Chapter 7: 07

Alicja

Ismael slipped into the darker shadows and began walking with an unhurried stride toward the street, and then he turned left and out of sight. The man, the one reported to be naked on the roof was Ben.

I thought I kinda knew it would be Ben. I wanted it to be him, but not in a bad way. I mean, I didn't want to believe that Ben was eaten or something otherwise, gruesome. If it was him, well then it was alright, right? No big bad was flying around snatching people up and eating them.

Ismael must have seen who it was as well, but he didn't appear to be happy or relieved, or any less wary. He looked nearly feral at this point. His shoulders were up, his legs walked stiffly, and his head was down. His stoop was more pronounced because of his thin build.

Which meant he was still worried about whatever took Ben. Ismael didn't need Ben to be gruesome. What took Ben, was bad enough all on it's own. He didn't want to meet up with it.

I looked up in the air, and across the rooftops. Shit, he has me worried now.

I had decided to follow him for a short time — and that was the direction back to my home anyway, right? I took a step, and then stopped. I stopped because three men, from different groups, stepped toward the corner as well. All at the same time.

There was something predator about them. I couldn't name it, but it was there, and strong enough I didn't question it. I simply turned back to watch the firemen trying to get Ben on the ladder, and wiped my nose.

Maybe those men had something to do with this as well. Maybe they didn't.

Ismael obviously walked a life that would include desperate measures and desperate times. Still, it was an odd feeling. I mean, he was at least partners with Ben when he blocked us on the road. He was a threat then. He was a threat until he was threatened off. Now he was not threatening — he was more pathetic, actually. But why did a drop of guilt trouble my stomach when I saw those three predators going after him?

It was odd.

Shaking my head, and deciding Ben wasn't coming down, I turned toward the corner to go home. I waved to the few 'Night Cheri's' that were called out by some men as I passed. It was fine that they watched, in fact I planned on crossing the street when I got there so I would be in their sight longer.

Just because they were after Ismael, doesn't mean they aren't after me.

The thought almost felt like it was from outside me. Like I heard it rather than thought it.

I looked around. That's how unsure I was. I had just stepped onto the curb of the far side of the street when it voiced it's opinion. It was like it had mass. Gravity.

Fuck I'm jumpy.

When I took two steps down the street toward my lane, I saw him. He wore white, and gray. His white hair was longish, like he was due for a trim, but not quite. His body was a V from shoulders to feet. The clothing was linen — with an embarrassing thread count. A tropic jacket over a gray silk shirt, with pants to match the jacket, and you never see polished shoes down here.

Never. It's a thing. It just doesn't happen. You'll see thousand dollar basketball shoes, sure. But nothing with wing-tips. This man wasn't from around here. Those were wing-tips.

"And you are?" I asked, when I came closer, and stopped. Damn, he had a handsome face — an attractive well sculptured face. I'm not kidding. It was like a Brad Pitt, Peter Parker mash-up.

Handsome but fun and maybe more — if it's fun.

I might have sounded a bit aggressive. Maybe I should have just said, Hi.

Shit.

"Yes," he said, "I am Ocean."

Was that an accent? "Hello, Ocean. Can I get past? I want to go home."

"Yes, about that," he said, while stepping back twice and then asking, "Would you allow me the privilege of escorting you?"

I blinked. Then after stepping forward once, I asked, "You want to walk me home? I only live half a block away."

He nodded, "I can keep my distance."

"Could you tell me why?" I asked, taking another step.

"A friend saw you have trouble earlier, and then recognized you a moment ago — but he could not come himself. He asked me to see you safely home."

"A friend?"

"A close friend, yes."

I looked around, and didn't see anyone close by, except him. "Well, like I said, I'm only a few houses down."

"I can keep my distance, just until you arrive at your front door," he said.

"OK... I guess that would be ok," I said, then I stepped past him and turned down my street.

I didn't see how I could stop him, really. It was a public street. He was hot as hell, but ... killers could be hot as hell, right? And besides, I don't know — I mean, I didn't know if I would like going-out with someone who had sexier lips than I had.

It just felt like a lot of work, that's all — being on the arm of perfection. Trying to be perfect as well. He probably had a better ass than mine too.

There weren't sidewalks like I said, so I walked down the street beside the parked cars. It wasn't too late. There were lights still on in the main rooms of my neighbors. Some porch lights shown. Looking back he hadn't started following me. Letting me get my distance.

That's a feline trait, isn't it?

He said that his friend saw us earlier. Did that mean he saw what happened to Ben?

Looking back he was two car lengths away when he began following. That was a nice comfortable distance for a stranger to be at, I decided.

I turned and asked, "Did you see what happened to the man who was blocking our way?"

"The man who was going to hit you?" he asked.

That's what Ben was doing, so he must have seen, "Yes?"

"Our view was blocked right after. When we came back around he was gone. We thought he must have seen a police car or something, and ran off.

"We followed you home from there, keeping back. We didn't want to frighten you, so we kept our distance. And then later, as we were leaving a private party, he spotted you with the crowd coming out of the bar, and asked me to see you home."

"Why did you introduce yourself this time?" I asked.

He shrugged and looked around, "It seemed polite. It's darker. I don't like feeling creepy."

Sure, that made sense. Just wanted to be a good neighbor, not to get called out for stalking.

"Well, thank you," I said, reaching my door, and turning to him.

He offered a pleasant, if wan smile.

"Good night," he said, and performed a unadorned bowed, with such off-handed ease and effortless grace, that the simple motion caught my breath, then he strode off down the street, the way we came in, his hands in his front pockets, his posture — unburdened by care.

"Hey," I asked, calling after him.

He stopped, pushed a toothpick to the corner of his mouth, and lifted an eyebrow.

"You're... you're not from around here, are you," I said, knowing I probably sounded silly — made all the worse from his patient expression, and ethereal manliness.

"What I mean is, are you going to be around Orleans for some time? Could we bump into each other perhaps?"

He turned, his expression now fully immersed into the depths of my question, which seemed to reach far down into the cell-walls of life itself, with the effort he was putting into it.

Lifting his eyes to mine once more, his perfect lips curled into a warm, inclusive expression, and he shrugged.

"Possible."

Then he turned, and continued down the street again.

I watched him until he reached the crossing road, and then went inside. I could like him, I guess. He'd be fun to party with. I wondered who his friend was. His close friend.

I locked the door, and peeked back out, but couldn't see him.

What kind of name was 'Ocean', anyway?

After checking the lock again, I checked the shotgun, to see it had shells, and put it in its place. Then I went to my room.

Walking in the dark to my room, I rubbed my hands together and found a couple of bumps on my wrist, like small bug bites — only we don't get bug bites.

No sound came from Oma's room. Which was a little strange, because she snored like a bear. Not a teddy bear either — she snored like a full sized bear, one from Canada.

Sitting at my desk, I turned on my small light, and clicked on my laptop screen to look up 'Ocean', as a name. Then I examined my wrist for the bumps.

When I said we don't get bug bites, it's true but not for any mystical reasons. We just used a diet with enough thiamine — beans, lentils, tomatoes, and the like — and made sure we took our B vitamins. Vitamin B's are good because when they are excreted through the skin, they mask all the natural skin odors which attract mosquitoes and biting flies.

We weren't magic, we were science. We were the seekers of the far edges of knowledge. It's said that this difference in our seeking is what eventually split us from the Romany.

There were three of these little bumps, and they looked like flea bites. But they were far too close together.

After staring at them, to see if they would vanish, I decided they weren't going to, and turned to my laptop to search for his name. I did this on a site that gave the history of a word; the etymology of the word.

... a word of unknown origin; Beekes suggests it is Pre-Greek. Personified as Oceanus, son of Uranus and Gaia

"Huh," I grunted, sitting back and folding my arms. "A man of unknown origin, or a god. Perfect. Fits him perfectly. That's a seriously sexy name."

Then I heard the alarm.

Our door alarm isn't loud. It makes three metal on metal clicks. If you didn't know what to listen for, you wouldn't notice them at all. Not through the glass door, and the solid core door, and the curtain.

I listened for Oma, but she must have been more tired than I guessed, because she didn't stir — and I wouldn't be waking her up. I could handle whatever was out there. Maybe Ocean forgot to tell me something.

No knock followed the alarm — which meant the visitor tried the handle and found the door locked, but didn't want to announce themselves. Which I was sure Ocean would call rude, and so it wasn't Ocean.

It wouldn't be the first time a local thief tried our door to see if there was something close inside they could snatch, grab and run with.

On my way to the door, I picked up my steel pipe, which was about as long as my forearm. I preferred it over the shotgun, because I had choices with the pipe. I could stop, or harm or wound, or kill. I could also swat a fly out of the air with it.

Past the lace curtain, through the window, on the stoop, was the dark bulk of at least two men. Not small, skinny men. But large. Large enough that I wondered how they were standing there, so close to each other.

I turned the flood light on with a flick of a finger, and said, loud enough for them to hear, "I see you out there. I have no need to speak to you. Go away, please."

One of them stepped back from the door, off the top of the porch, down the three steps.

The other cleared his throat, "I apologize for the hour, but my need is urgent."

My need is urgent? Who the hell talks like that?

"Please leave, or I will call the police," I said calmly. Then I picked up the living-room phone.

"I only need two answers. Is that so much if it will save lives?"

Well, no, I didn't suppose it would be, but it never is, is it? It's never just the two. And what lives? Were these lives I would care about or just him?

"Ask your question, but I've got the phone in my hand. All I have to do is dial, and throw it on the floor. If you hang it up, by some miracle, it will only bring the police here faster."

He cleared his throat, tilted back his head to view the stars or regain his composure, and then asked, "Did, did the — man — who walked you home leave?"

I walked that through. I replayed it in my head a few times, listening to the pauses, and intonation changes. The sharp inhale of breath at the end, the biting end, where he wanted to add to the question — ask something further, but snapped it off, not trusting I wouldn't count it as a lie.

I summed it all up.

Then I dialed 911, and tossed the phone behind the couch as he kicked in the door.

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