Chapter 5
Damn it,” I murmur, trying to duck in the doorway of an old building. I’m suddenly freezing without the Need, and my wet white blouse isn’t helping the situation.
I wrap my arms around myself and wait a few minutes. Soon, just as suddenly as it started, the rain stops. I step away from the building, staring up at the night sky. The weather here isn’t usually this unpredictable.
With a heavy sigh, I limp through the dark city streets, wishing a cab would come by, but remembering that I don’t have the money to pay for a ride anyway. Each step is agony and I’m starving. But what’s worse is that Francisco’s words are still in my ears.
What are you?
I reach for my shoulder but then draw my hand away. I don’t want to touch the golden spot. I’m terrified of what’s happening to me.
I wish I really was just psychic. I wish I was anything. Because right now I feel so wrong—running out into the night instead of hooking up with my boyfriend. Knowing things I can’t possibly know. Seeing people’s souls! Despair hits me and I begin to cry, sniffling hard and rubbing at my cheeks. Maybe I’m cursed.
The sound of a motor cuts through the night from behind me and my muscles tense. Anyone out after dark is looking for trouble. At least, that’s what Mercy would say. Careful not to be obvious, I glance over my shoulder toward the single oncoming light of a motorcycle.
Harlin. I nearly explode with relief. I recognize his bike and worn, brown leather jacket and wave at him. I feel saved.
He drives his bike hard into the curb, jumping off of it before it clangs to the ground. “What the hell, Charlotte?” he yells, running to me. “I’ve been looking for you all night!”
I move toward him, wanting him to hold me and tell me that I’m okay. But he stops short on the sidewalk, the color draining from his face. His eyes are wide with concern, but then he rushes forward and throws his arms around me. “What happened? Are you okay?”
I’m confused, but then I remember the accident. Smacking my head. The warm liquid that soaked my hair and traveled down my cheek. I probably lookreallybad.
“I got hit by a car,” I answer quietly, watching him as he examines me. I breathe deeply, comforted by his smell. I want to tell him about the Need, about the golden skin. But I don’t. Because once I tell him I can’t take it back and he’ll know for sure that I’m a freak. How can he love someone whose skin is falling off?
“A car! Are you serious?” Harlin pulls back and looks me over from head to toe, just in case I’m missing a leg and he hasn’t noticed before now. “Is anything broken? Didn’t they stop?” He’s shaking his head, overwhelmed. I close my eyes and lean into him, letting him wrap me up in his arms.
I’m too tired to make up a lie right now. “Can you take me to the clinic?” I ask, not lifting my head from his shoulder. The clinic will be closed soon. I really don’t think anything is broken, but I’m bleeding from the head and the emergency room just seems like such a hassle. And then there’s the issue of my skin. What if they see it? They might send me to Area 51 or some top-secret lab.
“Of course I’ll take you.” Harlin keeps his arm around me as he leads me to his motorcycle. “You should tell me why the hell you climbed out my fire escape,” he mumbles. “But first, I think you need stitches.”
I nod, not sure how I’ll explain away tonight’s disappearing act, but instead of worrying, I press my cheek against his chest as we walk to his bike.
“How do you get hit by a car on Broadway at this time of night?” Monroe asks in his British accent. He’s treated all kinds of injuries, but he definitely seems to get more serious when it’s me—maybe because he’s known me for so long. With the situations the Need puts me in, it’s not that rare for me to require the occasional stitch or splint. I can usually avoid the head trauma, though.
He continues with a long sigh. “I give you the night off and you become a streetwalker? It’s embarrassing, really.”
I tell him to shut the hell up, but I’m glad he hasn’t called Mercy. She’s going to have a coronary when she hears about this. I still haven’t thought of a way to explain why I was out.
I shift on the exam table, thinking of Harlin in the waiting room. I’ll have to tell him something. I just don’t know what.
“Stay still, Charlotte,” Monroe warns as he ties off the thread and then grabs the scissors to snip it.
“Sorry.” I sit on the crinkling paper while he cleans off the metal tray and goes to the sink to wash his hands. When he first examined me, Monroe was quick to give me a Vicodin after getting a look at the huge, bumper-sized bruises on my thighs. It’s left me a little groggy, but that’s good. He told me I’d be really sore for a few days, but that there was no permanent damage.
When I told him not to call the cops to report the accident, he definitely eyed me suspiciously, scratching at his slightly graying five o’clock shadow. But Monroe and I have known each other forever—he trusts me. And I’m sure he’ll expect me to explain later.
When I was seven, I came into this clinic with a broken arm that I’d gotten on the school playground. Max Rothsberg didn’t want to hear that I knew he’d stolen money out of the donation basket. Instead, he pushed me down andsnap!
Oddly enough, a week later when I went back to school, he didn’t remember even talking to me about it. He’d given the money back while I was gone. I tried to tell one of the nuns right when the Need happened, but she chalked it up to childhood delusions and scolded me for lying. She said that kids can’t see visions—only God can. So after that I kept my mouth shut.
Mercy was volunteering at the clinic during those years and sometimes she’d bring me in with her. I liked hanging around. Monroe would talk with me about school. About my home life. It was nice sometimes, having a person other than Mercy care about me. Monroe’s the closest thing to a father I’ve ever known. So when I turned twelve and Monroe asked me to volunteer, I was happy to say yes.
Just being here at the clinic, I feel a zillion times better. It’s so familiar. Safe.
Monroe steps on the trash can, opening it with a metal clang. Just then, there’s a small itch at my shoulder. At the spot. I know I have to tell someone about the mark on my skin. I can’t keep this a secret. “Monroe,” I whisper, my throat dry. He pauses while removing his gloves, and looks over. I’m sure he can hear in my voice that something is wrong.
“Are you hurt somewhere else?” He shifts in his loafers, darting his gaze over my body. With a quick snap he pulls off his gloves and tosses them on the counter.
