4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

M ara

Five minutes later, we’ve exhausted all options of escape. The electric garage door opener doesn’t work… duh, and the red manual release broke off in Krull’s hand. The only other door to the gallery is the front door, and its shutters are also opened only by electricity.

When we return to the gallery from the garage, it’s pitch black and already ten degrees hotter than before the electricity failed.

“Look, Mara, I know you’re terrified. I can smell it. Orcs’ sense of smell and hearing is more acute than humans. If I hadn’t smelled it before the quake, I’d chalk it up to the catastrophe, but you reeked of it before the first tremor. I know you’re scared of me. You don’t know me, can’t trust me, but I have no intention of hurting you.”

Was I that obvious? Shit! Poor guy. Am I as bad as the Purists who clog the Internet with their relentless hate speech about the Others ?

To be honest, I’d been wondering if I would be safe if I invited him upstairs. That was horrible of me. He’s given me no reason to think he’ll be anything other than kind.

“I’ve never met an Other before, Krull. It… took me a minute to feel comfortable. Sorry if I offended you.”

“I’m used to it.”

What an awful reality that this kind male’s normal is being on the receiving end of hate and apprehension. I promise myself that from this moment forward, I’m going to push any remaining fear I have to the back of my mind and be friendly.

“It seems like you see better than me, Krull. Grab my hand and take me to the back hallway. One of those doors leads to my second-floor apartment.” Although I can’t see his face, I imagine my little revelation that we can shelter on a higher floor surprised him. “Let’s see what havoc the quake wreaked up there.”

Krull’s bulk seems even bigger in the tight quarters of the stairwell. For such a humongous male, his tread is light on the stairs. Now that we acknowledged my fear and addressed it, things seem more comfortable between us.

There’s still a tinge of twilight peeking through the upstairs windows, so I hurry to find every battery-powered tea light I own and line them up on the little bar that separates the tiny kitchen from the rest of the efficiency apartment. I also find the heavy-duty flashlight I keep under the sink.

It’s only after lighting all the tea lights that I take the time to survey the damage. I’m not sure why the downstairs is in worse shape than up here. Maybe because this was a more recent addition—by recent, I mean it was built in the last century instead of the 1800s. There are no chunks of plaster out of place and almost no dust.

“You live here?”

“This is my little slice of heaven.”

“You own the gallery?”

It’s obvious what he’s getting at. How does a person have enough money to be a business owner, yet live in this tiny dump in a sketchy part of town?

“Yeah. I own it.”

When he lifts a brow in an unspoken question, I give him the abbreviated version of my life.

“Toward the end of my Master of Fine Arts program at Ohio State, I realized I didn’t have what it took to make it in such a competitive field. I still paint.” I gesture to the easel and walls filled with my paintings.

“With the small inheritance my grandmother left me and my tiny savings, I rented this place after deciding the best way to stay in the art world was to run a gallery. Bonus! I can make money with the gallery downstairs and live free up above. I filled my gallery with pieces created by my friends from art school. It gives them gallery exposure in a big city and gives me an income while I continue to hone my craft. Win-win.”

Other than the tiny bathroom, this one room comprises the entirety of what my parents call my artist’s garret. The moment I stop speaking, both our gazes dart to the bed. As if by magnetism, our eyes lock. The connection feels like an electric spark.

“Shit!” We both say at the same time. I don’t think the noise bombarding us is a freight train. That’s got to be the tidal wave.