Chapter 14
Hawk
Y ears of staring at the world through bars, years of concrete, steel, and men in identical uniforms flash before my eyes. The reek of the toilet in my cell might be only a memory, but right now it overpowers the fresh aroma of pretzels and coffee. And when I dash forward, grabbing a chair as I let the weight of my body carry me forward, all I can see is a future in a cage.
A future I should have done more to avoid.
The cops reach for their guns when I collide with them, swinging the seat of wood and metal. I hit something with a dull slam sounding like a head being stomped to death, and the force of the collision reverberates over my makeshift weapon, echoing in my muscles. The policewoman stumbles back toward Sylvan while the male cop’s eyes go wide. I face the muzzle of his 9mm SIG Sauer, but the chair pushes his hands up before he can pull the trigger. My stomach tightens at the burn of gunpowder, but when the bullet whistles in my left ear, I know we won’t get another chance to scramble out of this mess. I need to put my full force into it now .
I twist the chair without mercy. Bone cracks as the cop’s arm gives in under the pressure of steel, but he only falls when I slam my forehead against his face. I’ve smelled enough blood to know everyone’s is the same. Whether it’s a cop, an accountant caught doing financial crimes, or a ruthless killer. Inside we are all just meat and will break with enough pressure.
At least the old lady cowered under the counter and doesn’t intervene.
The female cop is dazed, she’s holding her head with one hand, but points her gun at Sylvan with the other.
He raises his hands, pale as snow, and shifts toward the counter. “Please, no, I was abducted! I’ve got nothing to do with him!”
It hurts worse than being stabbed with the dirty shank that should have ended my life weeks ago. As soon as she looks at me, assessing who the threat is, Sylvan grabs the container of cinnamon and throws the brown powder in her face. She starts coughing, the cloud of spice hovering around her like angry bees.
That’s my boy.
For a moment there, I was sure he’d turn on me after our argument, but he runs right to my side.
“Lucy! Stay down!” the male cop yells. At least he’s not being a hero. Good for him.
I kick his gun away and pull on Sylvan’s hand. It feels so good in mine, as though I was always meant to hold it.
“W-we… n-need… assistance…” the woman chokes into her radio, but I don’t listen.
I would slash through as many bodies as it would take if it meant freedom for myself and Sylvan, but at this point, the police know there’s a problem, and nothing I’d do here can change that.
“Get in,” I bark, sliding into the driver’s seat, and I back out of the parking space the moment Sylvan’s door closes. A car comes to an abrupt stop and hits its horn when I dash onto the street, cutting him off, but keeping our heads down is no longer a concern. Not with our survival on the line.
There isn’t that much traffic at this time, and the darkness aids me, making other vehicles easy to spot by their headlights as I speed past stoplights and change lanes on my way to—
“The pretzel woman. She’ll tell them where we’re headed. Fuck,” I grit through my teeth, slamming the wheel as my stomach sinks.
What the fuck should I do?
“Go there. Trust me. Go to The Rusty Stallion,” Sylvan says with so much conviction I struggle to question it.
I don’t have the time to reconsider. We’re speeding down a straight road, and I’ll either trust that my deranged twink elf boyfriend knows some secret hiding spot at this bar, or straight up ignore him and drive on in hopes of losing the cops.
I have a few heartbeats to make that decision, because we’re approaching the place and fast.
I only spot the old rusty road sign due to the bright mustard ad right next to it. A part of me wants to trust my own instinct and run like a mouse fleeing a bunch of cats through an unfamiliar labyrinth, but when Sylvan places his hand on my thigh, the decision is made for me.
The wheels squeak, and the air fills with the odor of burnt rubber, but I slow down enough to make the turn without rolling and drive through the deserted parking lot. A broken tent, that’s likely no longer occupied, leans against an old van, but the surroundings of the bar could be the set for the next post-apocalyptic movie.
I know it’s futile at this point, but I refuse to park out in the open and drive behind the building to the faint roar of police sirens in the distance.
Our only hope is that Sylvan’s friend is actually a squatter in this abandoned bar and that’s why my sweet, if deluded, boy believes we will be saved here.
As soon as we burst out of the car, Sylvan grabs his bag from the back seat. It’s ridiculous, but I’d rather waste a few seconds on taking the massive one too instead of using the time to argue with him. It’s so heavy it might be useful as a shield or weapon, if push comes to shove.
We stop in front of a tall wooden door covered in metal studs, which makes it look strangely medieval and out of place in this back alley. The carving at the top is in some language I don’t know, but if Sylvan’s friend is into this whole pretend-to-be-elves game, he might just help us.
I pull on the handle, but the door won’t budge, so I knock on it with my fist, desperate to find out how doomed we are.
Sylvan runs his fingers over the wood and nail studs. “Wait. I’ve got it… I think… I’ll open it.”
But the police sirens are getting louder. We don’t have time for whatever he’s doing.
“We need to go. Come on,” I say, pulling on his arm as my gaze darts around the industrial buildings around us. “If we don’t switch cars, we’ll be sitting ducks!”
But Sylvan pushes at me, his face scrunched with anger, as if he genuinely doesn’t understand our situation. “No! We need to go through here!”
Do we now?
I don’t think so. But I take two steps back, and then bulldoze through the door. A part of it breaks as I stumble into dusty silence.
My arm hurts from the force, but nothing is more painful than the sight of the empty back room, which hasn’t seen a person in months. Boxes covered in dust, a few broken bottles on the floor, spiderwebs in every corner, and when I flip the light switch, I notice there’s no light bulb in the only lamp.
I failed. Myself. And Sylvan too, by following him on this wild goose chase based only on his sweet but clouded mind.
I’m going to die today, because I will not go back in the can! If the cops start shooting, and they fucking will, I’ll cover Sylvan, so at least he’ll know I meant it when I said I care. Maybe he will miss me when I’m gone.
Still, I pull on Sylvan’s hand, because there might be a safe place to hide inside. “If they spot you, raise your hands, and slowly go down to the ground,” I instruct him despite the bile rising in my throat, because I was the one who pulled him into this. I barged into his life, made him cover for me, and even drew him into my family’s clutches, which left him with an injury.
“No!” Sylvan digs in his heels and pulls me back toward the door like some stubborn mule. “I need to open the door correctly.”
I meet his determined blue eyes. What do I have to lose at this point? The sirens are ever louder, and I slowly turn numb to what’s to come.
I won’t be able to run any farther.
“Do you really like me?” I ask, following his lead, back outside. If I am to die because I went to Boston at a pretty boy’s request, at least I want to know this much.
Sylvan pulls the door closed in front of us, and his fingers are back on the studs in the wood. His expression is unreadable, but oh so serene in the light of the neon at the end of the alleyway.
“I do. It frightens me how much.”
I can barely hear him over the sound of the sirens but my heart sinks when a car stops close by with a screech of tires. I swallow when a colorful glow pulsates around us, letting me know we've been caught.
Sylvan turns to the door, and when he presses on one of the nails, it gives in under his touch, like it’s a button. He then presses another, and another, seemingly at random. One at the bottom, one by the handle.
He huffs, gets to his toes, attempting to reach the top of the door. “Lift please?”
“Get out with your hands up,” shouts a cop from the other side of the bar as blue and red keeps coloring everything beyond the shadow of the building.
Sadness drizzles into my heart, but I do as Sylvan says and bury my face in the delicious valley of his spine as I raise him off the ground. He smells like dew first thing in the morning, and I hope the mystical river I dreamt of last time I was dying will this time carry me someplace good.
“I had fun with you,” I tell Sylvan as more police cars arrive, and the request for me to give myself up is repeated.
Maybe I should listen? But what would be the point of that?
Sylvan presses the metal stud as soon as he can reach it, and something… clicks. He pushes the door open, and when I put him down, he tugs me inside and locks us in.
The siren and the usual noise of the city disperse, as if this place is perfectly soundproofed. I suck in air, ready to search for a hideout, or maybe even a weapon, but the aroma inside, thick with the smokiness of a fire and some exotic spice, makes me stall.
And is that… a carpet under my dirty combat boots? My hand finds Sylvan’s, and I stare straight at the flames dancing in a fireplace worthy of some medieval castle.
I’ve never been this confused in my life.
Where is the dust? The dirty boxes and broken bottles? And should the back room of the old dive bar be this spacious in the first place? It sure as hell should not feature a ceiling of thick wooden beams, nor the heavy furniture decorated with elaborate carvings and fur blankets.
“What the fuck?” I mutter, staring at a horned head mounted above the mantelpiece. It appears vaguely human at first but is twice the size of mine and has a wide, gorilla-like nose.
Sylvan gets to his toes and covers my mouth with his hand. “Stay still and silent,” he whispers, as we hear footsteps, and cops slam their fists on the door.
We’re dead. We’re so fucking dead.
I glance into the window leading into the alleyway, and I swear there wasn’t one there before, but I can see a cop. Fog covers the glass, but he’s there, staring straight at us. And yet… also somehow right through us.
I flinch at the crash of breaking wood and the shouts that follow, but while the sounds echo all around me, they’re dull, almost as if they were coming from inside a massive fridge.
Are the cops… looking for us in the building next door? They might still find us here, so I look around in search of a weapon or hideout.
A few candles are scattered over a thick wooden table in the middle of the room, their green flames casting light over an unfinished letter written with a quill and ink instead of a pen. But then my gaze rests on a huge axe with an engraved blade, and I head toward it, ready to pluck it off the wall.
“I think we’re safe,” Sylvan says, exhaling behind me. “I need you to stay here. You cannot be seen by Tassarion before I get this collar off.”
He’s not phased to see me cradling the axe, which is actually way heavier than the replicas I’ve held in the past a couple of times, but calling our situation safe is plain ridiculous.
“Oh, so it’s him who is the problem? There’s cops everywhere around us,” I whisper.
Sylvan drops his bag on the grand leather sofa and runs his fingers through his silvery blond hair. “I will explain later, you can hide behind that.” He points to a suit of armor worthy of Sauron from The Lord of the Rings . Massive, covered in spikes, and yet somehow regal.
What is this place? I want to ask, but he’s already headed for a door on the other side of the room.
“I will be fine,” Sylvan says, looking back at me. “But we can’t allow him to see your shadow.”
Which to me sounds like alarm bells. This is his ex, and this ex will be so jealous he needs to be appeased before seeing me.
In these circumstances though, I have to let Sylvan take the lead. I still wonder about the door though. Sylvan knew some secret buttons to enter, but… how did it happen? Did I not notice when we were outside that he led me to a different entrance? Was I too frantic to pay attention?
I squeeze the wooden handle in my hands as he opens the door, letting in the smell of hot iron. I’m mesmerized when an orange glow deepens the shadows on Sylvan’s determined face, but the moment is cut short when a male voice asks, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”