Chapter 15 Gold Eyes
Gold Eyes
Morning arrived early and angry, with sunlight slashing through the city’s summer haze as if it were personally offended by my blackout curtains.
I dragged myself upright and into the kitchen, where the linoleum floor stuck to my bare feet.
The smell of burnt coffee soon wafted from the ancient percolator.
I poured a cup anyway, because a bad cup of coffee was better than none, and leaned against the chipped counter. Through the kitchen window, I had a perfect view of our fire escape, and on it, as always, was Mateo.
He wasn’t supposed to be out there. He knew that. Which meant the fact that he was out there anyway was deliberate.
The bars were rusted, the steps crooked. If the landlord ever saw an eleven-year-old crouched two stories up with nothing between him and the street but a rickety railing, he’d have a coronary.
Mateo had his elbows on his knees, hoodie sleeves shoved up. His hair stuck out in ten directions like he’d lost a fight with a pillow. This was more than just a vacation habit for him; it was an unbroken bond with the urban jungle.
He feasted on the vibrant energy of the metropolis waking up beneath us. The city came alive to him. And then there were the animals, drawn to him as much as their presence compelled him.
A revolving cast populated his mornings, but notably, Minx, the elusive tabby queen that, if you got within three feet of her, would hiss and swipe with a speed that made even the bravest dog-walkers cross to the other side of the avenue.
Today, Minx was in his lap. Not tolerating him, choosing him. That alone should’ve been illegal. He was talking to her, low, steady, like he expected to be answered.
“You’re not as mean as you pretend,” he muttered, scratching behind her ear. Minx purred harder.
The pigeons landed next, four or five battered birds with a tendency to walk rather than fly.
One especially fat pigeon, which I recognized as Stumpy for his noticeably missing left toe, limped his way closer.
Mateo didn’t scatter breadcrumbs like a Disney princess.
He just held out his hand. The bird stepped casually into it. Like they had an understanding.
It wasn’t normal. Not in the “wow, my kid’s really good with animals!” way, but in the “maybe I should Google ‘child animal whisperer possession’” way.
I sipped the coffee and watched, looking for any sign that Mateo was playing a trick or that the animals were after some secret snack stash. He didn’t even notice me; he was lost in the moment, smiling like he’d discovered a new color.
Then, as if sensing an invisible signal, every creature on the fire escape went still.
The two Dobermans from the next building over had appeared, noses pressed between the bars of their own landing.
They were brothers, belonged to the ex-cop on the third floor, and usually spent the mornings barking themselves hoarse at passing garbage trucks.
Today, they stared at Mateo and his menagerie with eyes wide and unblinking.
The first dog let out a growl so low it barely registered above the background hum of the street. The second dropped flat to its stomach, tail tucked.
He looked up at the sky like he was tracking something. For half a second, the sun caught his eyes, and they flashed gold. Not glowing. Reflective. Too reflective.
His eyes, usually soft and blue-hazel like a summer sky, captured the light with an almost otherworldly intensity.
My stomach dropped.
Mateo seemed unaware of his transformation or its gravity. Then he blinked, and it was gone.
The spell was broken, but its lingering magic clung to the air like notes from a fading melody. A shiver ran up my spine; some primal part of me sensed we had brushed against an unseen boundary, one that marked where reality blurred into myth.
Mateo glanced toward the kitchen window and noticed me watching. He didn’t smile. Just held my gaze like he was deciding whether to say something. Then he looked away first.
When I opened the window, he didn’t beam. He sighed.
“You’re going to say I’m going to fall,” he said.
“I was going to say frozen waffles.”
He rolled his eyes. “That’s worse.”
I lowered my voice. “The dogs were staring.” I tried to ignore the goosebumps crawling up my arms as I closed the window.
“They always stare.”
“That doesn’t bother you?” I asked, putting the frozen waffles in the toaster.
He shrugged. “They don’t hate me.”
Inside, he didn’t bounce. He moved with that half-grown awkwardness, longer limbs, quieter energy.
“You ever feel like they’re waiting for something?” I asked.
He hesitated. Too long.
“…Maybe.” He said while he took out the syrup from the pantry.
I let it go, because what else could I do?
Tell my eleven-year-old that he might be a magnet for supernatural animal behavior?
Not even the internet has a good parenting forum for that.
Instead, I ruffled his hair and pretended to be impressed when he stacked three waffles into a sandwich and ate them in two bites.
“Make sure you pack your sunscreen,” I called out after him as he slipped out of the kitchen. “And brush your teeth, please. Really brush them this time, with toothpaste, not just by wishing them clean.”
He was off to spend the day reveling in the freedom bestowed by sunshine and friendship, joining Liam and Noah for a summer playdate that promised more than just idle amusement.
Noah’s mother had devised a full itinerary: a visit to the park where bicycles would carry them through leafy trails, followed by a lunch of char-grilled delights.
A muffled “Love you!” came echoing back as his footsteps faded down the hallway and out into the street.
I stood on the threshold, soaking in the quiet aftermath of breakfast chaos now scattered across countertops.
Yet even amidst this domestic disarray, my thoughts drifted back to Mateo’s curious antics on the fire escape and how they seemed to tether him not just to earth but something far more mystical.
Turning my gaze toward the world outside once more, I found myself drawn to the rooftops beyond our windowpane. Crows were there, perched like sentinels. There must have been twenty or thirty forming an ink-black legion against the blue expanse above.
Their stillness struck an eerie chord within me. Every dark figure cut sharply against the bright light of day. I shivered, a cold that coffee couldn’t fix settling into my bones.
I shook off lingering unease born from morning’s strange encounter with golden-eyed visions and returned my attention reluctantly back indoors while stealing glimpses outward ever so often.
When the city gets quiet, it’s either holding its breath or waiting for something awful to happen. Either way, the only thing to do was finish my coffee, scrub syrup off the table, and keep moving.
But if anything tried to come for my kid, dog, cat, or crow, they’d have to get through me first.
* * *
The next day dawned with a blend of anticipation and nerves swirling in my stomach as I prepared for my performance at Neon. The flickering lights of the club danced in my mind, a kaleidoscope of colors that promised both exhilaration and danger.
I mentally practiced my routine, each step and spin rehearsed to perfection yet still filled with the thrill of spontaneity. I could almost hear the thumping bass reverberating through the walls, the crowd’s energy rising like a tide ready to crash.
Backstage at Neon was less a greenroom and more a storage closet repurposed by someone who believed in mood lighting and mold. Every surface was covered in sequins and sticky residue from hairspray. Three bare bulbs flanked the mirror above the battered sink.
I sat in front of the mirror, wiggling my feet back and forth while I waited for my slot in the lineup.
The silence in the greenroom was worse than the noise out on the main floor.
I fiddled with tonight’s mask: black satin, edged in feathers so fine they looked like they’d been plucked from a crow mid-air.
It was meant to make me stand out on stage but also served as a safety net.
Michelle herself was nowhere to be found. Rita, on the other hand, was stationed at her usual post behind the bar.
Tonight’s routine was set to Control by Halsey. The club’s lighting guy had promised to give me “midnight electric” on the first verse and “pure ultraviolet” for the chorus. All I had to do was hit my marks and not throw up.
Five minutes to showtime, and my heart was beating against my ribs like it wanted out.
I tightened the straps on my vintage magenta corset, feeling the fabric hug my waist. The black fishnets clung to my legs, their sheer texture accentuating every curve as I adjusted the hem.
With a soft thud, I slipped on my sleek black booties.
Finally, I pinned the vibrant magenta wig atop my head.
My cheeks tingled beneath layers of makeup; it felt heavy and foreign.
As I stared into the mirror, counting down each fleeting second, I searched for a glimpse of the girl hidden within this facade.
The DJ called my name.
The crowd’s roar bled through the wall like a pulse.
I walked out into the blacklight and smoke and found my place at the edge of the stage. The music started: a slow build, all bass and whisper. I closed my eyes for the first four counts, then opened them on the drop.
Out in the dark, I couldn’t see faces, just shapes and colors. Every pair of eyes in the place was on me.
The first trick was a fireman spin. I gripped the pole, swung out, and let the momentum carry me into a half-laugh, half-gasp. The mask slipped, but I didn’t. On the chorus, the lights cut to deep violet. I slid down, dropped into a split, arms wide, chin lifted.
The crowd went nuclear.
That was when I felt it, a gaze that didn’t just want to watch, but to claim.