An elephant that’s killing our kind.
I close my phone as the waitress brings me breakfast and my coffee, a caramel latte with extra foam and whipped cream.
“Well, well,” Carter’s familiar voice calls. I roll my eyes and focus on my cup. Maybe I can will him to go away. Close my eyes and wish? Nope. Carter’s still there in all his brown-leather-jacket-in-the-summer and bright-blue-shoes glory.
“My stalker,” I say, setting the cup down next to my phone. “I see you’re already busy at work.”
“I can’t take time off. Got to know where you are or else I couldn’t bother you. I did tell you I’d see you,” Carter says. He pulls out the chair next to mine, and it scratches across the floor. I glare at him. I hate when people encroach on my space. “Plus, where else can I be in the presence of such an incredible amount of snark?”
I snort. “I’m sure you have no problem finding large quantities of it.”
“You’d be surprised,” he says, his eyes focusing on mine. I don’t linger in his look. I focus on my coffee and Rafael Ezrati, because that is what’s at stake. I take another sip of my coffee, but my stomach has that queasy feeling again.
“What have you been up to this morning?” he asks.
“You’re the stalker. Shouldn’t you know?”
The waitress—a young Non with pink-and-blue-streaked hair—walks up to the table. I steal another sip of my latte but it doesn’t sit well. She smiles at Carter, completely ignoring me, and leans against the table, purring like a cat in heat. She chomps her jaws, blowing a bubble with her gum. Gross.
“Can I get you anything?”
He leans forward, his arms crossed over the table. She leans in, too. I stare at my coffee, not wanting it anymore. “What would you recommend?”
She blushes and tosses her hair. “We have the most unique coffee in town. It’s best dark and strong.”
I roll my eyes. Is this working? I hope she chokes on that gum.
“I’ll take it,” he says with a wink. I’m going to barf. In fact, it’s as if there’s a storm stirring inside me. Like it’s only going to take a small tilt to push me over the edge. I tilt the coffee around in the cup.
The waitress skips—actually skips—away from our table. I silently wish for her to trip. Carter looks very pleased with himself and laughs a little before settling his gaze back on me.
“You’re something else, you know that?” I say.
“Jealousy is cute on you, Pen.”
“Don’t call me that,” I snap, pushing my coffee away from me. “And I’m not jealous.”
He leans back on the chair. “Sure. And I don’t think you’re adorable.” I jerk my eyes up. He’s smiling. Screw this—this is so frustrating. I tap my foot under the table.
“We’re stating the facts, right?” he says.
“Right,” I say.
I don’t have time for this. And what is wrong with this coffee? I feel like I swallowed a fire and it’s all just burning at my stomach.
“You look sick again,” he says.
The poorly—or perfectly—timed waitress comes back with Carter’s coffee and a whole tray of drinks. Carter, obviously, flirts again. I don’t know if he’s doing it to get a reaction out of me, but I’m not going to give him one. I watch him and say nothing, but the whole time it feels darker inside my head and my stomach whirs. It’s more empty, and more full, and unsettled at once. The waitress turns to leave a when it happens.
The waitress coughs, as if she suddenly can’t breathe, and trips. She flies through the air. The tray spills all over a table of four. I gasp, horrified. Another waitress grabs her by the waist, trying to give her the Heimlich. The waitress coughs out the gum. She’s crying hysterically, apologizing to the customers dripping with water.
The weirdest part? As soon it happens, all the fury that was building up inside me disappears. It’s calm again, normal. The change is so sudden that my fingernails dig into the table. All I can hear is the waitress’s cry.
“I don’t know what happened,” she sobs over and over again. I close my eyes. Everything inside me is completely still. No storm, no clawing, no emptiness or fullness. In fact, I’m suddenly starving.
Carter’s looking at me when I open my eyes. There’s something unsettling in his gaze, something suspicious.
“I gotta go,” I say. He starts to say something. I don’t stay long enough to find out what it is.
Somehow I just did magic.
“Target ready,” a crisp robotic voice yells out at me.
I don’t even let the whole phrase finish before I pull the trigger. There’s a pop that echoes, and orange paint pellets hurl toward a human-shaped target. It hits right in the heart and explodes. Another pretend demon down. I feel like a Power Ranger—well, I would if I had power. Whatever that was at the coffee shop an hour ago is long gone now.
I load the paint gun with another round. I wanted that waitress to choke on her gum. I wanted her to trip. And she did. Pretty much simultaneously. How did that happen? Even if I could’ve, I didn’t call on my magic. I didn’t connect to it with the elements; I saw it and then it happened. I can’t create something from nothing. That doesn’t happen. But it did—twice. What does that mean?
Thank God for the shooting range. Even if it’s only paintballs it’s a good stress relief.
I pull the trigger and shoot, shoot, shoot. Three pink shots, all in a row.
A hand brushes my shoulder and I jump, gun pointed at the angst-interrupter. It’s Pop, and his hands are raised in the air. I toss the gun down like it’s poison.
“I could have shot you!”
Pop laughs, a deep hearty laugh that warms up the room. “I reckon I shouldn’t sneak up on a girl with a paint gun. You weren’t answering the phone. Been waiting outside for half an hour.”
I toss off my protective eyewear, which is a fancy phrase for big, ugly plastic glasses, and pull out my phone. Seven missed calls. Oops. Guess I was in the mood to kill some things, even paper things.
In the car, Pop taps the steering wheel as we drive home. The whole car smells like engine oil from the shop, but it’s oddly comforting. It’s almost enough to take my mind off this horrible day and Rafael Ezrati. Almost. Until Pop decides to talk again.
“How was your first exam day?” There’s a glow hidden under the shade of his eyes and a soft smile on his face.
I huff as the car slows to a stop outside our house. Pop looks out the window, then back at me. There’s something lingering on his lips. I can see the fight under the surface. He always gets this strained furrow between his eyebrows when he’s not sure what he wants to say. In the end, the easier side wins. I think it’s the easier side anyway. Unlike Gran, it’s harder to tell what’s going on with Pop.
“Come for a walk with me,” he says.
I don’t hesitate. I unbuckle the seat belt and trip over myself trying to get out of the car.
“You okay?” he asks, closing his door. I nod. Sure, I’m okay. Yesterday I expelled a demon. Today, I practically lost everything, and almost killed a waitress with Jedi mind tricks. I’m peachy.
I strap on a smile. “Of course I am. It was a long day.”
“How did it go?”
“I’m going back tomorrow, so I guess I didn’t do too badly.”
We walk together in silence. Past the Nons barbecuing on their lawns, trimming the grass, playing with water sprinklers in their front yards. Some of them wave, but most of them don’t pay attention to us. The life around us is a melody, happy and bright. Pop doesn’t speak. I like the silence between us. Pop is good with silence. He has this presence about him so even when he’s not speaking, he’s saying more than words.
After my parents died, he would sit with me. I had this spot in a closet in the upstairs bedroom that no one’s used since the 1900s. I found it, crawled inside and never wanted to come out. Pop would bring me sandwiches, even though Gran insisted I needed to come out. I slept there for two nights. When I opened my eyes, he’d be there, watching me. We never said anything, but having him near was enough.