Read Online Anywhere But Here (The Starborn Ascension) by Jason D. Morrow - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jason D. Morrow
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him will be truly tested in a few minutes. I feel nervous, but confident. There is no reason I should get caught. I’ve got an advantage over anyone that might try to catch me. I suppose that the nervousness that creeps into me comes from knowing that I can’t be completely sure I won’t get caught.
I turn my head toward the second story of the headquarters building and try to focus my hearing. The sound of a few hundred or more people breathing heavily, snoring loudly, and some of them arguing in bed come into my head all at once, but the key is to tune all that out. The voices, the breaths, all fade away as I focus on the second floor. If Paxton is awake, I will hear him breathing, I will hear the sound of movement, the turning of pages, the creak of a chair.
My eyebrows crease when I hear a short squeak and the sound of tiny nails scratching against a wall. My lips curl up into a smile as I pull my head away and turn to look up at Headquarters. The second floor is quiet as a mouse.
I glance to my left toward the wall and see the guards still chatting away. To my right, the street is clear. No patrols yet. This is going to be too easy. I stand with my back still hunched over as though I’m ducking for cover from bullets. It feels stupid since there isn’t anyone around - almost like I’m pretending to run from bad guys. Within three seconds I’m standing in front of the Headquarters door. The faded words above read The Crestwood Café , and I suddenly remember that most cafés answered each new customer with the sound of a happy bell. Though I’m sure the cute welcoming jingle used to put a smile on someone’s face, it’s a quick way for me to get caught.
I bite my lower lip and look from side-to-side. Would anyone actually hear it? At midnight, most people in Crestwood would have been asleep for at least a couple of hours. Of course, who knows how deeply Paxton sleeps when he’s actually out.
I decide against going through the front door and make my way to the left of the building. There is a narrow alley that leads to the next street over, but it’s the door next to the dumpster that catches my attention. I walk swiftly but softly to the door and feel the doorknob. It is locked, but I had expected as much. I reach for my back pocket and pull out a tiny flathead screwdriver - the kind people used to have for repairing glasses. I would have never thought about carrying one of these things around before I had been on the road for a few months. A guy named Jerome taught me its wonderful uses and I’ve always made sure to keep one on me. Luckily, Gabe hadn’t seen it as a threat when they took my knife and gun away. I remember half-heartedly smiling at him and saying that if I ever live to be forty, I might need reading glasses.
I insert the screwdriver into the lock and wiggle it softly until the blade is between the tumblers. With a gentle push and a soft twist, the knob turns as easily as if Paxton had made me a copy of the key. Before opening the door all the way, I hold my breath for a moment, listening for movement ahead of me. The worst part of sneaking around is being caught by surprise. I would rather know my doom was ahead of me than be blindsided by it. There is nothing but silence ahead. Quietly, I pull the screwdriver from the doorknob and slip it back into my pocket.
I pull the door open all the way, relieved there is no squeak from the hinges. I hold onto the side of it until it closes silently behind me. I let out a sigh of relief and turn to find myself in the café’s old kitchen, though it isn’t much of a kitchen anymore. Sinks sit dirty and bare, and refrigerators stand open and unplugged. Dirt and a sticky slime is pasted against the walls. A roach narrowly escapes the destructive power of my boot as I take a step forward.
This place isn’t quite up to code, I think to myself. Of course, the kitchen has probably never been used by Paxton or anyone else here for that
I turn my head toward the second story of the headquarters building and try to focus my hearing. The sound of a few hundred or more people breathing heavily, snoring loudly, and some of them arguing in bed come into my head all at once, but the key is to tune all that out. The voices, the breaths, all fade away as I focus on the second floor. If Paxton is awake, I will hear him breathing, I will hear the sound of movement, the turning of pages, the creak of a chair.
My eyebrows crease when I hear a short squeak and the sound of tiny nails scratching against a wall. My lips curl up into a smile as I pull my head away and turn to look up at Headquarters. The second floor is quiet as a mouse.
I glance to my left toward the wall and see the guards still chatting away. To my right, the street is clear. No patrols yet. This is going to be too easy. I stand with my back still hunched over as though I’m ducking for cover from bullets. It feels stupid since there isn’t anyone around - almost like I’m pretending to run from bad guys. Within three seconds I’m standing in front of the Headquarters door. The faded words above read The Crestwood Café , and I suddenly remember that most cafés answered each new customer with the sound of a happy bell. Though I’m sure the cute welcoming jingle used to put a smile on someone’s face, it’s a quick way for me to get caught.
I bite my lower lip and look from side-to-side. Would anyone actually hear it? At midnight, most people in Crestwood would have been asleep for at least a couple of hours. Of course, who knows how deeply Paxton sleeps when he’s actually out.
I decide against going through the front door and make my way to the left of the building. There is a narrow alley that leads to the next street over, but it’s the door next to the dumpster that catches my attention. I walk swiftly but softly to the door and feel the doorknob. It is locked, but I had expected as much. I reach for my back pocket and pull out a tiny flathead screwdriver - the kind people used to have for repairing glasses. I would have never thought about carrying one of these things around before I had been on the road for a few months. A guy named Jerome taught me its wonderful uses and I’ve always made sure to keep one on me. Luckily, Gabe hadn’t seen it as a threat when they took my knife and gun away. I remember half-heartedly smiling at him and saying that if I ever live to be forty, I might need reading glasses.
I insert the screwdriver into the lock and wiggle it softly until the blade is between the tumblers. With a gentle push and a soft twist, the knob turns as easily as if Paxton had made me a copy of the key. Before opening the door all the way, I hold my breath for a moment, listening for movement ahead of me. The worst part of sneaking around is being caught by surprise. I would rather know my doom was ahead of me than be blindsided by it. There is nothing but silence ahead. Quietly, I pull the screwdriver from the doorknob and slip it back into my pocket.
I pull the door open all the way, relieved there is no squeak from the hinges. I hold onto the side of it until it closes silently behind me. I let out a sigh of relief and turn to find myself in the café’s old kitchen, though it isn’t much of a kitchen anymore. Sinks sit dirty and bare, and refrigerators stand open and unplugged. Dirt and a sticky slime is pasted against the walls. A roach narrowly escapes the destructive power of my boot as I take a step forward.
This place isn’t quite up to code, I think to myself. Of course, the kitchen has probably never been used by Paxton or anyone else here for that
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