about twenty minutes later with a heaping tray of tacos. “I already ate, so you can fight over these yourselves,” she declares, setting them at the center of the table. In that moment, manners are the furthest thing from my mind. I dive forward and inhale as much food as I can fit in my mouth. When I pause for a drink of water, I see Tempest doing the exact same thing. Oh, so it’s a race now, I think to myself, going in for another round.