Running from Melinda ~ A Blood Red Fan Fiction

10 In The Zone

Hot summer air beat down on my back. I waited patiently in the café, feeling more comfortable with the fact that my Spanish was ten times better than my French was, allowing me to order my food and compel her without charging me. Leaving France was a hasty decision but being in the same country or anywhere near April and Drea, connections to Melinda, made me nauseous.

In fact, I still felt light-headed and the only good outcome was that I had the contact sheet stuffed in my pockets as well as the small jar of Vervain.

“Gracias,” I muttered to the waitress who was still wearing the blank expression, obviously still under my compulsion. I nodded to her, meeting her empty blue eyes and severed the connection.

“D-De nada,” she stammered, looking down at me in confusion then left back to the counter in a daze.

The wad of cash tucked inside the paper bag was reassuring and with that I left. It didn’t occur to me that I should have felt guilty for making the waitress steal cash from the register but it wasn’t like I had a choice. I needed to get food without scamming. Anyways, it felt like my compulsion wasn’t strong enough and I didn’t want to wait around until it failed.

I grabbed the nearest telephone booth in the airport, glancing at the terminal and kept wondering if April or Drea would pop out of there. Or maybe Lucius. It could be Hannah or Trace too.

The thought made me shiver in fear. Melinda had trained me not to feel anything, to be like the perfect little soldier, a robot almost. Yet the ten years of training didn’t help the fact that I would have felt a lifetime of guilt if Drea or April had died because of me. All because of that uncontrollable blow. Of course, that wasn’t possible. I was sure they couldn’t have been knocked out that easily. They’ve experienced worse.

As soon as the phone picked up on the other side, I spoke in English, not taking into account that the person may only speak Spanish.

“Is this David Sanchez?” I blurted, grasping the edge of the doorway and kept looking at the terminal, expecting a familiar face to pop up.

“Sí. Why?”

Relief filled my chest at his ability to speak English. “Constantine. Constantine said that if I needed a place to say, I could turn to you.” I felt silly all of a sudden, asking for help when I didn’t want it in the first place. Admittedly, I needed it.

“Oh Constantine.” His thick Spanish accent seemed to hold an undertone of amusement but aside from that, the man seemed to understand where I was coming from. “Alright. Who, may I ask, is calling?”

“I’d rather talk to you in person,” I said quickly, glancing at the crumpled sheet of paper which held the number I’d dialled. “Thank you, David.”

“No problemo,” he chirped heartily. “Do you need my address?”

“No, no – uh Constantine provided me with one.”

“Ah Constantine.” He laughed cheerfully and it seemed as though he was shaking his head in amusement. “Okay. Will you need a ride?”

Catching a glimpse of the taxis outside, I replied with a short, “No, thank you.”

“Then I shall see you soon, mystery stranger.”

I had to admit, David lived in a much better place than Constantine. If truth be told, I could say he was pretty wealthy and the neighbourhood in this part of Barcelona was quite rich. The large houses, many three storeys high, dotted the lands as far as I could see, creating an almost Utopian neighbourhood unlike the gang-like, sketchy apartment building Constantine lived in.