26. Calliope #2
We reach a junction where the vent splits into three directions. I pause, uncertain which way to go. Calypso nudges my foot, pointing to the left path. I take it without question.
The vent begins to slope downward, and I feel a draft of cooler air. We must be getting closer to an exit. My heart pounds against the metal beneath me, each beat echoing in the confined space.
Suddenly, I hear voices below us. I freeze, pressing myself flat against the vent floor. Calypso does the same behind me. The voices sound muffled but unmistakable. Otto’s distinctive cadence mingling with others I don’t recognize.
“...found nothing in the bathroom,” someone says. “They’re gone.”
“They can’t be far,” Otto replies, his voice cold and controlled. “Check the back. Then the roof.”
I hold my breath as footsteps move away. When they fade, I continue crawling, more urgently now. The vent leads to a grate overlooking what appears to be an alley behind the bar.
I reach for the screws holding the grate in place. Calypso grabs my ankle, stopping me. She shakes her head vigorously, pointing at something I can’t see from my angle.
“Wait.” She mouths. “Keep going.”
I can taste adrenaline on my tongue and no amount of swallowing my fear kills the flavor.
I follow Calypso’s lead, ignoring the exit behind me and continuing forward through the vent.
The metal groans beneath our weight, each creak making me wince.
My palms are sweaty, slipping against the dusty surface.
We are one bad move away from tumbling through the floor.
After what feels like an eternity of crawling, we reach another junction. This time, Calypso points right. I take the turn, my lungs burning from the effort of moving while trying to stay silent.
Monday morning. I swear I’m going to start working out more. Hopefully with Lazarus. He will wear those scandalous basketball shorts and I’ll side-eye him like eye candy.
The vent narrows further, forcing me to twist my shoulders to fit through. My shirt catches on something sharp, ripping slightly. Behind me, I hear Calypso curse under her breath.
“Almost there,” she whispers so softly I almost miss it.
We emerge into a wider section of the ventilation system. Light filters through another grate ahead, but this one looks different. Larger, with streetlights streaming through.
I reach it first and peer down. We’re above what appears to be a loading dock area. A delivery truck sits parked below, its back open but empty. No people in sight.
Calypso catches up, her face flushed with exertion. She points at the grate, then makes a motion indicating we should remove it.
Working together, we manage to loosen the screws holding the grate in place. The last one comes free with a metallic ping that seems to echo through the entire building. We freeze, listening for any reaction.
Nothing.
Calypso pushes the grate open, and fresh air hits my face. The smell of garbage and diesel fuel has never been so welcome.
“Go,” she whispers.
I lower myself through the opening, hanging by my fingertips before dropping to the puddled ground. It’s on the tip of my tongue to demand she tell me what the fuck that was. I’ve never in all my life felt I was in danger like that.
Well, except I have. One time. Only one time.
And we were sixteen, Calypso was drunk and I swore I saw a vampire or a demon or something. But years of therapy and even more meds I realized it was a figment of my imagination. But right now? Right now it doesn’t feel like pretend. It feels real and wrong and I might be having a panic attack.
Calypso jumps down and grabs my hand. Her car is in front of the bar, but she drags me in the opposite direction.
“We can’t go back for the car,” she hisses, pulling me into a narrow alley between two buildings. “They’ll be watching it.”
My heart hammers against my ribs as I stumble after her. “Calypso, what the hell is going on? Who was that guy?”
“Not here,” she snaps, glancing over her shoulder. “Keep moving.”
We weave through backstreets and parking lots. Calypso taking sharp turns that seem designed to confuse anyone following us. My feet ache in my sneakers, and my ripped pants flap awkwardly against my skin.
I loved these pants too, though I’m sure Lazarus has one in every color in my room at their home, which is weird to even think about.
After what feels like miles, Calypso pulls me into a 24-hour diner. The fluorescent lights sting my eyes after the darkness outside. She shoves me into a booth in the corner, her eyes still darting toward the entrance.
“Two coffees,” she tells the waitress who appears, not bothering with menus.
When we’re alone again, I lean across the table. “Start talking.”
Calypso’s hands shake as she reaches for the sugar packets. “Otto is dangerous, more dangerous than you can imagine.”
“I got that part,” I say dryly. “But why? And what did you whisper to him that made him back off?”
She hesitates, tearing open a sugar packet with trembling fingers. “I told him that Vex would end him if he touched either of us.”
“And that worked? Just like that?” I don’t buy it. There was something more in that exchange, something I missed. She’s fucking lying, I can tell in the way she refuses to meet my eyes.
“Vex and Otto have... history. Bad history,” she adds at least ten sugar packets to her coffee. “We need to get out of here.” She jerks her head at the street. “The bus will be here in ten minutes, we just need to get out of here. And be on the bus without anyone noticing us.”
“I need you to tell me what the fuck is going on.” I point at the window. “The last time I felt fear like that you told me I was crazy. You told me I was imagining this, but I can’t be having a shared hallucination right now.”
“You aren’t.” But she still won’t meet my eyes. “Fuck, the bus is early.” She looks around panicked. “Run.”
I don’t question her. I grab my purse and follow Calypso as she bolts from the diner, coffee abandoned on the table. My heart pounds as we sprint across the street, sneakers slapping against the pavement. The bus is pulling up to the stop just as we reach it, doors hissing open.
“Two to the city center,” Calypso gasps, shoving money at the driver.
We collapse into seats near the back, both breathing hard. I watch through the windows, searching for any sign of Otto or his friends. Nothing yet.
“What the hell is happening?” I whisper, still trying to catch my breath. “You need to tell me everything.”
Calypso checks her phone, fingers trembling. “I can’t. Not here. Not yet.”
“Then when?” I hiss, frustration building. “Because I almost shit myself back there, and I deserve to know why.”
She finally meets my eyes, and what I see there terrifies me more than anything Otto did. It’s pure, unadulterated fear. The kind that comes from knowledge, not imagination. Lived experience.
“When we’re somewhere safe,” she says quietly. “When I’m sure we weren’t followed. I’m staying with you tonight.”
The bus lurches forward, and I grip the seat in front of me. My mind races with possibilities, none of them good. In fact all of them sound bad, very bad.
Otto could be a drug dealer.
Maybe he’s a serial killer.
What about a stalker? He has stalker vibes.
Most likely he’s in fact from a biker gang.
“Were they like a murderous biker gang?” I ask because there is no way I can just let this go. Not right now. Maybe not ever.
“Fuck, scratch that.” She looks at me, her mouth opening and closing. “I need to get Mads and Mable safe.”
“Why? They weren’t even with us.” I am so close to shaking her. “What the fuck, Soso.”
“I need to get off here.” She’s pleading with me now. “Go straight home. Vex will be there, he will keep you safe. Straight home. Can you do that for me.”
“I want to know what the fuck that was.” But I’m getting the feeling she isn’t going to tell me. No one is. Which is absolute bullshit.
“I… can’t.” She stands as the bus reaches its next stop. “Trust your intuition, Cal, it was never wrong.” Then she’s gone.
But what does that mean. Trust my intuition.
Every time I did that someone I loved told me I was crazy. How can I trust that?
Unless, unless I was never crazy at all.