Read Online Shrike (Book 2): Rampant by Emmie Mears - Free Book Online
Authors: Emmie Mears
Tags: Scotland, Superhero, Superheroes, Noir, gritty, female protagonist, Edinburgh, scottish independence
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Canonmills. Taog parks his Smart Car, and we get out.
"I'll check Eyre Place if you take Rodney Street," he says. I nod and we split up.
I only have to walk one street down. On the corner of Heriot Hill Terrace is number nine. Triumphant, I send a text to Taog and wait for him to catch up, tracing out possibilities on the map app on my phone with the new addition. We find number ten another two streets down, and this time the number is on a wee flag attached to an arrow. The arrow points almost north, up Claremont Street.
My excitement begins to turn to nervousness. I can't walk into a possible trap, not with Taog beside me. He's likely a target for Rosamund Granger, and if she's behind these stencils, I cannot risk his safety. Not again.
He looks at me when my steps slow on the pavement. "I know what you're thinking, and I don't like it."
"I know." I don't explain. He'll let me go; he always does.
But I'm not going to go the now. Instead I turn and start the walk back to his car. He follows after a beat.
"When are you going to check it out?" The levelness of his voice is artificial, like a bowed board sanded until the top is flat but the centre is worn thin.
"Late tonight."
"I'll wait up. My flat tonight though."
I nod, and we finish the retreat to his car in silence.
It's become a given that our nights are spent together. Perhaps it's codependent of us, but I think we both have the same lingering sense that each of these nights could be the last.
I have to throw my Shrike get-up in the dryer when I get home, as it's still damp from last night.
I don't recall any other superheroes having to launder their uniforms, but I suppose that wouldn't make for very exciting comics.
Making my way back to Claremont Street, I approach cautiously, checking each building for the stencils. Walking on the pavement makes me feel apprehensive, and not just because I could very well be waltzing into a trap. Every few steps, I find myself glancing upward, longing for the solitude of the rooftops and the vantage they give me. I have to avoid passing cars, because even at three in the morning, a masked woman might be noticed in the lights. I follow the street about a half a mile. It takes almost fifteen minutes, but when I finally see a stencil on the white trim of a chip shop pointing upward, I could kiss it in relief.
I don't, though. Kissing a stencil of my emblem would make me rather narcissistic.
Instead, I retreat to the last close I passed and climb up to the roof.
Again I get a running start to jump the gap between buildings. Again the rush of the wind on my face makes my heart take wing in my chest.
And again, I sail past where I think I would land.
This time I save myself from the ignominy of planting my face on the rooftop, but my entire body seems to break into gooseflesh.
I don't know what's happening to me. Part of my brain tries to suggest the obvious, and I can't let myself entertain it. It's not possible. Even though none of my abilities should be possible, here I am. And yet this final thing seems too far-fetched, too scientifically implausible. At least Edmund Frost offered some sort of reason for my other abilities, with his brilliant-but-imperfect microbial serum. Even he couldn't have predicted how it would interact with the antigens in my blood.
But flight?
The word pops into my head in an eager whisper. You could fly .
Fly.
I can't fucking fly.
I must just be getting faster. Stronger. Jumping farther.
It's a relief that the next building is a hop down and not a leap across empty space — a relief punctured just a bit by disappointment — and I'm soon looking down at the chippie where I saw the stencil. I see no other indication of a sign for me, only darkened windows. I retreat behind a ventilation unit on the roof and look over the entire building. There's nothing distinguishing about it, aside from the stencil below. Not that I'd expect a bouquet of columbines to
"I'll check Eyre Place if you take Rodney Street," he says. I nod and we split up.
I only have to walk one street down. On the corner of Heriot Hill Terrace is number nine. Triumphant, I send a text to Taog and wait for him to catch up, tracing out possibilities on the map app on my phone with the new addition. We find number ten another two streets down, and this time the number is on a wee flag attached to an arrow. The arrow points almost north, up Claremont Street.
My excitement begins to turn to nervousness. I can't walk into a possible trap, not with Taog beside me. He's likely a target for Rosamund Granger, and if she's behind these stencils, I cannot risk his safety. Not again.
He looks at me when my steps slow on the pavement. "I know what you're thinking, and I don't like it."
"I know." I don't explain. He'll let me go; he always does.
But I'm not going to go the now. Instead I turn and start the walk back to his car. He follows after a beat.
"When are you going to check it out?" The levelness of his voice is artificial, like a bowed board sanded until the top is flat but the centre is worn thin.
"Late tonight."
"I'll wait up. My flat tonight though."
I nod, and we finish the retreat to his car in silence.
It's become a given that our nights are spent together. Perhaps it's codependent of us, but I think we both have the same lingering sense that each of these nights could be the last.
I have to throw my Shrike get-up in the dryer when I get home, as it's still damp from last night.
I don't recall any other superheroes having to launder their uniforms, but I suppose that wouldn't make for very exciting comics.
Making my way back to Claremont Street, I approach cautiously, checking each building for the stencils. Walking on the pavement makes me feel apprehensive, and not just because I could very well be waltzing into a trap. Every few steps, I find myself glancing upward, longing for the solitude of the rooftops and the vantage they give me. I have to avoid passing cars, because even at three in the morning, a masked woman might be noticed in the lights. I follow the street about a half a mile. It takes almost fifteen minutes, but when I finally see a stencil on the white trim of a chip shop pointing upward, I could kiss it in relief.
I don't, though. Kissing a stencil of my emblem would make me rather narcissistic.
Instead, I retreat to the last close I passed and climb up to the roof.
Again I get a running start to jump the gap between buildings. Again the rush of the wind on my face makes my heart take wing in my chest.
And again, I sail past where I think I would land.
This time I save myself from the ignominy of planting my face on the rooftop, but my entire body seems to break into gooseflesh.
I don't know what's happening to me. Part of my brain tries to suggest the obvious, and I can't let myself entertain it. It's not possible. Even though none of my abilities should be possible, here I am. And yet this final thing seems too far-fetched, too scientifically implausible. At least Edmund Frost offered some sort of reason for my other abilities, with his brilliant-but-imperfect microbial serum. Even he couldn't have predicted how it would interact with the antigens in my blood.
But flight?
The word pops into my head in an eager whisper. You could fly .
Fly.
I can't fucking fly.
I must just be getting faster. Stronger. Jumping farther.
It's a relief that the next building is a hop down and not a leap across empty space — a relief punctured just a bit by disappointment — and I'm soon looking down at the chippie where I saw the stencil. I see no other indication of a sign for me, only darkened windows. I retreat behind a ventilation unit on the roof and look over the entire building. There's nothing distinguishing about it, aside from the stencil below. Not that I'd expect a bouquet of columbines to
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