I could start with the second injection Grand pumped into me. Then the fact that I can run much faster than Tarren knows; that I purposefully underperformed in all the strength tests he put me through. I could tell him how the hunger howls inside my brain even when Gabe and I are just watching TV, or we’re all riding in the car. I’d admit just how much of their feelings and emotions I can see in the auras around their bodies. Like how I always notice that Tarren’s energy spikes in painful reds when Gabe carefully skims over Tammy’s parts in the family stories he tells. Or that I hear Tarren start awake every couple of nights, constantly plagued by his nightmares; that I can feel the rush of his energy—so angry and anguished—when he studies his scarred body in his cracked bedroom mirror after he showers every morning.

  I look at Tarren, at his strong, wide shoulders. It would be so easy to lay my secrets—all these heavy black bricks—on them. Of course he’d probably kill me. That second injection means I’m even more of an angel than I claim; even greater of a danger. He’d likely consider it due prudence to put me down.

  “Let’s go,” Tarren says with that granite look on his face. I follow him out of the room. As soon as we get to the car, I realize, too late, that I should have drained all the rats I have left.

  Chapter 13

  We park on a suburban street a few blocks from where The Lamp of Destiny is playing beneath an expansive tent that has been erected in the middle of the park. The sun is gone, and the night leeches away the day’s warmth.

  I wait for Tarren to ask me one more time if I can handle this. Little Mousey Maya begs, Please, Please, Please, but no. The boys are in mission mode now. They exude smooth, focused auras. Our steps are soft on the weedy field, but they sound loud as drums to me, because, hell, I’m already starting to freak out a little.

  The wind blows all shifty, and there’s this dark, spooky clutch of woods bordering the park. I imagine glowing eyes peering from the trees and hear a dry little laugh that is actually just the wind rustling fallen leaves. Also, the banners for the show are just plain creepy; featuring oddly-dressed performers with black pebble eyes embedded in brightly painted faces.

  Strange, willowy music emanates from the tent, and the wind carries the heavy musk of hot dogs and popcorn to my nose. We begin to mingle with the tail end of the crowd. Voices join the music coming from the tent, and the night is lit with the wavering glow of new auras. A young boy skips in front of us, his energy pulsing bright with excited, happy greens.

  I take a step closer to Tarren and shove my hands into the pockets of my coat.

  “Scalper,” Gabe says and ducks into the crowd. Tarren and I stay to the far edge of the gathering. I feel his eyes on me but refuse to acknowledge his concern. People stream past us. I take in a slow, steady breath, but the skin on my palms rolls back, and the feeding bulbs lift out their curious faces.

  “Voila.” Gabe with his blue, blue aura is suddenly behind me. I bite my tongue and taste blood. He fans out a fistful of tickets. “Fell off the back of a truck, I swear, though we might want to head inside pronto.”

  We start walking. Closer and closer to the straggling line at the front of the tent. Sharp light spills from the entrance, and the whole complex hums with energy.

  But I’m fine. Fine, fine, fine. Tarren’s broad shoulders. Gabe’s lucky hat. His long, brown duster.

  “These are all pairs or singles,” Gabe says, studying his windfall of tickets. “No threes.”

  “Maya is with me,” Tarren decides. “Gabe, you watch for hands.”

  Thankfully, Tarren takes both our tickets. I keep my hands curled into tight fists in my pockets and press them hard into each side of my leg. We go through a turnstile, and there are more people inside.

  Lots and lots of people. People waiting in line for snacks, people wandering among posters and cheap mugs and other gift shop apparel. People dashing to the bathroom with urgent, ticking auras. I glance back down again, focusing on my checkered sneakers.

  Shoelaces, knots….

  The song ratchets up. Its secret notes plow from neuron to neuron growing louder, more powerful—a vortex sucking in everything around it.

  I’m fine. Fine, fine, fine. Divine. Colors shine, shine, shine.

  We’re walking again, moving closer to the crowd. The chatter of English and Spanish mixes and amplifies and pulses over me in waves. Gabe says something I don’t hear. He looks at me, and I give him a smile and a tight nod. Then he is gone, a flash of brown duster swallowed in the throbbing veil of color.

  I concentrate on Tarren’s shoulder, keep pace with his steps, and fix my eyes to his recognizable energy. We walk through a hallway toward the main arena and emerge into… a terrifying rush of sensory input.

  Bright, flaring lights.

  Music climbing into high, blunt pitches.

  The crush of a thousand voices all stacked on top of each other. And the energy. All the colors meld together into a great vortex of…of…

  Need.

  Tarren’s shoulder is moving away, and I lurch forward, forcing my eyes to his cobalt energy. I’m supposed to be doing something. Yes, angel sweeps. Searching for anyone without an energy field. Instead, I stick to breathing.

  One breath, two breath, red fish, blue fish…

  An old man brushes my arm, and I flinch away from him.

  Step, step, Jack be nimble, Jack be quick…

  Tarren turns down a row. Knees jutting out. Popcorn under my shoes. We stop. I sit down, put my hands between my thighs and press my legs tightly together. Trap them there. Try to push everything away: noise, smells, the vibrating ocean of color.

  Candle stick, candle stick. Miss Scarlet, in the library…

  Bulbs straining against my gloves. Waves of heat lapping down to my fingertips, up into the crooks of my elbows.

  My name. Called far away.

  Head so heavy. I turn it degree by degree toward Tarren. The lights dim. The crowd hushes. Green suffuses the grid of energy.

  Great peal of thunder. How? No, the speakers in the tent. Not thunder. Cymbals. A burst of smoke from the center of the stage. The crowd responds, collectively releasing a pulse of energy that…that….fire…inferno…

  No words.

  No thoughts.

  Monster Maya purrs.

  Chapter 14

  Eyes. Tarren’s blue-gray eyes. Locking onto mine.

  His lips are moving.

  Focus. Focus.

  “I’m going to get you out,” he says evenly. He says it again, even slower. “I’m. Going. To. Get. You. Out. Look at me, Maya. Just me.”

  Tarren’s face. Straight bridge of his nose. The scar. My eyes latch onto it. Body vibrating. Bucking. Tarren shifting. Something in his hand. Time is choppy. Slipping away from me. Small black pouch in Tarren’s hand.

  Scent of jasmine.

  “Close your eyes.”

  He says it again, “Close your eyes.”

  And again, “Close your eyes.”

  Voices from the stage. Big thumps of music. Shifting energy. Gasps and cries of delight.

  It hurts.

  “Close your eyes,” Tarren orders. I force my lids closed. Colors beating through the thin shields of my eyelids. Tarren leans toward me.

  No, No, No. I flinch away.

  The notes of music in my head are catching fire.

  “Don’t move.” Tarren leans toward me again. His energy on me—burning my skin.

  I can’t. Can’t. Beneath my legs, my hands spasm.

  Darkness. Sudden. Cutting off the spastic wash of colors. I take another hiccupping breath.

  Jasmine. Everything….jasmine. Scent so thick. So cloying. It breaks right through the runaway train of my hunger.

  The blindfold tightens as Tarren knots the fabric at the back of my head.

  I take another breath. Stinking, suffocating clouds of jasmine. The blindfold. It’s coming from the blindfold.

  “Put your hands in your pockets and keep them there.” Tarren’s voice is steady, forged of steel. “Don’t worry about anything else. Just your hands. I’ll do all the rest.”

  He repeats this again and again until my hands—glowing, spilling out nuclear heat—come out from under my legs and make their clumsy way into the pockets of my coat.

  Tarren stands, threads his arms through mine, and hauls me up out of my seat. I wobble, and he clasps my shoulders and holds me up. I almost lose it right there.

  Can’t. Can’t. Can’t. So dizzy.

  Monster Maya laughs while my whole body seizes with need.

  The music from the stage is happy, playful. The crowd laughs. I feel the ripple of their energies. Then another breath of jasmine sends my focus spiraling away.

  “We’re going to walk now,” Tarren says. He locks my elbow hard in his.

  I take another breath. A floral cascade of jasmine, jasmine, jasmine.

  “Move.”

  We do. Slow, shaky steps. The darkness gives me precious strands of control. I bash knees, step on toes, almost fall, but Tarren drags me forward.

  “Stairs,” he says, and I’m slipping down them. Tarren steadies me with his other hand. “Keep going. Keep going.” His voice is deep, calm. I drift on jasmine. Confused. Disoriented. Nauseous with the smell of it.

  Behind us is a thick wall of sound and gushing energy. My eyes strain against the blackness. Needing the energy that I feel ringing up my body. Another wave of jasmine short-circuits my thoughts all over again.

  We make it out of the arena and into the hall. The onslaught of energy and sound dampens. I’m shivering, stumbling. Hands throbbing claws. Knees buckling. Tarren locks his elbow.

  “Stay up,” he growls and pulls harder. I’m jogging, tripping to keep up with him. Behind us, a voice booms and cheers rise. The energy ramps up.

  I almost fall again.

  Tarren yanks me up. All I know is the feeling of his energy churning fast and smooth, the heavy breaths pulling in and out of his body, and the fast clip of his heart.

  “You need a stamp to get back in…Sir?” The voice comes and goes. I get stuck in the turnstile. Tarren pulls on my arm, and I am suddenly released, thrust into the cool night air. I let out a garbled sob.

  “Not yet.” Tarren’s arm is relentless, dragging me farther and farther from the abyss. I don’t know how far we go, how long I stagger in this blind, jasmine-scented limbo, before Tarren finally releases me.

  When he does, I crumple to the ground, not even bothering to try and break my fall. I pull my legs up to my chest and tuck my head down as far as it will go.

  My body writhes—a conflagration of music, of this howling addiction. I don’t know how long it goes on—this forever fight between me and me. Maybe it never stops.

  “I’m sorry.” Tarren’s voice is faint, but he knows I can hear it. “I shouldn’t have let you go in there.”

  He’s standing several paces away, breathing hard. I wonder if his hand is hovering near his gun; how deeply he’s scowling.

  “I…I wanted to help,” I wheeze.

  “I know.”

  “You shouldn’t have held me like that,” I whisper in a wet, cracking voice. “I could have…hurt you.”

  Tarren takes his time answering. “It was the only thing I could think of.”

  “You could have shot me.” I try to tug off the blindfold. My hands are trembling, molten blocks of uselessness, and the fabric’s caught up in my hair. I give it a hard yank and barely feel the pain. The night is a tear-stained blur.

  The knotted fabric rests in my palm. Red satin. Soaked in some kind of scented oil on the front.

  How the hell did he figure this out?

  “The hunger is much more powerful then you’ve been letting on.” Tarren states this as a fact.

  Slowly, I unwind myself and look up toward him.

  Because my mind is all crazy and shattered right now, I have this weird vision of Tarren as Odysseus, sailing the perilous Greek oceans, losing his men one by one, facing terrible creatures at every berth, and drifting farther and farther from home. How tiresome that journey. How utterly exhausting. Enough to burn away a man’s soul. Leave him hollowed and very, very alone.

  When I blink, Tarren is Tarren again. His eyes are angry gray, and his jaw is set against everything I’ve done to make his life this much more complicated.

  “Come on, get up,” he says. “We’re getting noticed. You can rest in the car.”

  I stay on the ground for a while longer, blinking in the darkness, re-programming my lungs to do the breathing thing, and making sure the monster is contained. My muscles are twitching hard, but they’re unlocking from full flex mode, and the bulbs have sunk back down into the hollow pits of my palms.

  Tarren is not stupid enough to offer me his hand when I finally make it to my feet. I’m glad he doesn’t say anything now or while we trudge back to the SUV.

  The song echoes within me, fading so slowly.

  I try to unknot the blindfold, but my fingers are shaky and uncoordinated even now. Instead, I balance the loop of cloth on one finger and hold it out to Tarren. He takes it in a clean snatch then re-establishes the large space between us. I don’t ask, and Tarren offers no explanation.

  “Stay in here,” Tarren tells me when we reach the Murano.

  I just want him to leave, but he leans up against the passenger door and folds his arms across his chest. He gazes down the road, but his eyes are distant, caught up in the stream of his thoughts. Pale yellow hues brighten the edges of his aura.

  “What?” I finally snap.

  “I need to find a way to help you,” Tarren says, and I can tell from the jump in his energy that he didn’t mean to say it out loud. It is a rare thing for Tarren’s control to slip, though he just shrugs and pushes himself off the car.

  Something flickers on his face. Another slip. He turns away from me, and it’s dark so maybe he thinks I can’t see it. But I do, and it’s intolerable.

  Only granite and storm clouds can find a perch on Tarren’s brow. Not this. Not regret. He’s supposed to be the strong one.

  “Stay in the car,” Tarren says again and then walks back to the show.

  Chapter 15

  I curl up in the backseat of the Murano, snivel big mushy snivels, and have myself a good cry. The tears are hot, big as spring raindrops, as they roll down my cheeks and get caught in the corners of my mouth. My muscles are still all twitchy, and I can’t get the tremor out of my hands.

  “Stop,” I whisper to them, “just stop.”

  The song echoes inside me, always, always.

  I gaze out the windshield at the solidly middle-class houses lining the street. The one we’re parked in front of is decked out for Halloween. Crude jack-o-lanterns grin on the front porch, big black spiders hang from polyester webbing, and cardboard gravestones in the yard boast un-funny puns like “Ima Goner” and “Mort U. Ary”. The whole stupid show.

  I try to remember my old house, but my life before the change exists in a dream-like fog. I close my eyes and think about the front door. What color was that door? Brown? Yes, definitely brown.

  I dredge for images of the kitchen cabinets, the pattern around the rim of the plates we used, Henry’s tired face, the smell of hot laundry when Karen dumped it on the couch to fold. My room: white curtains, a big oak dresser from which a rogue tank top or pair of jeans was always in mid-escape, and Raggedy Ann slouched against my books on the brimming bookshelf. The doll was a gift from my grandmother the year before she died.

  I grab onto this memory, visualizing Ann’s stitched mouth, her red yarn hair, her loose left button eye, and the little pucker in her arm that I—Dr. Maya—had sewn up in big, messy stiches when I was a little girl.

  I get out of the car and start walking. There’s no good reason to defy Tarren’s orders, except that I need some fresh air and less thinking. I can’t stand those dumb, grinning jack-o-lanterns and the warm light spilling from the windows of the house.

  I walk around the subdivision on my heavy, twitching legs and pick up faint pulses of energy from the houses I pass. Delight. Boredom. Pleasure. Illness. A baby. In one house, I can hear children and parents playing a game together, shouting out answers and then laughing.

  I keep walking, but now I want to get the hell away from all these different lives. I cross the street and trudge back to the park. Long breaths of wind keep trying to find a breach in my jacket. In the distance, I see a faint circle of trucks and trailers

  At some point, my cell phone dings with a message. I look toward the tent and see bodies streaming out. The show is over. Time to hightail it to the Murano before Tarren and Gabe get back.

  I turn away from the woods and ready myself for a mad dash.

  Except then my ears pop.

  Static crackles inside my head like there’s a faulty antenna between my ears. A low hum breaks out from the static.

  It grows louder, and a slight pressure builds in a long band behind my forehead.

  I take a few timid steps forward and turn my head left, then right. The static and the pressure don’t abate. I shake my head, try to swallow, and plug my ears with my fingers, but the hum only grows louder. This is definitely not a human thing, which means it’s an angel thing, which means it’s bad.

  Really, really bad.

  I stop all my thrashing and just stand still, waiting for my head to explode or something else informative to happen. Maybe horns will drill out of my forehead, or scales will lick down my skin. Instead, words float into my mind beneath the popping static. Words that are not my own.

  Hello Little One

  I twist around frantically but see nothing.

  Walk a little farther back, toward the trailers.

  I don’t move. It’s highly possible that I’ve gone over the deep end. Maybe it was inevitable.

  You’re scared, I know, but I only want to help.

  For no reason whatsoever, except that I am scared and I do need help, I take cautious steps toward the circle of trailers. The hum grows louder as the static fades. It vibrates inside my head, shaking apart all my well-reasoned arguments for not doing exactly what I’m doing. My feet keep moving forward over the flat land. The wind pulls up particles of sandy dirt from the grass with each blow and rattles the tree branches to my left.