48. The Hot Guy is Nowhere to be Found
48
The Hot Guy is Nowhere to be Found
Ziros
The raging storm inside me threatens to burst.
I’ve held out this long.
Held out until here , wherever here is.
All I see is grass.
Golden, dry grass, spent from the summer sun.
Have I gone far enough east? There are no houses, no farms.
Nothing as far as I can see.
Nothing but a little strip of deserted highway stretching off into the golden plains and rolling hills.
I’m past that damn cult. A long way past.
But am I far enough?
The storm inside me is beyond anything I can control.
As soon as I let loose, there’s no going back until it’s over.
But I can’t hold out any longer.
I’m free!
Finally free.
That feeling swells inside me, a thrill like I’ve never felt before.
A feeling like seeing the sun for the first time.
Like tasting air.
Like seeing color.
Everything is so vivid , so fresh, so real.
And all this power, centuries of power and anger and hate rises up inside me until I can’t hold it in anymore.
And I’m nothing but the wind, roaring, raging, growing.
I’m a man and I’m a monster, the power I can’t hold back anymore overflowing my body, blotting out the sun until everything turns black.
I am Ziros.
And this is the wrath of a demigod imprisoned.
You
You stare down at the text from your boss.
Work .
After all the crazy things that just happened, the obligations of real life feel so distant, almost like a dream themselves.
Unfortunately, you can’t just skip real life forever.
Can you?
If you don’t go, will you be able to pay your rent?
You pull up your bank account and wince.
The answer? No.
Not likely.
Not unless you can just not eat for the next couple weeks.
That might solve the issue.
You sigh, heading for the shower, fully intending to text your boss back and let her know everything is fine and you’ll be there for your shift this afternoon.
You start to type your reply, then sigh again, setting your phone down on the bathroom counter.
Maybe a shower will clear your head.
Then you’ll reply.
Sure.
Yeah.
That’s all.
You’re not stalling because you absolutely don’t want to go at all or anything, but feel like you have to…
It’s not because of Ziros.
Not because you feel absurd about the whole idea, but kinda want to go looking for him.
Where would you even begin?
It’s not like you can just walk up and down the street shouting his name like you’re calling for a lost dog…or can you?
That idea almost makes you smile.
But you probably shouldn’t just go shouting his true name all over town.
Even if he was likely to hear.
Which he isn’t. Considering he’s probably somewhere very far away.
And probably doesn’t want to be found.
Your heart sinks with that realization.
As you get into the shower alone, you can’t help but remember what transpired here. It already feels so long ago, though it was only a few days.
It feels like you’ve known him your entire lifetime.
And now he’s gone.
Your eyes sting, but you’re definitely not crying. Yeah. Totally. That’s just the shower water dripping down your face.
Bastard.
Jerk.
Meanie-face.
Couldn’t he have at least left a way to contact him?!
But noooo , he had to vanish like he was saying goodbye forever.
And maybe he was.
Maybe he fully intends never to see you again.
Argh!
You decide to channel your sadness into anger instead of wallowing, drying off and getting dressed in a prickly hurry as you curse his name under your breath.
Maybe he’ll hear it.
Maybe he’ll hear you cursing him with his name, channeling all your anger into your magic, willing him to know just how much of a bastard he is.
That’s a nice idea.
Although, now that you’re not connected with the link, the chances of that are probably pretty slim.
You sigh again, trying to release all your self-pity now so that you can clear your head for work.
The last thing you need is to be dealing with an entitled customer when you’re already grumpy about Ziros.
When you’ve stalled as much as you can, you finally pick your phone back up and start retyping the message to your boss.
And stop halfway through.
Deleting it.
Typing it again.
Only…this time, you type something completely different.
“Sorry, bank account,” you mutter as you grab a jacket, heading for the door. “Sorry, boss.”
It’s impulsive.
And rash.
And irresponsible.
And probably not very nice to your boss and coworkers who are relying on you to fill your shift.
But you can’t help it.
You have to go look for Ziros.
It’s like a compulsion.
Like an itch.
And if you don’t scratch it, if you don’t at least try to find him—no matter how absurd and unlikely it probably is—you might scream.
And you didn’t exactly lie in your message to your boss.
You just said you’re very unwell today and can’t make it in.
Okay.
So you feel a little guilty about her probably having to find a replacement at the last minute, especially when she replies and is super understanding and tells you to feel better soon and that your health takes priority.
But you just can’t help it. You’ve got to find him.
Somehow.
But…where to look?
You step out onto the street in front of your apartment building, feeling suddenly at a loss.
You could try to retrace your steps from a week ago and see if maybe the mysterious magical bookshop with the wizened old shopkeeper will appear.
You could, but then you’d have to walk awfully close to the cafe where you work, which would be a wee problem if your boss caught sight of you looking miraculously well.
Instead, you head the opposite direction, winding through the city on streets you’re altogether unfamiliar with, searching with increasing hopelessness for any sign that a recently‐freed, powerful demigod has been through.
Maybe you should be grateful, but you can’t find a single trace of the chaos you’re looking for.
Nothing looks out of place on the narrow city sidewalks. No typhoon-strength wind has blasted through here, knocking everything askew.
Ziros , you think as loudly as you can. Where are you?
No response.
Of course there’s no response
You could only hear his voice before because of the link.
And now that it’s gone, you’ll never be able to reach him.
As you walk, you try not to think about your bank account and how soon rent is due and how you won’t be able to pay it unless you make up some hours fast. Quite a few hours.
You probably should have gone to work.
This is probably a pointless endeavor.
Probably, you never should have gone out looking for him.
You’re like Little Bo Peep and he’s like a lost sheep. (A very powerful lost sheep who probably doesn’t want to be found. Bah! )
But maybe if you leave him alone, he’ll return? Wagging his tail behind him?
No?
Maybe you should stop and rest.
You’ve been wandering Bridgeborough for hours already, and your feet are seriously starting to ache.
Maybe you’re getting delirious.
At least you haven’t run into any skaddlers. You brought your little sword, but you’re so exhausted, you don’t know how good you’d be against one.
You keep walking, telling yourself you’ll turn around soon.
It’s late afternoon now.
You’ve lost count of how many hours you’ve been at it, canvassing the streets like you’re searching for a lost dog.
Maybe you’d have better luck putting up flyers:
Handsome! Lost demigod!
Reward? Ha.
As if you could afford to offer a reward.
You push that mental image out of your mind, seconds from turning around and heading home, when you look up and find yourself standing in front of a slate black building with a swooping red roof.
The front door is open, but you can’t see anything through the dark windows. Perhaps that’s intentional.
A classy, softly glowing sign reads The Crimson Palace in red letters.
What an unusual building for this part of town.
Is this…a restaurant?
Your stomach growls hopefully, but you don’t smell any food cooking.
And you probably couldn’t afford anything from a place this fancy-looking, anyway.
You know there’s probably nothing for you in a place like this, no reason to go inside, but just as you felt with the bookshop, there’s something drawing you in—a curiosity you can’t resist, and your feet move almost on their own.
As you step through the open door, the quiet tune of classical violin music greets you from speakers hidden somewhere in the dark ceiling above.
The door swings softly shut behind you, yet for some reason, you don’t feel like you’ve just walked into a trap.
If anything, the atmosphere inside is so quiet and peaceful, it’s like you’ve walked into a zen garden.
What a strange establishment.
It’s so classy, everything modern and clean and yet so dark . Red light glows softly from above, yet it’s somehow not spooky. It’s like you’ve stepped into a club for the elite or ultra-rich.
And maybe you have.
A very quiet, peaceful, classically-inspired club?
The red lighting should contrast the strange zen you feel, but it doesn’t. You just feel relaxed. Like walking into a planetarium, perhaps the red light is here so as not to ruin your night vision?
Wait, that doesn’t make sense for a club to care about.
Does it?
You’re so hungry and tired now, you really are delirious.
There’s no one else inside this strange establishment, with tall, semi-private booths lined up along the walls, almost like cubicles in an office—but far more plush. Behind that is a door with the word VIP printed on it in the same crisp lettering that matches the exterior sign.
A few small seating areas are scattered around like a cafe, complete with little side tables and upholstered chaise lounges.
Toward the front is a table that you can only imagine is for the greeter who works late at night.
You must just have arrived too early.
You should leave, you realize, turning back for the door, when you hear fabric rustle behind you.
Turning, you spot a handsome, suit-clad, late-thirty-something man watching you with subdued interest from where he sits in an upholstered chair just to the side of the front desk.
You blink.
You could have sworn there was no one there a second ago.
“Welcome,” he says, flashing you a glinting smile. “Leaving so soon?”