been, but stopped myself, my mind unwilling to go there.
Instead, I pulled out my laptop and went searching for bitsof inspiration in the designs and architecture of all the buildings I knew Alexander Belarus had built across the city.
My mind must have wandered, because time passed—how much, I didn’t know—but I snapped to when a sound rose up to catch my attention above the clamor of the city seeping in through the French doors I had cracked open across the room to let in a little of the crisp late-September air. A
close
sound, one of footsteps on the metal grates on the fire escape rising up the far side of the terrace.
I leapt up from the couch and quickly padded across the room. I swept up one of my great-great-grandfather’s works as I went—a great stone book, one of the heavier ones I had the strength to lift. It would work for braining anyone stupid enough to try coming in through my window, if I could raise the damn thing over my head.
My heart pounded hard in my throat.
Stupid,
I thought. Had I been careless enough to have been followed home by my attacker? I didn’t think so, but at least I was ready this time. I pressed myself to the side of my window and hefted the book up, my arms already aching. Suddenly I realized the knife in my bag would have been a better choice, but it was too late for that now.
The doors flew open and a single shadowy figure dashed into the room before I could even bring the book down on top of it, which was fortunate for me. A certain blue-haired girl twisted around when she saw me standing there with the massive stone book. She tripped over her own feet, going down with none of her dancer’s grace to help her, landing with a heavy
thud
on the floor.
“Rory…?” I said, relieved. I lowered the stone book. “You know, normal people use the stairs.”
She stood up from where she had landed on the floor, brushing herself off, her breathing a little labored. “When you make some normal friends, let me know.”
I thought about it for a moment. “Fair enough…”
She pushed her messed-up blue bangs out of her eyes.
“Jesus, Lexi,” she said, eyeing the stone book in my hands. “Who were you expecting? Charles Manson?”
I relaxed, lowering the book until it hung at the ends of my arms. “Sorry,” I said. “It’s been a night.”
“I bet,” she said, smoothing down her shirt. “Glad to see you didn’t end it with the murder of your best friend.”
Another sound rose up on the terrace and I spun around. Well, as quick as someone carrying a stone book half her weight could, anyway. I had the book almost over my head when Rory put her hands on mine, easing it back down.
“Easy,” she said. “It’s just Marshall.”
Marshall’s lanky body came into view climbing up the stairs of the fire escape. He crossed over to us at the French doors, his eyes fixed on me, full of terror.
“Relax,” I said. “I’m not going to hit you.”
The terror stayed on his face as he fumbled his way in through the doors, slamming them shut behind him. “That’s not it,” he said, fighting harder for each breath than Rory had. “Heights…Don’t…like them.”
Rory patted him on the shoulder. “Funny for a guy who stands so tall.”
“That fire escape terrifies me,” Marshall said. “It’s just bolts holding it into brick. Don’t trust it. And as to your point, dear Rory, the difference is that if I slip while just standing around, I don’t plummet several stories down, now, do I?”
Rory shook her head and looked at me.
I shrugged. “It’s a fair point,” I said.
Marshall looked at the stone book in my hands, nervous now. “Is that…Were you going to…?”
“Crush our heads in…?” Rory offered. “Yeah. What gives, Lexi? What’s got you so jacked up?”
“Promise me you’ll be less freak-outish to my story than my parents were,” I said, going for my shoulder bag. I fished out the knife with the white carved handle and held it up.
Instead, I pulled out my laptop and went searching for bitsof inspiration in the designs and architecture of all the buildings I knew Alexander Belarus had built across the city.
My mind must have wandered, because time passed—how much, I didn’t know—but I snapped to when a sound rose up to catch my attention above the clamor of the city seeping in through the French doors I had cracked open across the room to let in a little of the crisp late-September air. A
close
sound, one of footsteps on the metal grates on the fire escape rising up the far side of the terrace.
I leapt up from the couch and quickly padded across the room. I swept up one of my great-great-grandfather’s works as I went—a great stone book, one of the heavier ones I had the strength to lift. It would work for braining anyone stupid enough to try coming in through my window, if I could raise the damn thing over my head.
My heart pounded hard in my throat.
Stupid,
I thought. Had I been careless enough to have been followed home by my attacker? I didn’t think so, but at least I was ready this time. I pressed myself to the side of my window and hefted the book up, my arms already aching. Suddenly I realized the knife in my bag would have been a better choice, but it was too late for that now.
The doors flew open and a single shadowy figure dashed into the room before I could even bring the book down on top of it, which was fortunate for me. A certain blue-haired girl twisted around when she saw me standing there with the massive stone book. She tripped over her own feet, going down with none of her dancer’s grace to help her, landing with a heavy
thud
on the floor.
“Rory…?” I said, relieved. I lowered the stone book. “You know, normal people use the stairs.”
She stood up from where she had landed on the floor, brushing herself off, her breathing a little labored. “When you make some normal friends, let me know.”
I thought about it for a moment. “Fair enough…”
She pushed her messed-up blue bangs out of her eyes.
“Jesus, Lexi,” she said, eyeing the stone book in my hands. “Who were you expecting? Charles Manson?”
I relaxed, lowering the book until it hung at the ends of my arms. “Sorry,” I said. “It’s been a night.”
“I bet,” she said, smoothing down her shirt. “Glad to see you didn’t end it with the murder of your best friend.”
Another sound rose up on the terrace and I spun around. Well, as quick as someone carrying a stone book half her weight could, anyway. I had the book almost over my head when Rory put her hands on mine, easing it back down.
“Easy,” she said. “It’s just Marshall.”
Marshall’s lanky body came into view climbing up the stairs of the fire escape. He crossed over to us at the French doors, his eyes fixed on me, full of terror.
“Relax,” I said. “I’m not going to hit you.”
The terror stayed on his face as he fumbled his way in through the doors, slamming them shut behind him. “That’s not it,” he said, fighting harder for each breath than Rory had. “Heights…Don’t…like them.”
Rory patted him on the shoulder. “Funny for a guy who stands so tall.”
“That fire escape terrifies me,” Marshall said. “It’s just bolts holding it into brick. Don’t trust it. And as to your point, dear Rory, the difference is that if I slip while just standing around, I don’t plummet several stories down, now, do I?”
Rory shook her head and looked at me.
I shrugged. “It’s a fair point,” I said.
Marshall looked at the stone book in my hands, nervous now. “Is that…Were you going to…?”
“Crush our heads in…?” Rory offered. “Yeah. What gives, Lexi? What’s got you so jacked up?”
“Promise me you’ll be less freak-outish to my story than my parents were,” I said, going for my shoulder bag. I fished out the knife with the white carved handle and held it up.
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