Harlin touches my chin and turns me to him. “Did something happen?” His hazel eyes are wide with protectiveness. I shake my head and press my lips together to assure him.
“I must have hit it on something,” I say, somehow knowing it’s not true. “Maybe at Plato’s.”
Harlin’s face softens as he balances me on his thighs, facing him. “You gotta be more careful,” he whispers, leaning forward to kiss the spot. “You know it makes me a murderous psycho to think of you getting hurt.”
I laugh. He’s exaggerating. The closest he’s ever come to murderous psycho was the time he told Mercy’s old landlord to drop dead for locking us out. But other than that, he’s even-tempered. Harlin is a gentle soul. Always has been.
His mouth touches my neck, and I put my hands in his hair, blinking slowly. But as soon as I close my eyes, feeling Harlin’s hand sliding to my waist, I see it. It’s all I can see: 5918 W. Broadway.
I straighten, trying to heave in a breath, but it feels caught. I wheeze and Harlin takes me by the upper arms and moves me over on the bed.
“Charlotte,” he says loudly, putting a hand on my cheek. “Are you having an attack?”
Not now! Not now! But I shake my head yes, making high-pitched noises as I touch at my chest, trying to stay calm. I knew this would happen. I waited too long.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, scrambling off the bed. “Stay here.” He moves quickly toward the bathroom down the hall. Harlin makes me keep an inhaler in his medicine cabinet. I have one at Sarah’s, too. But I can feel that my cover story is beginning to wear thin. Who has asthma like this?
My body is convulsing, lurching forward with each gasp. I should be there by now. I’m late. When I wait too long, the Need gets more powerful. More . . . painful.
The minute I hear Harlin’s bare feet on the wood in the hallway, I clutch my shirt closed and climb off his bed, slipping my feet into my shoes. My head is beating a steady pace with my heart and I wish I could just stay here, in Harlin’s room.
But I know I can’t. This won’t stop until I do what I have to—whatever is needed at 5918 W. Broadway. I stare out into the hallway, hearing Harlin open the medicine cabinet.
Turning away, I stumble toward his bedroom window, gripping the frame. Pushing it up takes nearly all of the strength I have left, but it’s the only way out. I can’t risk walking past the bathroom and having him stop me.
I put one leg at a time over the sill and step out onto the steel grid of the fire escape. I snake my body through the window until I’m out in the dark night, standing above an alleyway. I quickly move down the stairs, buttoning my shirt as I go. I pause once to feel the odd patch of skin on my shoulder, but I’ll have to look it over later. When I’m done.
My breathing improves now that I’m moving. My bones begin to warm a little. Just enough to tell me that I’m going the right way.
Chapter 4
It’s nearly twenty blocks later when I’m standing in front of a crumbling old warehouse, the number 5918 painted on the red bricks. The broken panes of glass are jagged like sets of sinister teeth. This is a really bad idea. There is no way in hell I’d be out here if it wasn’t for the Need. This side of Portland isn’t the safest place to be at night.
A wave pushes through me and I stumble toward the oversized metal doors. A flyer—the same one from Plato’s—is taped in the window. Next week there will be a community event to restore the building, something truly inspiring, I’m sure. But tonight it’s still just an abandoned warehouse. And a creepy one at that.
I step back. Need or not, there is no way I’m going inside. Chances are, there could be a junkie or dealer living inside. It wouldn’t be the first time the Need has put me in this position. Last month I walked into the dark back room of a restaurant. It was filled with drug dealers, their guns out on the tables. I told Anthony that his girlfriend was pregnant and needed him to straighten up. That if he didn’t, she’d leave and he’d never see his kid. I thought for sure I was going to get killed that night, but instead, he listened. And I walked out unscathed.
But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t scared. No . . . whatever it is I’m here for now, I can do it from outside. At least there are streetlights.
There’s an intense heat running under my skin, setting my shoulder on fire. I move the white fabric of my shirt to peek at it. The red blotch is darker now in the center. I feel my stomach turn at the sight. It wasn’t like this at Harlin’s.
I touch it because warmth is pulsating down my arm, seemingly from that spot. But as I brush the skin . . . it rubs off. I hitch in a breath, my eyes wide. I wipe my finger softly over the raised area again and another layer comes off. It’s like goldleaf on a cheap antique—just flaking away.
I’m starting to hyperventilate, but the pain seems to fade with each swipe I take. I press a little harder as I run my fingers over the spot and soon there’s no more skin there. I cry out at the sight of it and cover my eyes with my shaky hands. This isn’t happening. It can’t be. But the burning in my shoulder is gone and it’s pure relief.
I swallow hard and lower my hands, turning to glance at the wound. Only when I do, it’s different. It’s . . . golden.
“Oh my God,” I murmur, brushing at the skin, but nothing else comes off. It’s a layer of gold, under the surface, gleaming in the yellow light of the streetlamps.
“No.” I shake my head, not sure what’s wrong with me. As if the Need isn’t enough. Now my skin? What the hell is wrong with my skin? I blink rapidly and back away from the warehouse, rubbing roughly at my shoulder, trying to get rid of the spot. The gold.
I stumble off the curb and I’m immediately flooded in light from an oncoming car. I scream, holding my arms up in front of me, my white shirt still hanging off my shoulder. Tires squeal. Metal bangs against my thighs and I’m knocked back; the force of it driving me into the ground where my head smacks the pavement with a sick thud. Everything goes black.
“Yo, girl,” I hear. “You alive?”
I blink slowly. No scene comes into focus. All I see is a glowing figure in front of me, a person outlined in light. He’s staring down, alternating between yelling at me and yelling into his phone.
Despite the throbbing of my legs and the daggers in the back of my head, I sit up. My body burns, my bones pull toward the guy, toward his light. Although none of my other Needs have ever glowed like this, I know it’s him. And suddenly images flash and I can see why I’m here.
“Francisco,” I whisper, feeling some relief as I say his name. He jumps away from me, shaking his head.
“Do I know you?” he asks.
There is warm liquid trickling down my cheek and I touch it. It might be blood, but when I look at my hand I can’t tell. All I can see is Francisco. And the impending shoot-out.
I can’t distinguish his features but I can tell he’s scared as he backs away. I groan, getting to my feet, ignoring the aching. I want to help him. I have to.
“You need to turn yourself in,” I say, brushing absently at my blood-soaked hair. “The police know where you are. They’re on their way.” And I can see what will happen if he tries to run. I know they’ll kill him.
“Who are you?” Francisco screams at me, taking his phone from his ear. I feel a jolt of fear as he thinks of striking me, but he doesn’t. He’s too frightened. “Who are you?” he asks again, his voice cracking.
“I’m no one,” I murmur, the words startling me. My tone is so calm, and I don’t feel like myself. All I feel is the Need.
In my head I can see Francisco dressed in black at the curb of a big stone house on the other side of town. He’s younger than I’d thought, maybe twenty? While he waits, his fingers tap on the steering wheel as his best friend, Leo, is inside the home, robbing it.
Leo hadn’t known the man was home. And he didn’t mean to shoot him. Or at least, that’s what Francisco tells himself. That’s what he wants to think.
When he heard the shots, Francisco should
have left, but he couldn’t run. It’s not the way. And he needed the money for his grandma. Leo had promised him 50 percent just to drive.
Here in the street Francisco grasps the handle of his car door. “I didn’t do it,” he calls out to me, as if he can’t help but confess. “I wasn’t in the house!”
I nod and move toward him, needing to touch him. His light is so bright as it glows with his emotions, but I can feel that he’s not listening. He’s not doing what he’s supposed to. He’s almost over.
“Please,” I murmur, seeing his aura flicker toward me, as if reaching out to me. “It’s time. Your grandma needs you alive. She won’t survive if you go.”
He cries out at the mention of his grandmother and runs his hands roughly through his short hair. Suddenly I can tell he’s listening.
“Damn, girl,” he murmurs, like he doesn’t know what to do. He looks around the road, indecisively, and that’s when I reach out. Not because I’m trying to, but because I have to. The vines are back, pulling me to him.
My hot hand touches his forearm and I feel the skin sear underneath, a surge running through both of us. He yanks back, but it’s too late. He’s been touched. He’s felt it. He believes me.
Francisco is gasping as his aura fades from my vision. Now I can see that his hair is cropped short and there’s a ring piercing his dark eyebrow. He’s staring at me, his eyes glassy and trancelike, tears running down his cheeks. I see the fading mark of a handprint on his arm.
“What are you?” he asks, out of breath. “What the hell are you?”
His words hurt me, not like the hurt in my head, which is killing me right now. Not like the deep bruising I can feel in my legs as I stand here, half dazed. His words are exactly what I ask myself every night before I fall asleep. What am I?
I swallow hard. “I don’t know,” I whisper. “I’m no one.”
I wait in the shadows of the alley until the cops arrive. It’s only a matter of minutes, but in that time, Francisco calls his grandmother to confess and then calls his girlfriend, who is waiting for him back at their apartment. And now he’s ready.
Three squad cars blare through the streets and stop in a zigzag around Francisco’s car. My shirt is buttoned up, hiding it, and I realize that I’ve forgotten my new jacket at Harlin’s. Which is just as well. It would have gotten filthy.
I watch as Francisco raises his arms above his head. No one seems to notice me among the flashing lights. I hear the cops radioing back to the dispatchers, saying they’ve caught the perp. I’m relieved. The shoot-out was avoided.
Francisco is bent over the hood of his car as he’s handcuffed and the officer is reading him his rights. Then a chubby, short officer with his gun casually at his side leans toward Francisco.
“Surprised the hell out of me, son. Thought you’d be running all night. What made you stop here?”
I tense, hoping Francisco doesn’t tell them about me. I don’t want to have to explain this—the unexplainable. What would I tell the cops? I’m a freak that’s compelled to help people against my will? That I’ve tried to stop but it hurts too much? I can’t explain what I don’t know. I start to back away when I see Francisco blink, looking confused. Finally, he just mumbles, “I don’t remember.”
With that, I exhale, completely relieved. I start walking and as I’m about to turn onto Powell Street, I see something out of the corner of my eye. When I look, she’s there, just on the other side of the street. The woman from the bus stop.
Her blond hair is a stark contrast against her black leather trench coat and boots. Cops are moving around but no one speaks to her. She’s just watching me. I’m drawn to her, but I don’t move. I’m feeling a little nauseated. When I think this, she smiles. Then she reaches behind her shoulder and pulls her hood up over her head, shading her eyes. She turns on her heels and walks away, the clacking of them on the pavement echoing through the street.
And then it begins to rain.
Chapter 5
Damn it,” I murmur, trying to duck in the doorway of an old building. I’m suddenly freezing without the Need, and my wet white blouse isn’t helping the situation.
I wrap my arms around myself and wait a few minutes. Soon, just as suddenly as it started, the rain stops. I step away from the building, staring up at the night sky. The weather here isn’t usually this unpredictable.
With a heavy sigh, I limp through the dark city streets, wishing a cab would come by, but remembering that I don’t have the money to pay for a ride anyway. Each step is agony and I’m starving. But what’s worse is that Francisco’s words are still in my ears.
What are you?
I reach for my shoulder but then draw my hand away. I don’t want to touch the golden spot. I’m terrified of what’s happening to me.
I wish I really was just psychic. I wish I was anything. Because right now I feel so wrong—running out into the night instead of hooking up with my boyfriend. Knowing things I can’t possibly know. Seeing people’s souls! Despair hits me and I begin to cry, sniffling hard and rubbing at my cheeks. Maybe I’m cursed.
The sound of a motor cuts through the night from behind me and my muscles tense. Anyone out after dark is looking for trouble. At least, that’s what Mercy would say. Careful not to be obvious, I glance over my shoulder toward the single oncoming light of a motorcycle.
Harlin. I nearly explode with relief. I recognize his bike and worn, brown leather jacket and wave at him. I feel saved.
He drives his bike hard into the curb, jumping off of it before it clangs to the ground. “What the hell, Charlotte?” he yells, running to me. “I’ve been looking for you all night!”
I move toward him, wanting him to hold me and tell me that I’m okay. But he stops short on the sidewalk, the color draining from his face. His eyes are wide with concern, but then he rushes forward and throws his arms around me. “What happened? Are you okay?”
I’m confused, but then I remember the accident. Smacking my head. The warm liquid that soaked my hair and traveled down my cheek. I probably look really bad.
“I got hit by a car,” I answer quietly, watching him as he examines me. I breathe deeply, comforted by his smell. I want to tell him about the Need, about the golden skin. But I don’t. Because once I tell him I can’t take it back and he’ll know for sure that I’m a freak. How can he love someone whose skin is falling off?
“A car! Are you serious?” Harlin pulls back and looks me over from head to toe, just in case I’m missing a leg and he hasn’t noticed before now. “Is anything broken? Didn’t they stop?” He’s shaking his head, overwhelmed. I close my eyes and lean into him, letting him wrap me up in his arms.
I’m too tired to make up a lie right now. “Can you take me to the clinic?” I ask, not lifting my head from his shoulder. The clinic will be closed soon. I really don’t think anything is broken, but I’m bleeding from the head and the emergency room just seems like such a hassle. And then there’s the issue of my skin. What if they see it? They might send me to Area 51 or some top-secret lab.
“Of course I’ll take you.” Harlin keeps his arm around me as he leads me to his motorcycle. “You should tell me why the hell you climbed out my fire escape,” he mumbles. “But first, I think you need stitches.”
I nod, not sure how I’ll explain away tonight’s disappearing act, but instead of worrying, I press my cheek against his chest as we walk to his bike.
“How do you get hit by a car on Broadway at this time of night?” Monroe asks in his British accent. He’s treated all kinds of injuries, but he definitely seems to get more serious when it’s me—maybe because he’s known me for so long. With the situations the Need puts me in, it’s not that rare for me to require the occasional stitch or splint. I can usually avoid the head trauma, though.
He continues with a long sigh. “I give you the night off and you become a streetwalker? It’s embarrassing, really.”
I tell him to shut the hell up, but I’m glad he hasn’t called Merc
y. She’s going to have a coronary when she hears about this. I still haven’t thought of a way to explain why I was out.
I shift on the exam table, thinking of Harlin in the waiting room. I’ll have to tell him something. I just don’t know what.
“Stay still, Charlotte,” Monroe warns as he ties off the thread and then grabs the scissors to snip it.
“Sorry.” I sit on the crinkling paper while he cleans off the metal tray and goes to the sink to wash his hands. When he first examined me, Monroe was quick to give me a Vicodin after getting a look at the huge, bumper-sized bruises on my thighs. It’s left me a little groggy, but that’s good. He told me I’d be really sore for a few days, but that there was no permanent damage.
When I told him not to call the cops to report the accident, he definitely eyed me suspiciously, scratching at his slightly graying five o’clock shadow. But Monroe and I have known each other forever—he trusts me. And I’m sure he’ll expect me to explain later.
When I was seven, I came into this clinic with a broken arm that I’d gotten on the school playground. Max Rothsberg didn’t want to hear that I knew he’d stolen money out of the donation basket. Instead, he pushed me down and snap!
Oddly enough, a week later when I went back to school, he didn’t remember even talking to me about it. He’d given the money back while I was gone. I tried to tell one of the nuns right when the Need happened, but she chalked it up to childhood delusions and scolded me for lying. She said that kids can’t see visions—only God can. So after that I kept my mouth shut.
Mercy was volunteering at the clinic during those years and sometimes she’d bring me in with her. I liked hanging around. Monroe would talk with me about school. About my home life. It was nice sometimes, having a person other than Mercy care about me. Monroe’s the closest thing to a father I’ve ever known. So when I turned twelve and Monroe asked me to volunteer, I was happy to say yes.
Just being here at the clinic, I feel a zillion times better. It’s so familiar. Safe.