conveniently hiding in some
bushes.
“Come on,” Chain growls next to me.
His voice snaps the tenuous chords
of my concentration, dragging me back into my body. That growl of his is so
fake, so obviously practiced. Everything about Chain screams danger, from his
tight black clothing and the holsters under his arms, to the rusted chain on
his hips and the quiet, blank face that hides his rage. But my abilities let me
see more. Chain is a fake. His black clothing is a costume, his mask a poor
copy of Tarren’s. I wonder if the day will come when he totally loses himself to
the part he’s trying to play.
Without a word, I start walking.
Chain matches my pace, and his belt clinks with each step. We make a slow
circuit around the “village” and then move out 200 yards to make another lap. I
try to open my mind, doing a mental sweep for Rain’s energy, but Chain’s aura
distracts me. It jumps up and down, crackling with barely contained emotions.
I know the emotion inside of him isn’t
all anger. He’s worried too, maybe even as worried as I am. He and Rain shared
a crucible together – Poughkeepsie – and that horror-fest bonded them like
soldiers trapped together behind enemy lines. Red, red, red in his aura
accompanied by big, bright swirls of orange. Worry and anger fueling each
other.
“We’ll find him,” I say, more to
just project something positive into the universe than any real belief.
“This is the risk we take,” Chain
responds in a flat voice that he might think is stoic. If I couldn’t see his
aura practically burning him from the inside, I might think that he didn’t
care.
“You’re full of bullshit,” I inform
him. “Rain practically considers you a brother.” An unstable, worrying
brother, I don’t say out loud.
Chain’s flashlight sweeps the
sidewalk in front of us. I don’t need the light. My eyes are just fine in the
dark with the glow of the swollen moon overhead.
“It’s dangerous to get attached,”
Chain says. I don’t think he even notices that his fingers grip the belt around
his hips. I used to mercilessly mock the belt and Chain’s badass persona when
Rain and I were together until he finally told me what the belt meant. It’s the
chain the angels used to hold them and 18 other captives in a fetid barn on an
isolated farm in Poughkeepsie, New York. I can’t decide if the belt serves Chain
as a reminder of why the angels must die, or if it means something else, like how
even the worst nightmares must come to an end.
I glance sideways at Chain again.
Damn, he’s so young. Eighteen years old, Rain told me. Maybe the outer cool
covering the inner rage is what he needs, a part to play so he doesn’t have to
be that scared boy trapped in hell anymore.
I sigh. “It’s not your fault,” I
tell him.
“What’s not my fault?” He sounds
angry already.
“I know Rain is your friend. I
know…”
“Don’t do that,” Chain cuts me off.
“Don’t feel sorry for me. This is part of the mission. Today was probably just
his day.”
All the worry washes over me again,
and my hand goes to my phone. I know Rain hasn’t texted or called – I would
have felt the vibration – but I look at my phone anyway praying for some
magical silent message to be on my screen. I press redial and strain my ears. I
know Rain has his phone on vibrate, but if we’re close enough, I might still be
able to hear it.
Pick up, pick up, pick up. I
listen to the rings. A lone car drives past, its headlights punching holes in
the night. The automated voicemail picks up.
I’ve already left a dozen messages,
but I have to leave one more for him. “Rain, you have to be okay. I’ll buy you
a thousand milkshakes if you just call me back.”
I hang up and look at Chain,
challenging him to say something.
“It’ll be all of us in the end,” he
says, trying for gravity.
I wonder how far he’d fly if I
punched him as hard as I could. I realize that breaking Chain’s face won’t
change
bushes.
“Come on,” Chain growls next to me.
His voice snaps the tenuous chords
of my concentration, dragging me back into my body. That growl of his is so
fake, so obviously practiced. Everything about Chain screams danger, from his
tight black clothing and the holsters under his arms, to the rusted chain on
his hips and the quiet, blank face that hides his rage. But my abilities let me
see more. Chain is a fake. His black clothing is a costume, his mask a poor
copy of Tarren’s. I wonder if the day will come when he totally loses himself to
the part he’s trying to play.
Without a word, I start walking.
Chain matches my pace, and his belt clinks with each step. We make a slow
circuit around the “village” and then move out 200 yards to make another lap. I
try to open my mind, doing a mental sweep for Rain’s energy, but Chain’s aura
distracts me. It jumps up and down, crackling with barely contained emotions.
I know the emotion inside of him isn’t
all anger. He’s worried too, maybe even as worried as I am. He and Rain shared
a crucible together – Poughkeepsie – and that horror-fest bonded them like
soldiers trapped together behind enemy lines. Red, red, red in his aura
accompanied by big, bright swirls of orange. Worry and anger fueling each
other.
“We’ll find him,” I say, more to
just project something positive into the universe than any real belief.
“This is the risk we take,” Chain
responds in a flat voice that he might think is stoic. If I couldn’t see his
aura practically burning him from the inside, I might think that he didn’t
care.
“You’re full of bullshit,” I inform
him. “Rain practically considers you a brother.” An unstable, worrying
brother, I don’t say out loud.
Chain’s flashlight sweeps the
sidewalk in front of us. I don’t need the light. My eyes are just fine in the
dark with the glow of the swollen moon overhead.
“It’s dangerous to get attached,”
Chain says. I don’t think he even notices that his fingers grip the belt around
his hips. I used to mercilessly mock the belt and Chain’s badass persona when
Rain and I were together until he finally told me what the belt meant. It’s the
chain the angels used to hold them and 18 other captives in a fetid barn on an
isolated farm in Poughkeepsie, New York. I can’t decide if the belt serves Chain
as a reminder of why the angels must die, or if it means something else, like how
even the worst nightmares must come to an end.
I glance sideways at Chain again.
Damn, he’s so young. Eighteen years old, Rain told me. Maybe the outer cool
covering the inner rage is what he needs, a part to play so he doesn’t have to
be that scared boy trapped in hell anymore.
I sigh. “It’s not your fault,” I
tell him.
“What’s not my fault?” He sounds
angry already.
“I know Rain is your friend. I
know…”
“Don’t do that,” Chain cuts me off.
“Don’t feel sorry for me. This is part of the mission. Today was probably just
his day.”
All the worry washes over me again,
and my hand goes to my phone. I know Rain hasn’t texted or called – I would
have felt the vibration – but I look at my phone anyway praying for some
magical silent message to be on my screen. I press redial and strain my ears. I
know Rain has his phone on vibrate, but if we’re close enough, I might still be
able to hear it.
Pick up, pick up, pick up. I
listen to the rings. A lone car drives past, its headlights punching holes in
the night. The automated voicemail picks up.
I’ve already left a dozen messages,
but I have to leave one more for him. “Rain, you have to be okay. I’ll buy you
a thousand milkshakes if you just call me back.”
I hang up and look at Chain,
challenging him to say something.
“It’ll be all of us in the end,” he
says, trying for gravity.
I wonder how far he’d fly if I
punched him as hard as I could. I realize that breaking Chain’s face won’t
change
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