Page 90 of Fate, Interrupted

I don’t answer right away. I’m calculating the distance to my car, the gap between them, and whether I could get around the broad one before he blocked me. Probably not.

The alley is darker than it was when I walked in. The streetlamp at the mouth of it throws light maybe twelve feet in. We’re past that. The shops on either side of The Last Chapter are closed, their front windows dark, no foot traffic, no one taking out trash, no delivery trucks, nothing that would give me a reason to call out or anyone who would hear it.

I am alone in an alley with two men who positioned themselves between me and my car.

I file that under things I should have noticed sooner.

“You know who I mean,” the broad one says.

I do, but I say nothing.

Up close there’s a bruise under his left eye, fading to that muddy yellow-green that means it’s been there a week at least. Still visible if you’re looking. I’m looking.

“You don’t belong in it,” the tall one says. His voice still hasn’t changed. “His world. Wolves. Pack. Whatever you think you’re getting into.”

I study him for a moment. Behind his flat stare is resentment rather than outright hatred and isn’t quite concern. It is the resentment of a man who has decided that another person’s choice is a statement about him. About what loyalty means. About what it says about me that I’m making a different choice than the one he considers correct.

It is the most human kind of bias.

He calls it protection while standing in a dark alley and blocking my car.

“I appreciate the concern,” I say.

“It’s not concern,” the broad one says. “It’s a warning.”

“I know,” I say. “I noticed.”

“Then take it.”

I look between them. The broad one with his flat eyes and his fading bruise. The tall one with his stillness and his patience. The gap between them. My car on the other side of it.

The last thing I’m going to do is let them see my fear. Showing it puts me in a more dangerous position than I’m already in, and I’m definitely already in it.

“No,” I say.

The word comes out clean. No edge, no apology, no academy award winning act of bravery. Just the word, sitting where it sits.

The broad one stares at me.

The tall one is very still.

“You’re making this harder than it needs to be,” the tall one says finally.

“I’m not making it anything,” I say. “You came to me.”

“And we’re telling you,” the broad one says, “this ends badly. For you.”

“You don’t know how it ends,” I say. “Neither do I. That’s how endings work.”

He shakes his head. The contempt isn’t personal because I’m not a person to him right now. I’m the naive human woman who doesn’t understand what she’s walking into.

“Is that how most of your endings work?” I point to the broad one’s large, yellow bruise. “That doesn’t look so great to me.”

The tall one looks at me for a long moment, eyes narrowed, mouth set in thin line. Then he steps aside.

They don’t leave. The space they’ve opened is wide enough for me to walk through. They want me to know they’re the ones giving it to me.

I walk through at my own pace in a straight line. I don’t hurry, but I don’t dawdle either. I keep my attention on my car, reach for the handle, slide into the seat, and shut the door.