She sighs. “You’d forget to eat entirely if Mom and I didn’t remind you. Listen, I’ve got a date with Sam tonight, and he’s picking me up here after work. I’ve got time to kill before he arrives. Joe and I will cover cleanup for you. You should go home and rest.”
I swallow a moan of relief. It’s not just the lack of food affecting me. I do feel strange. I must be getting sick.
“Hey,” yells Joe, furiously mopping the floor as I make a dash past him to collect my bag from the storeroom. “What about my song?”
I hold back a groan. I’m too worn out to do the murder ballad I’d hyped him up on earlier. I’ll have to think of something else to sing. “Sure. Give me a minute.”
When I return, I stand in the center of the room and grip my belongings tightly as I close my eyes, the pound of my heartbeat rising above the clatter and clang of the kitchen. I wait for inspiration. Unfortunately, none comes. Okay, seems like I’ll have to wing it, then.
Joe leans on his mop handle. Isla and Mandy smile. And even Max stops scrubbing to lean back on a bench and watch.
Mouth opening wide, I draw in a long breath that spirals through my body, chest to feet, then back up again, soothing my headache and bringing peace and calm.
My boot stomps the floor. Once. Twice. And I sing in a low creepy voice, aiming to make them laugh.
Sorry, Joe.
Tomorrow.
I’ll bewitch you with a scary song.
But tonight, I have such a headache that it’s sure to all go wrong.
Tonight.
I’ll probably sing the wrong spell.
And it may not go very well.
Tonight.
You’ll cry and cry a river, if I turn you into a snake.
Hush, I’m so sorry, Joe.
Tomorrow.
I surely won’t make that mistake.
Cracking my eyes open, I laugh at Joe’s dopey grin and struggle into my snug autumn coat.
“Don’t worry, Lara,” he says, dancing the mop over the floor once again. “If you’re singing to me, I don’t think I’d care if you turned me into a rat and kept me in one of those cages with a hamster wheel.”
“And then who’d look after your family if that happened?” I scold.
Joe’s dark eyebrows draw tight. “Oh, yeah. Maybe don’t make me a rodent, then.” He turns to Max. “Yo, boss. Gonna walk Lara to the station. I’ll be back before you even notice I’ve left.”
Grabbing his arm, I stop him from dumping the mop in the bucket. “Don’t bother. It’s barely a five-minute walk, and loads of people are out partying at this hour. It’s busy. Safe.”
Everyone rolls their eyes. They know there’s no point arguing with me.
I give the crew quick hugs, and before Isla can start up another lecture, I exit the diner at the speed of light.
Relieved to be outside, I inhale a big breath of fresh air. Gone are the tangy food odors from earlier. The night smells earthy and crisp, like rotting leaves blown in on a sea breeze. It’s strange.
My temples pound in sync with the beat of my boots as I head for the subway, still smiling at how Joe is always keen to hear me sing. He’s convinced I’m part magic, that I’ve got a witch for an ancestor somewhere in my bloodlines.
But, unfortunately, I can’t cast spells or turn people into animals, although, sometimes, I really wish I could. The diner’s resident ass-pincher, who haunts table seven, coincidentally on the nights either Isla or I work, would look a little nicer as a beaver or a raccoon.
A car horn beeps as I cross the street, then climb concrete steps leading up to the station’s entrance, the night air brisk and energizing. Hands stuffed deep inside my coat pockets, I stare up at the swirling wrought-iron patterns on the arched gates and the sign that reads Forest Stand Station, wishing I were as special as Joe imagines.
Magical.
Powerful.
But I’m not. I’m an average, passably pretty nineteen-year-old who’s boringly practical and sensible, most of the time. I’m neither too loud nor too quiet. And even though, at times, I can be snappy, I try hard to be kind.
Week to week, my life is fairly uneventful. Most nights, I work shifts at the diner, only to spend all my hard-earned money on singing lessons. And that’s basically my world in a nutshell.
Work. Sing. Work. Repeat.
On the singing front, I join amateur vocal groups and choirs, always searching for the perfect fit, seeking people I can unleash my unusual voice on. Ethereal yet strong, it can be quite a shock on first listen.
So, yeah, all I want to do is sing. From retro rock-and-roll classics to ancient tunes about forest creatures and lands beyond the veil, I love them all. Wow. Listen to me sounding as eccentric as my own dead mother!
The wind collects my ponytail, fluttering it over my eyes. Sighing, I drag it away and gaze up at the station’s clock tower. It’s nearly midnight, and I have at least fifteen minutes to fill until the next train arrives.
Out of nowhere, a girl’s screech rips though the air, causing me to flinch. I tug my coat tighter around my body and search for the source of the noise. When I find it, I breathe a sigh of relief.
Gathered around a bench at the top of the steps, four girls huddle close, laughing as they take selfies, a long gauzy veil whipping around their bodies. They’re a bachelorette party getting giddy in the wind.
I heave myself up the stairs. The bride-to-be spies me passing, and her mouth gapes open.
“Hello?” she calls out. “Excuse me, miss, can you help us? Please come here.”
Miss? No one’s called me that in…well, I don’t think I’ve ever been called that. They must be drunk.
I stop walking. I’m too darned tired to take happy snaps for them, but still I force a smile and head over.
The wispy beauty covered in white grins at me, tottering on her heels as if she’s not used to wearing them. Her cool fingers grip my coat sleeves and pull me close.
She dips a strange curtsy. “Hello! Please allow me to make introductions. That’s Terra down there playing in the dirt, Undine bathed in blue, Salamander with her hair on fire, and I, of course, am the bride, Aer. Did you notice we look alike, you and I?”
“Er… no. Do we? Hi, I’m Lara.” I wave awkwardly while I hear my name repeated, little whispers slithering on the breeze.
Lara. Lara. Lara.
Dramatically dressed and pouting scarlet-painted mouths, they look the same as a million other party girls—but not quite. There’s something disturbing about them. Something wrong.
“We need your help,” repeats Aer. “When we passed through the alley beside the station, our sister, Ether, cut herself on a piece of old tin. See over there?” She points to the empty, lamp-lit alleyway that, in the daytime, is full of city suits eating lunch in trendy cafes. “We can’t bear the sight of blood,” Aer continues. “And Ether needs tending to.”
“Red blood. Red blood,” says dark-haired Terra, nodding furiously. “I don’t like red blood.”
Blue-haired Undine smiles sweetly. “Don’t worry about her. She’s lost nearly every one of her marbles.”
Okay.
“It might be best if you call 911,” I suggest.
“No. No. No. It’s just a small cut seeping tiny threads of blood. She needs a little bandage, that’s all. You can use this.” Ruthlessly, Aer tears a strip from her veil and thrusts it at me. “You, Lara, can put it on her. We’ve drunk too much, and we don’t like blood. We might faint and hit our heads.”