5. You don’t even live here
YOU DON’T EVEN LIVE HERE
Lor
I can’t get him out of my head. That human from the bar.
The one who made me the gayest purple drink I’ve ever seen and was delighted beyond comprehension when I drank it.
Irritation flashes in my gut and I roll my eyes.
I can’t believe it actually tasted good.
I kind of want another, but hell will freeze over before I admit to it.
My thoughts trickle back to him and I pace circles around my living room. No one has caught my attention like this in ages. Perhaps ever. It doesn’t make sense. I’m going to wear a path in the already worn carpet if I don’t stop soon.
The cat seems to agree. It yowls and then darts for the window, glaring at me to let it out. I don’t blame it; I want out, too.
“Miserable creature,” I grumble, closing the window behind it and drawing the sheer curtains before I resume my pointless circling.
My brain has been turning it over and over, but for the life of me I can’t figure out why I’m so stuck on him. He’s attractive, sure, with that silver lip ring and mischievous grin. The messy hair, painted nails, and the godsdamned eyeliner.
That was the first thing I noticed, and yet…
There’s something off. He sets my instincts on alert for some reason, like something about him isn’t as it seems. Something intriguing that pulls to my darker side, despite his outward charm and endless smiling.
I don’t trust it.
And whatever this game is that he thinks we’re playing… I’m not taking part. He’s on his own.
With that final thought, I fling myself into bed.
Someone’s watching me.
I can’t shake the feeling over the next couple days, but despite my increasing paranoia and watchfulness, I don’t spot anyone.
There’s no sign of someone lurking around, but the hair on my neck prickles multiple times a day, especially when I’m home alone at night.
I keep the curtains drawn and have become even more of a recluse than normal, but it doesn’t seem to help.
On top of that, I’ve lost one of my bracelets. I peer under the couch for the thousandth time today, but see only dust bunnies and shadows. I’m not sure when or where I lost it, but it makes my wrist feel uneven to have only two chains on it instead of my normal three. It was my prettiest one, too.
My hand sinks into the couch cushion as I push myself up off the floor. I go to take the cushions off it next, but the cat is perched on a pillow right in the middle.
It stares at me, not moving except for the very tip of its tail flicking back and forth. I narrow my eyes as we lock gazes. Apart from the tail flick, it doesn’t move so much as a muscle twitch.
I give up first, huffing a breath. “Can I…” I trail off, gesturing at the couch.
Its ears flatten.
“Oookay, cat. Never mind,” I say, rolling my eyes.
I’ve already checked under and between the cushions and pillows, anyway. I know the bracelet isn’t there. At least it wasn’t sentimental, so I can always replace it, assuming I end up not broke at some point in the future.
I sigh in defeat. The cat settles itself into a fluffy cat loaf, looking appropriately smug with the fact that it’s in charge.
“You don’t even live here.”
A bigger tail flick, then it closes its eyes.
“I think it matters, you ungrateful beast,” I mutter.
The cat slits its green eyes open and I back away. I’ve learned that look the hard way. It means go away, before the claws come out.
Why couldn’t the neighborhood cat be cuddly? Or even just mildly friendly? Every so often I try to pet it, and while sometimes it allows a couple gentle pats, most often it bats me away with a screech and then proceeds to either hiss at or ignore me for the next two days.
Once it even pooped in my shoe. I don’t know what I did to deserve that, but it was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever had to deal with. I almost gag just thinking about it.
And yet, for some reason, I continue to let the damn thing in and feed it. Regardless of how grouchy it is, I’m glad for the company. Many days, the cat is the only living being I talk to.
I flick the light on and plop down in a chair at my rickety kitchen table—instead of on the cat-owned couch—to do some more research.
I found a moderate amount of stardust on my last outing, but not enough to make Ole Buddy Big Guy happy.
Then again, there will never be enough to make that awful man happy.
My gut clenches with a toxic cocktail of regret, anxiety, and shame when I think about the predicament my current life and financial situation is in.
I’ve only been sitting here for a half hour, updating myself on the various meteorite tracking sites, when I feel it. A strong enough pull that it can’t be ignored.
I slam the laptop closed, and the cat cracks its eyes open to glare at me again. I snag my leather jacket and slip my feet into black riding boots.
“You staying? I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone.”
The cat stands and stretches with a yawn, then hops off the couch and meanders over to the door.
“Take your time, not like I’m in a rush or anything,” I grumble, rubbing the aching pull in my chest.
I fill my pockets with necessities, grab my go-bag, then open the door to a wall of afternoon heat. The cat winds between my legs, rubbing its chin on my boot before it darts out ahead of me. I stare as its fluffy tail disappears down the stairs.
Was that affection?
I don’t understand cats.
A few minutes later, I’m straddling my bike and it roars to life with a rumbling vibration between my legs.
I don’t know where I’m going, but the pull of the fallen star is unrelenting, strong enough that I don’t need any research first. I follow it as best I can, getting a general sense of the direction I need to go and winding my way out of the neighborhood, out of Chicago, away from the water.
All I know is I’m heading west.
I open the throttle once I’m outside the city, the steady purr of the engine lulls the constant anxiety that lives under my skin.
Acting on the star-chaser urges by following the pull inside me has dulled the ache in my chest. It’s placated for now, so I can relax a fraction.
I love the feeling of flying free, shooting away from my life and out into the wild world.
I just wish it was reality instead of an illusion.
Perhaps it could be a reality someday. If I work hard enough, find enough stardust to earn more money, I might be able to escape.
My overlord mob boss would never let me go willingly, but if I can save up enough, I might be able to get out of Chicago without him noticing until it’s too late.
I could find a new place to settle down.
Start over where I’ll be free, maybe even happy.
The hair on the back of my arms starts to prickle, snapping me out of my silly daydreams. Someone’s following me again. Is it the Boss Man? Is that what’s been going on? Does he somehow know my dream of disappearing, so he’s been tailing me?
Can’t say I blame him, if so. He’s certainly not an idiot, but his goons normally are. When he’s put a tail on me in the past, it has not been subtle, and I’ve been able to shake it easily.
This time, I’m out on the wide open road with fields all around me.
I don’t see anyone in my mirrors, so I risk a glance behind.
There might be another motorcycle a ways back, but it’s hard to tell.
I pass a few cars, and a few pass me while I drive through the afternoon and into the evening, crossing the invisible border from Illinois into Iowa.
The sensation hasn’t let up, and as the sky darkens, a single light shines behind me, confirming there’s another biker on the road.
It’s probably a coincidence and I’m being paranoid. This is the most direct highway west, and it makes sense I wouldn’t be the only driver on it.
When I pull up to a gas station, every sense is on alert.
My heart races, adrenaline pumping through me as my feet meet the pavement.
I leave my helmet on, but raise the visor so I can hear and see better, taking in every detail around me from the chipped paint on the curb, to the peeling stickers on the pump, and the sole pickup truck parked next to the building.
An empty beer can rattles across the parking lot with a stray breeze and the overhead lights buzz, grating against my tired ears.
The other bike rumbles into the lot a few minutes later, and fuels up at the station across from me.
The biker doesn’t take off their helmet or gloves, but they turn and give me a chin jerk nod as they fill their tank.
I offer a narrow-eyed glare in response, then pointedly turn away.
I’m not trusting anyone, no matter how friendly they may appear.
I keep a wary eye out, watching from the periphery and reminding myself that just because they followed me into this station doesn’t mean they’re following me. This might be the only gas station for miles, I have no idea.
The other biker strides into the store, and I take the opportunity to leave them in the dust. I kick my bike into gear and take off as quick as I can, finally breathing a sigh of relief as I leave them behind and my paranoia settles.
I knock my visor back down and fall into the peace of driving at night. The stars twinkle above me, their song trickling through me, and my heart aches with a homesick longing I’ll never be able to fill.
It’s impossible to be reunited with my ancestors.
My family comes from the stars, though the how and when of it has been lost to time, along with the world’s acknowledgement of us.
Everyone knows about vampires, demons, witches, and even shifters, but for the most part they can be ignored, since there are so many protective regulations and laws in place.
To the few people who have heard of my kind, for most it’s folklore.
A magical bedtime story, but nothing real.
I scoff. If only they knew the truth.
While the world at large might not know about star-chasers, I know all I need to. Between my mother’s rote warnings and my grandmother’s journal, I’ve learned every hard lesson there is. Two of which are all but embedded in my DNA at this point: Don’t trust anyone. All star-chasers go mad.
Unfortunately, I learned even more at the hands of my blackmailer.
He’s the one holding my leash, and he’s also the one who taught me what stardust can do.
I knew some people valued it, but I didn’t know why.
Turns out it doesn’t affect humans, but when used by supernatural creatures… that’s a different story.
My evil overlord reveled in demonstrating how powerful controlling the only stardust supply in Chicago made him.
Stardust makes vampires stronger and faster for a short period of time.
Appropriately, they call it “juice.” It’s got a bad crash afterwards, though, and they often end up knocked out for an equal amount of time.
For shifters, it’s “blitz,” giving them a euphoric high when ingested.
Demons can use it to make their natural magical abilities more potent, normally by rubbing an infused lotion or oil on their temples and neck.
I’m not sure what they call it, as I’ve thankfully never met a demon, nor have I heard many people speak about them.
I think they’re mostly imprisoned or work for the government.
And witches can use stardust for all sorts of nefarious purposes. None of the common folks know that what they’re actually using is the remains of my ancestors, scavenged from fallen stars. Of course, once hooked on it, those people will do whatever they need to in order to get more.
Even kill each other.
I shudder as the gruesome memories flash through my mind.
The ‘games’ the mob boss makes me watch when I don’t fulfill my quota, or when he thinks I need a reminder of his power and control.
I shake my head, envisioning the blood and desperation, the screams and the deathly quiet all scattering into the night around me—left far behind as my bike takes me away from it all.
The emotional rush of being on my motorcycle with the air whipping by and the illusion of freedom, in combination with escaping a probably made-up pursuer, has my heart beating erratically.
Add to that the apprehension growing in my chest as I sense my destination getting closer has my palms sweating in my gloves and my stomach twisted in knots.
The call of the fallen star is getting stronger with every mile that passes.
I dread what I’ll find, knowing however much stardust I collect, whatever magical remains of my ancestors I discover, will have to be sold to a horrible man so I can continue living a pathetic life.
It’s despicable.
It’s my only option.
I hate myself for it.