Medusa's Dagger (Aya Harris Collection 1)

I knew I shouldn’t have tagged that last bit of sass on, but I couldn’t help myself. Mrs. O’Conner had decided she didn’t like me from the beginning. The first day I moved in, before I’d even met her, she called the cops and told them I was a prostitute servicing johns in my apartment. It was embarrassing, having to explain to the officer that I wasn’t a street walker while all my new neighbors walked by.

“With a murderer on the loose, what are people supposed to expect?” she asked. “Sneaking makes you look guilty. Are you guilty of something, Ms. Harris?”

First an SI agent accuses me of kidnapping and now Mrs. O’Conner calls me a murderer. This day couldn’t get any better.

“No, Mrs. O’Conner. I’m just guilty of trying to get home.”

Out of nowhere, Adler leapt forward and slashed at my ankle with his wicked little claws. Thankfully, my boots protected me from the assault, but I kicked out in an automatic reflex of defense. The toe of my boot caught fat Adler in the ribs, causing him to howl in anger and attack my other leg.

“Don’t you kick my kitty,” Mrs. O’Conner screeched.

She pulled a broomstick from behind the door and began smacking my legs with it. Between Adler’s incessant attacks and Mrs. O’Conner’s broom bristles, my boots weren’t going to last long.

“He attacked me first,” I said in my defense, but Mrs. O’Conner would have none of it.

She chased me down the hall with her broom. “Bad girl. Bad, bad, girl. Hurting my poor Adler. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Bad girl.”

I dropped my keys out of my purse and cursed. This only resulted in Mrs. O’Conner hurling religious insults at me as I snatched my keys and desperately tried to unlock my door.

“Devil girl. Demon child. Whore of Babylon!”

Finally, I succeeded in turning the knob and squeezing inside my apartment, leaving Mrs. O’Conner and her three cats hissing in the hallway. I leaned back against the door and breathed. As much as I wanted to take a talon to one of those cats or Mrs. O’Conner’s broomstick, it wouldn’t do me much good. That woman was a permanent resident of Kenneth Manor, with only her cats and the raging dementia as company. She’d be here long after I was gone. It wouldn’t do any good to make her angrier.

“If only you knew what I really am,” I muttered to myself.

The apartment was still quiet. Johnny often didn’t get home from his job at the courthouse until late. I cherished the time I had alone, just as much as the time I spent with my friends.

To my left lay a small galley kitchen. Johnny was much better with a stove than I was, so that was his territory. Our living room was furnished with two shabby couches covered in brown bed sheets. They might not look like much, but there was nothing better than sinking into them for a movie or two.

In the corner stood my Olympic weight set, left over from my CrossFit days. I still liked to pump iron most evenings – it was an addiction that I just couldn’t shake. But unlike other addictions, this one left me with killer thighs and biceps, so I didn’t try to kick it.

I dropped my purse on our dinky kitchen table and headed to my room. A thought had been bumping around my head all day, scratching at the inside of my skull. Somewhere in the back of my closet was an old track phone. It’d been over a year since I used it. I didn’t even know if it still worked.

Dropping to my knees, I dug through the piles of shoes and wrinkled pants on the floor of the closet. Underneath an old pair of Silvers jeans, I found a beat up Nike shoebox. Inside were the remnants of another life, another time. Friendship bracelets from summer camp in 1996, a small rag doll from my childhood, monopoly pieces that I’d found in the street as a first grader, and many other random mementos that I couldn’t force myself to throw away.

A few photos in the bottom of the box caught my eye. Faces of friends and family stared up at me. I turned them facedown, blocking out the rush of emotions that began. In the corner of the box was my old Samsung track phone and the charger. I snatched them up and threw the box back in its pile of forgotten items.

As I plugged the phone into the charger and waited for that little screen to light up, I prayed it wouldn’t work. That it was busted or dead from months of disuse. Or maybe my minutes had expired. Turning it on was a bad idea. Finding his contact info was an even worse idea. But… calling him up? That was the idea that could bring my whole life crashing down.

Despite my desperate wishes, the track phone lit up with a welcome screen and a cheery tone that didn’t fit my mood. I opened my contacts and found him halfway down the screen. Just five simple letters: Nicky. My finger lingered over the green call button. All I needed now was to press the button and just maybe, he’d be on the other end of the line.

I dropped the phone and paced the room. It was silly to get involved. The Supernatural Investigations team had everything under control. They’d find the rest of the Yonas family and everyone would be okay.

Except, Mr. Yonas was already a stiff on the morgue table. Obviously, the SI didn’t know enough because they hadn’t been able to save him. And now, a family was without a dad. I knew how that felt, even if my own father was still alive somewhere. An alcoholic tended to make his kids feel fatherless.

I caught

my reflection in the body-length mirror leaning against the wall. Avoiding my face, I trailed my eyes down to the billowy white tank I wore that day. The tips of my black harpy wings peeked out on my bare shoulders. Harpies had the ability to hide their wings, even without an enchanted city. When not in use, they appeared as nothing more than an elaborate tattoo of black feathered wings folded across my shoulders. But when spread out, they could span the room from tip-to-tip.

“You’re being stupid,” I told my reflection. “He’s probably changed his number since then, anyway. Just call and see if he’s involved. It couldn’t hurt.”

I marched across the room and picked up the phone, pressing call before I could change my mind. The plastic phone felt cold against my cheek. It took a moment for the call to go through. I was beginning to think that my phone was out of minutes, but after a few seconds I heard ringing in the little speaker.

One ring. Two rings. Three. Holding my breath, I hoped that no one would answer. Four rings. Maybe someone else would pick up and tell me it was the wrong number. Five rings. Or he’d answer and immediately know it was me. Six rings. Nicky had a way of knowing things he shouldn’t, especially for a human.

The call went to voicemail and I sighed in relief. Fate had intervened. I wouldn’t have to talk to him after all. A robotic voice came on the line, asking for a message after the tone.

“Um… Nicky? Is this still your phone number? Probably not, we haven’t talked in so long. How are you?” I shook my head, trying to get my thoughts to organize. “Oh yeah, this is Aya. But you probably already figured that out.”