1
Somewhere close by, a loud, raucous countdown was on, cheers echoing as the New Year was rung in. There was no laughter or friendship in the dirty truck stop bathroom as I stared into the cracked and marked mirror, washing out the last of the hair color.
I had very few rituals in my life. I didn’t have enough stability for ritual, but there was one thing I had been doing for the past five of my twenty-two years. Every New Year’s Eve—my birthday—I changed my hair color. It was my way of saying “fuck you” to the last sucktastic 365 days. I would not be defined by my circumstances. Each new color was a new beginning, a new age … a new chance at getting it right.
And this year, for the first time, I didn't stick with the darker tones.
This was going to be my year. The year of pink.
After I was done drying it under the shitty old hand dryer, I started sweeping all the boxes, peroxide, and color tubes, into a nearby trash can. My new color caught my eye under the low lights, and I had to smile. It’d turned out better than I’d expected, a shimmery pastel pink. Luckily, the one skill my mother had left me with was the ability to work magic in the art of hair transformations. She had been a beautician and hairdresser before she got sucked into the darkness of drugs, alcohol, and men who were no good for her.
The year she died was the first year I turned my silvery-blond locks into an orange mess of waves. Felt like something she would approve of. I'd been on my own since then, moving towns and changing hair every twelve months—was probably lucky I still had hair left, but somehow it continued to be long and thick and healthy. I was hair blessed.
Life blessed? Not so much.
It was time again to jump on the first bus out of here and start my new life. I probably could have stopped running by now—no one was looking for me anymore—but maybe part of me was still searching for the illusion of home that everyone else had.
This year it was going to be better. This year there would be light, because I'd had my damned share of darkness. I was so fucking done.
“Pink wouldn't have been my first choice, but I have to say you do wear it well.”
I spun around, searching for the person that voice belonged to.
I'd been alone in the bathroom. I had shut and locked the door, due to the shitty area of Detroit I was currently in. Whoever was there stood just outside of the small circle of light. I had pretty amazing night vision when I forced myself to focus, but sometimes tapping into my unexplained abilitiescaused me problems, so I just reached for my bag and the switchblade inside.
“What the hell do you want?” I bit out, making my voice as harsh as I could. I was no shrinking violet at five feet ten, but my voice was sweet, so far from matching my insides it wasn't even funny.
Maybe pink hair hadn't been such a good idea. I was really gonna give off the wrong vibe now.
There was no answer, but there was movement as a chick stepped into the light. I blinked a few times, swallowing down my next insult. She was nothing like I expected. Even taller than me, her skin was very dark, shining in the low lights. Her hair was a mass of curls, tighter to her head than mine—in a corkscrew fashion—and it was a vibrant red. She was stunningly beautiful, and not in a mere supermodel way. Nope. She was gorgeous in a dropped-from-the-heavens-by-the-gods way: full cherry lips, huge green eyes, high cheekbones, and aristocratic features. If I wasn't firmly on team into-dudes, I'd already be half in love with her.
She took another step closer and I pressed myself back against the dirty sink. Just because she was hot didn't mean she wasn't dangerous. “We’ve been looking for you for a long time,” she said as her long leather-clad legs halted in a strong stance. “You're very good at moving and covering your tracks, but … your powers are growing stronger. You can’t hide any longer.”
Panic bloomed within me. Strong waves that almost crushed me. Five years ago I had been wanted for questioning by many government agencies. Not only had I run away at seventeen, I'd fled a crime scene, leaving my mother's body behind. But I was almost certain that they’d given up on me long ago.
Apparently not.
I immediately catalogued the room, trying to figure out an escape route.
“Are you not even going to ask my name before you disappear?” she asked, amusement in her tone. “Seems kinda rude, don’t you think?”
I closed my hand around the blade, ready to flick it open at any sign of an attack.
“Should I care?” I shook my head at her. “I don’t know you. I don’t want to know you. I’m leaving now.” It was worth a try, the false bravado. Maybe she would back off. But judging by her “we’ve been looking for you for a long time” comment, I doubted it.
“It’s Ilia,” she continued, like I hadn’t just basically told her to go fuck herself. “My name. It’s spelled I-L-I-A but you say it like eye—” She paused. “—Leah.”
I was so astonished by her calm and conversational tone—like we’d known each other for twenty years and were old friends catching up.
“What do you want with me, Ilia?” I dragged her name out like she had. “What do you mean, ‘My powers are growing stronger?’ Like … powers … really? Are you insane?”
She laughed, throwing her head back as husky tones filled the air. It sent a tingle down my spine and I was pretty sure it wasn’t just because her laugh was as sexy as she was. Energy drifted along with the sound.
“The insane thing is really going to depend on who you ask,” she finally replied, once she got herself under control. “And on what day you catch me. But to answer your other question, you, my friend, are no ordinary supe.”
I blinked at her, my hand sweaty on my blade handle. “Soup?” What in the hell did she mean bysoup? Like the food? Or was that some sort of derogatory term I hadn’t heard?
Or … maybe a gang?
