A chilly wind burned the tips of her ears and numbed her nose, but the day had been well above freezing, and the creek, a few hundred yards away, roared with meltwater. Despite her inhumanly sensitive ears, the combination of the two would drown out the sound of anyone approaching. She reminded herself to be very cautious.
No headlights were coming on the road, and nothing moved in the monochrome moonlight. After a moment’s additional wary observation, Tara crouched, put a palm on the snowy edge of the roof, and vaulted lightly to the ground. Her feet crunched in the crusty remnants of the snow. She hoped anyone who saw her footprints would assume a large mountain lion had passed this way.
She quickly hurried across the open space to the garage, mindful of potential observers. After slipping through the side door and shutting it behind her, Tara stood silently, listening. The flooded creek rumbled distantly, but it was muted, and she could now hear other noises. Pack rats scrabbled in the boxes — she never bothered with evicting them from the garage. It took a lot of effort, and everything here had already been trashed by rodents long before she’d come to be trapped here.
The building creaked. The wind whistled softly through the cracks. She moved with slow, cautious steps. Her toenails, every bit as sharp as her claws, clicked on the oil-stained concrete floor. Resolutely, she ignored that last ticking noise. The footsteps didn’t sound like , and it was best she didn’t dwell on that.
There was a path through the piled junk because Todd’s apartment was at the back of the garage. To either side of that claustrophobically dark and narrow passage, tattered and stained boxes rose all the way to the ceiling. She’d opened some of them, and in addition to rat crap by the shovelful, she’d found an eclectic array of parts and supplies. Mrs. Riley had stocked everything from hundreds of citronella candles — the rats had found those tasty, and only the empty jars were left — to thousands of small boxes of screws, nails, and staples. Much of the “camping” gear was also here, including numerous rodent-chewed tents and backpacks, at least twenty Coleman lanterns, and an entire milk crate full of little bottles of water purification tablets. Two vehicles were buried under the boxes, a side-by-side Rhino and an old Jeep.
There was a chance that the binding spell that tied Tara to the property would shatter if she were physically forced past the boundary — or, it might kill her. She wasn’t sure, but on her first Christmas alone here, when it became clear her father and brothers weren’t ever going to come help hershe’d grown desperate enough to find out. That day, she’d tried to start the huge six-person Rhino with the idea that she could aim it down the road, strap herself in, tie the wheel straight, and keep going until she passed the edge of the spell.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Unfortunately, aside from a very dead battery, the rats had gotten to the wiring and even the hoses. The seats were chewed down to bare metal. That vehicle wasn’t going anywhere without extensive repairs.
Parked next to the side-by-side was an old Jeep Willys, in a similar state, plus it had a flat tire. The condition of the Willys hurt her soul. Someone had loved it once; it had clearly been in good condition before it was parked.
Nose wrinkled with distaste at the filth that covered the vehicles, she scrambled over the top of them to the far side of the garage. There, dozens of crates of one-pound propane canisters reached all the way to the rafters. She pulled one box down from the top, took out four bottles, shook the rodent turds off, and turned around with the sole goal of escaping from this filthy nightmare of a building. Every time she entered the garage, she wanted a hot shower, which was as unattainable here as her very freedom. At least there was plenty of bleach back in her room to soak the propane canisters with before she used them — and to wash her entire body with.
A truck pulled into the yard, sound barely audible over the roar of the creek. Tara froze in place as she heard the engine shut off and the door open. Heavy booted feet squeaked through the snow outside. A flashlight flicked across the window.
Moving with nimble silence, she hopped off the hood of the side-by-side and ducked down into a trash-choked space between it and the Jeep. There, she held her breath and engaged an illusion of absence as the door opened.
The strain from the magic was immediate, and when she realized who was out there, she let the spell go, carefully grounding it back into the earth. Like his brother, Mark probably had some sort of Gift, but Granny had claimed his head injury meant he couldn’t concentrate in exactly the right way to use it. However, she feared he might feel the pull on the leys when she used her magic — and he had a long history of spotting her despite her efforts in the past. It would be best to simply keep her head down and hope he didn’t notice her.
“Shoulda been locked,” Mark muttered. “I have to talk to the realtor. God, this place is such a dump.”
For a moment, she thought there was somebody else with him. Her sensitive nose only detected Mark’s scent, however. It was a mix of cheap cologne, a craptastic diet, and Suave strawberry-scented shampoo. He had surprisingly good hygiene.
He continued to talk to himself as he retrieved something from one of the jam-packed shelves. She learned he was on the outs with his roommates, and after a fight, the police had told him to leave. He had nowhere else to go, save his mother’s place.
Her breath caught in her throat. How could she possibly remain undetected with Mark living here? This was a disaster.
While she tried not to hyperventilate in terror, there was a flare of golden firelight — a lantern. The glow flickered across the ceiling above her head as Mark carried it into the room at the back of the garage.
Then, briefly, he went outside and returned with a bucket of water that he’d presumably dipped out of the creek. She could hear it sloshing. The sharp scents of chlorine and soap filled the air. He grumbled and cussed, but he didn’t stop for several hours.
From her hiding hole between the two vehicles, she couldn't see much but heard him moving around. She barely avoided reacting when he flung a large, black, heavy plastic bag full of trash on top of the side-by-side. It tumbled down to rest on her back.
There was a snapping sound, and then a rubber glove landed on her head
“Fucking pigsty,” Mark muttered. “Never fucking get it clean. Fucking sleep in my fucking truck.”
He slammed the door on the way out.
Tara didn’t dare move from her hiding place as long as the truck was there.
What was she going to do?
Sci-fi ? Telepathy ? Psychics
The technocracy will fall. And my powers started it all. Oops.
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- Seven-book interconnected series.
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