Not Flesh Nor Feathers (Eden Moore 3)

Touch and be touched? I could see the logic there, but I didn’t like it. It didn’t mean power. It meant vulnerability.

I rose and pushed the chair back with my leg.

Eliza’s hand shot out and nabbed my wrist.

Her grip was strong and angry, and when she rolled her head to look at me, that old recognition was back. “Girl, you give me back my boy. ”

“Eliza,” I protested, and I picked at her fingers. I tried not to hurt her, which was more than she’d ever done for me. “Eliza, let me go. ”

“Bring him back to me. Bring him back and bury him here with me. That’s the only deal I’ve got for you. That’s what I want, and that’s the only thing. ”

I worked my thumb beneath her pinky and twisted myself free from the rest. “I can’t. ”

She settled back onto the pillow; again she looked sallow and fragile. She looked beaten, but wary. “Get out. Out of my house. ”

“I’m way ahead of you. ”

“Out!” she shouted again, and again—and by the third time the nurse came running. “What did you do to her?” the nurse asked, but I had a feeling it was only professional curiosity.

“Nothing. I showed up, and it was a bad idea. ” I turned sideways and we passed each other in the doorway. “I’m sorry. I’ll see myself out. ”

I nearly ran downstairs, back to the corridor, and to the front door. It was ridiculous, and I knew it. Eliza wasn’t going to

leap up and come after me, and there was no one else in the house who would chase me.

I tried to feel sorry for her—I worked on it for a few minutes while I wrestled with my keys and slammed myself safely into the cab of my car. She’s old, and she’s dying, and she’s alone.

That’s sad, right?

But she’d done it all to herself. And she’d done it to Malachi, too. It was one thing to be alone in life, I suppose, and another to lie alone after it’s finished. But that’s not an excuse, and it’s barely a reason.

I was absurdly glad that Malachi was still alive, for it was the one thing I could still deny Eliza. The malice I felt was resounding, and pure, and I liked it. I didn’t even bother to kick it back down or force it aside.

I just let it stew.

Driving home, through the long, flat stretches of Georgia where nobody lives once Atlanta’s past, I wasn’t even bothered by the way the feeling stayed. I didn’t care if it lingered. She hated me to the bitter end, and I could hate her too, if it came to that.

That mad little troll of a woman didn’t want to be forgiven, and who was I to go against her wishes? She could stay there and rot for all I cared. She could lie there alone, and when she died, I’d never talk to her—even if I still could. Even if she wanted me to.

I dug my foot down into the gas pedal and wished myself home.

8

Vandals Are We All

I slept in the next day and missed my aunt and uncle, but they were thinking of me—or at least Lu was. On the dining room table was our morning copy of the newspaper. A big red circle highlighted one of the front page stories.

ARSON AT RIVERSIDE DEVELOPMENT.

I snatched the paper and started reading. A fire had destroyed one of the newer, unfinished units. Windows had been broken in several other apartments. Opening date had been delayed. Police had no suspects.

I dropped the newspaper and picked up the phone. “Nick,” I said when he picked up, “what the hell is going on?”

“Crazy psychics,” he mumbled.

“Were you asleep?”

“No. Yes. I’m at work. ”