Laura’s fault this time, guys. Not sure what intrigued her, but I’m blaming Chat last night with Trip and Nehs. Either way, here goes another random Block Busters moment:
4. Write about the pride before the fall.
Happy reading!
I held the door open for her before attempting to shove her lithe form through. Her pace was too casual, something I didn’t have the time nor grace for. She made a noise of protest, but I was too concerned with the men rushing around outside looking for the two of us. Listen to that! The two of us. Siblings of the most unacquainted variety—raised by different families, yet hunted all the same.
It’s a crippling sort of realization, you know, being hunted for you blood. Now I know how a vampire’s victim must have felt. I’ve come to detest Dracula over the years. He’s become a sort of joke among our community, though. A poor one, but a joke all the same. “Did you hear about Molly? Poor girl, Dracula got her.”
It means she was killed.
Inside the corner store, eyes were on us. This was not one of our places. I knew that much from the easy atmosphere. Well, it was easy before we stumbled through the door in all our hurry and desperation—my hurry and desperation. Lorelei’s too proper for desperation.
The tables are clean, a young man has paused, wide-eyed, afraid; his hand holding a wet rag is unmoving atop one of the tables. Behind the counter, a girl of about seventeen, I’d say, frantically looks between me and my companion, wondering if we’ll cause trouble. How can I tell her I only want not to be hunted? I want to walk home unfettered. I want to hold my baby boy in my arms without fear of his mother knowing the truth about what I am—what he will be.
Instinctively, I look to the woman at my side, my sister. She was raised with a family of our kind, and she is less inhibited that myself. She wouldn’t hesitate to use her abilities in this small store if it came to that. That’s when it dawns on me, I can’t tell the girl behind the counter that we don’t mean any harm because that would only be half of the truth. I look away from my sister, suddenly full of both envy and contempt. She could demolish this building, as could I; the only difference is, she would, given the chance.
This meant we needed to leave. Now.
I tug at her sleeve, motioning with a nod of my head that we should leave the way we came. She gives me a dry look, a cruel ‘you’re weak’ sort of glare. I’d like to tell her that no, I’m not weak. I just know the weight of a heart broken by the world, a weight she has yet to register is draped across even her shoulders. But without acknowledging it, she only carries an unseen bulk which makes her bitter and angry at all the wrong sorts of people—people like these, drinking coffee and eating bagels and the like on a morning they thought to be innocent. I am not yet so hateful to them as to doom their lives for a coffee break.
Begrudgingly, my sister moves to exit the café, a look of betrayal across her features. Before she can grip the handle, though, one of the men from before speaks up from the back of the store, his voice becoming clearer the closer he comes.
“A coffee shop, Lorelei? Your hiding places are getting more pathetic.” This man had a death wish, and reducing the city’s population by a dozen or so didn’t seem to bother him if it meant he had a trophy. One he would receive postmortem if my sister had anything to do with it.
My sister smiled. She would play with this one, it seemed. “I only wanted a latte. Had I been hiding, you would not have found me.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that. You leave something of a trail anywhere you go.” The man made a point, I admitted inwardly. Everywhere she went, Lorelei left her own mark. This moment would mark our stop in this town. Another building collapsed, another death toll reported on the news, and all attributed to Lorelei the Wind Reaper and her accomplice. I don’t have a name, apparently.
“And you would know something about marks, wouldn’t you Cole?” She was referring to the assassination of several of our friends. Some probably by this man, Cole.
“Something, yes.” The man smirked, visibly angering my sister. It wasn’t long before there were gusts of wind whipping about in the room. Chairs moved forcefully across the floor, drinks were sprayed across the floor, walls, and occupants. Many had started to leave when Cole showed up, but more had stayed, curious, no doubt. Now even the curious bystanders were smart enough to try to leave, but the rampant winds forced several to huddle down into their coats or under one of the shaking tables.
Cole pulled a gun from the inside of his jacket, an expected move, and the wind increased, blinding the man. I stood to the side, avoiding my sister’s wrath as much as possible. This was something I’d grown accustomed to, and I knew to simply stay out of her way. She certainly didn’t need my help.
The gunshot surprised me. It hadn’t come from Cole. Instead, there was another of the hunters outside, a gun aimed at the now fallen Wind Reaper. She looked so still splayed out across the floor. Her hair moved in her created wind, it, too, slowing as the wind died.
It wasn’t so much an intention as a feeling. A feeling of looseness, of release. Next thing I knew, the walls of the café were scorched, none of the occupants were alive. The man who’d shot my sister, a young man with cropped, dark brunet hair was outside, lain on the sidewalk. He, too, looked scorched and frayed. His shoes even looked melted, and there was an eerie look to his skin.
I sighed, looking down the street. A few blocks ahead, people were scampering in the opposite direction. I left my sister in the café. She’d be fine there, really. For an elementalist, you either died in a coffee shop or out in a field, in your own home or in an abandoned factory. Same as everyone else, just different circumstances. I look down to my hands, almost wanting to laugh at the phrase. If anything, different circumstances identified me more than anything else would. Of course, with many more instances like this, I’d get my own title, and people would know my name as they had known Lorelei’s. I didn’t want fame, though.
I looked in the opposite direction of the fleeing citizens, where my sister and I had come from. A few states back a blond-headed boy would be asking where his father was.
I silently wondered the same.
