Adagio (Book One of the Muse series)

15. Interception

As Mike retreated, I thought I saw Esteban advancing in my direction from a few blocks down the same street, big snowflakes falling around him like a figure in a just-shaken snow globe. Perfect timing, I lauded myself. But five seconds later, all best-laid plans were out the window when the biggest bolt of lightning I'd ever seen exploded across the sky. It was still snowing in fast, fat flakes, but the sight was unmistakable, even from my vantage point at the diner door—brilliant flashes bouncing off every surface, like a strobe light in a darkened dance club. It was absolutely terrifying. Like a period at the end of a bellowed sentence, next came a crack of thunder that shook the buildings and everything else around me, including the people, followed just a few seconds later by a second and bigger flash of white light.

As I continued watching, dumbfounded, an angry mass of blue-black clouds galloped across the horizon and darkened the day, making noon look like midnight. They broke open immediately, pouring a cold, almost solid sheet of rain down on the unbelieving town. It was 25 degrees, and the snow still fell, but along with it came the water, a contrast of slow and fast, hard and soft, peaceful and brutal, dancing together to the rhythm of the thunder and backlit with bolts of torrid energy.
Within two minutes it had all passed—the snow, the rain, the black clouds, all of it—leaving everyone sopping and stunned in its wake. Just like every other patron in the diner, I was wiped out and a little scared by the spectacle, and Esteban or no Esteban, I just wanted to go home. But I couldn't –he was a block away, after all. And so I waited.

I had retreated indoors when rain started, and so, again alone at the counter, I sipped hot coffee and, after a few comforting swallows, started to calm down a little. And part of my methodology for achieving said relaxation was to think about Mike. With a grin, I marveled that I very officially had a boyfriend. No getting around it now. And funnily enough, the butterflies in my stomach were actually real. Mike gave me butterflies, those first vestiges of romantic, falling-for-the-guy sentimentality. Yes! I had a boyfriend, and he made me feel squishy! In all seriousness, I thought, I might actually be falling for him. Wow. Notable development of the day.

Fifteen minutes later, and no Esteban. I shouldn't worry, right? Surely he didn't get hit in the head by a giant chunk of hail or struck by one of those bizarre lightning bolts. I texted him—no response. Twenty-five minutes later, and I got a little worried, so I put on my coat and went back outside to look around for him. No sign of him anywhere. Really strange.

Thirty minutes later and I still had no text from him, and no call, but a fresh cup of coffee to keep me company—it was cold out, after all.
Thirty-five minutes later, I determined that I had been stood up for whatever reason. Then it hit me. Esteban had been walking toward us right as Mike was walking away, which meant that he had also been walking toward us thirty seconds before that, when Mike and I were standing in front of the diner together ... kissing. Sheep shit. Perfect timing, indeed. I'm a moron.

I was dejectedly winding my scarf around my neck to prepare for the walk back when I saw someone moving toward me quickly . . . almost too quickly, but perhaps that was just a trick of my viewing angle. The figure disappeared then reappeared three more times before finally staying reliably within my view, pacing down the street directly toward me. It was indeed Esteban, and he was progressing with a focused, serious stare, the wind blowing his long, black hair all around him.

Everything about him was different than I remembered it—all just a bit more . . . pronounced . . . than it had been before. His ruddy olive skin was a few shades deeper than I recalled, his previously shoulder-length, glossy and gorgeous hair now reached the middle of his back, and the approaching features of his face were all harder and more chiseled than they had seemed only months ago. He had a lovely, long Peruvian native nose that now stood out in an even more pronounced way from the rest of his face, giving him the appearance of a large, exquisite bird—wait . . . make that an exquisite and angry bird.

As he sped toward me, I felt something flutter up from the depths of my body. As he came closer, I began to recognize the sensation. Fear. I knew Esteban, knew him to be a gentle, sweet if slightly stoner-ish guy without an aggressive bone in his body. He wouldn't step on a bug on the sidewalk, yet I was growing afraid of this man in my sights, his hair billowing around him like a black sail as he moved. It wasn't just the speed, or his heightened appearance. More than anything it was the look in his eyes. They were so intent and focused that they almost seemed to be glowing. But it was still Esteban. I reached out my hand as he came within arm's length, and he reached for me . . .

Something hard hit me in the side at just that second, knocking into my head and making me see stars. It had me in a vise grip, bear hugging me into the alley behind the diner. It wasn't Esteban; as we retreated, I could see his unfathomable expression as he sat on the sidewalk, holding his head in pain as he watched the bizarre display. In a moment I was scooped up over my assailant's shoulder and he was running—he had to be running—through the alley. There was a Zip Car parked at the end of the block, and we were headed straight for it.

I looked at the glossy back of his head and had no recognition of my attacker. He was obviously strong, though his breath was ragged with the effort of running while carrying me, and taller than me by a good half a foot at least. I strained, kicked, bashed at him with my fists like a mad woman, but his only response was a stagger or two as he continued to move forward.

We were almost to the car. I screamed limply, but there was no one else in the frozen, sodden alleyway to hear me. I continued to beat at his legs and torso, to no avail. Whoever this man-beast was, he was not only strong, but also polished. His long winter coat was fine under my hands, his shoes shone, and he smelled discreetly of a fancy cologne that was somehow familiar to my nose. This was not a drug-addled lunatic, but perhaps even more dangerous, a deliberate man making a sober, deliberate choice.

As we approached the car, I gave one last explosion of resistance, sending every scrap of energy I had left into my limbs as a weapon against my attacker. He braced against me, staggered again, and may have slowed down barely perceptibly, but not enough to stop him from opening the car door and throwing me roughly into the passenger's seat. I hit the back of my head on the console, hard. I looked up with a haze in my field of vision, and chanced a glance. My attacker was looking to the side, from where we had come. The profile was unmistakable—Tristan Hendry, gasping for breath, was casting a look back in the direction of Esteban so murderous that it made me feel faint. In slow motion, as I looked in absolute disbelief at her, Hendry turned her head, and I found myself looking directly into her angry blue eyes. My head throbbed more acutely where I had hit it. Her hand was behind my neck in the next second, right before everything went blank.