Chapter 10

”…the desaturation of soul-shades serves as a pivotal marker. Following the cessation of vital functions, a notable depletion in chromatic intensity occurs. Gradual fading of the soul-shade continues until it ultimately, irrevocably dissipates.”

-Excerpt from the personal journal of Dr. Claude Foster, Director of Faeology at Mesmeric Labs

FANTASIA

Bright light assaults my eyelids, turning them orange, and I flinch awake with a groan.

“What the hell, TayTay?” Mellie’s familiar voice—warm, with a hint of a smoker’s rasp—pulls me from my slumber.

“Morning,” I mutter.

I blink a few times, allowing my eyes to adjust to the brightness. The exposed metal ducts and beams of The Rising Star’s ceiling stare down at me. The cobwebs and dust clinging to the piping sway gently in the meager breeze from the air conditioner.

Sitting up in the booth, I stretch my arms over my head. My back screams in protest, pissed that I slept on a slab of stiff wood. The only thing that preserved my neck was the teddy bear I snagged last night. It’s not as soft as it looks; it’s gotten a little lumpy with old age.

“You look like shit.” Mellie’s eyes roam my face, and she barks a laugh before plopping down on the bench across the table from me. “Again.”

The wood creaks under her shifting weight, the noise echoing through the room. It’s strange—almost peaceful—being in here pre-opening, without the clamor of patrons and terribly repetitive jukebox music. Even the reek of sweat and beer is minimal, blanketed by bleach and an herbal cleaner that smells of lemongrass and a little too much oregano for my liking.

“You gonna tell me what the hell you’re doing sleeping in the freakin bar?”

I shake my head. “Not really.” My voice comes out raspy, and I frown at the realization that my throat aches still. The sub-par rest surely didn’t help fend off the cold I’m battling. My hand flies up, rubbing my neck as if that can ease the pain inside.

“I have a perfectly good couch upstairs.” Mellie narrows her eyes at me. “I’ll try not to take offense that you chose a stinkin bar booth instead.”

“You have Axel,” I mutter.

Mellie’s hazel eyes soften, and she reaches across the table for my hand. “Just because I have Ax doesn’t mean I don’t have room for my friend.” She gives me a squeeze before dropping my hand and pushing up from the table with a sigh.

My bear tumbles off my lap, and she reaches down to pick it up, chuckling. “This old thing is lumpy as hell.” She holds it up by a paw, shaking it with a look of feigned disgust. “Could use some more stuffing.”

I snatch it from her. “Hey! Be nice to Beary. It’s the only thing I have left from my dad.” That is, besides his journal. But no one needs to know about that.

“Beary?” She snorts.

“I was eight,” I mumble. “Leave me alone.”

She strides toward the bar, plugging in the small coffee maker and scooping in a hefty helping of ground coffee. “Still take it black?”

“Yup.” I give her a genuine smile, and she cocks her head, grinning in return. “Thanks, Mel.”

“You got it.”

I clear my throat. “Thanks for covering for me last night, too.”

She fills the coffee maker with water, snapping the lid shut and flicking the machine on. It rumbles to a start, popping and snapping as the water heats up.

“I’m not gonna ask, but at least tell me you’re being safe—that you’re not up to some bullshit.” She plants a hand on her hip, piercing me with a motherly gaze. I grin at her sass. She’s only a couple of years older than me, but having Axel and going through the messy relationship with Jeremiah has certainly matured her beyond her years. “I mean it, TayTay.”

I open my mouth to defend myself, to inform her that I’m not up to anything, but she raises a hand, successfully silencing me from across the room. Still gripping my bear, I stroll over to the bar and plop on a stool in front of her.

“I’m safe,” I assure her.

The lie rings out in the air between us, but based on the way Mellie grabs two mugs for our coffee while humming under her breath, I don’t think she picked up on it.

When it comes down to it, am I truly safe? I’m lost, a bit unhappy, and wholly over my life in many ways. I don’t think I’ve ever truly been safe.

I simply exist, slowly creeping toward my demise.

Mellie pours our coffee. She adds a heap of sugar and cream to one mug, then slides the other mug of straight black coffee across the polished bar to me. I grip the ceramic handle, raising the mug in thanks.

“Drink up and get out of my bar, girl.” She grips her coffee cup and peers at me. “Respectfully.”

“Sure.” I blow on my coffee, eagerly waiting for it to cool enough to chug. My throat still aches, but the heat might help.

“You been painting?” she asks.

I give her a confused look. “Hm?”

“Your fingers.” She points at my mug, and I follow her line of sight, noticing the dark stains on my fingertips and nails.

I bite my lip. “A little. Yeah.”

Though I did wash my hands, I was so disoriented last night that I didn’t take the time to properly scrub them. Oil pastels can be a bitch to get off skin. They’re messy and greasy. But that’s also part of why I like them so much. My art and I leave marks on each other, a reciprocal exchange.

My eyes wander to the Wanted poster on the bulletin board behind the bar, where Archer’s semi-accurate face stares back at me. Mellie turns, presumably to follow my gaze.

“Five thousand silvers.” She exhales audibly, turning back to me as she shakes her head. “Could you imagine?”

“You’d turn him in?” I trace the handle of my mug, avoiding her eyes.

“In a heartbeat.”

I blow on my coffee harder, trying to hide my frown. “What if he wasn’t guilty?”

“Not my problem.” She chuckles. “You know what I could do with that money?” When I don’t reply, she continues. “He’s for sure guilty though. Those Nightcrawlers are the cancer of our city…”

I zone out as she continues to rant about their involvement in the city’s crime world. A sickening sludge works its way through my gut. I definitely can’t open up to Mellie about meeting Archer. About his proposition.

“You with me?” She waves a hand in my direction. “Well…whatever.” She sips her coffee before deciding the temperature is acceptable and taking a bigger gulp. “You’re worrying the shit out of me.”

I stifle a chuckle, running a hand through my knotted hair. The strands are thin and damaged—bleached to hell and back. “It’s just…boyfriend and roommate drama.”

She grunts, going through the motions of preparing the bar for its ten o’clock opening: grabbing a box of limes and lemons, locating the cutting board and knife, scrubbing her hands, and slipping some latex gloves on.

“I never did like Reed,” she mutters under her breath. “He’s immature as hell. You deserve better.”

“I’ve known him since we were twelve, Mel.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s not an asshole.”

“He has a lot of good qualities.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s good for you.” She points the knife at me. “You shouldn’t be with him out of obligation.”

“It’s not—”

“Or worse, out of comfort.” She raises a brow and returns to chopping.

“Yeah, yeah.” Nine years I’ve known him. Two years we’ve dated officially. I thought we’d grow closer, that our love would grow stronger.

I do love Reed. I do.

But I’m still waiting for it to blossom into something…more.

Is Mellie right? Am I with him out of comfort? Is it because he was the one I’d cry with at night, after our foster father beat me? Is it because of a sense of misplaced safety? Being with him—as infuriating as it is at times—is predictable, which, in this chaotic world, is saying something.

While I watch Mellie work, the Phantom’s offer flickers through my mind. Three thousand silvers a week. It’s a temptation that presses closer with each breath I take. I could get my own place. Maybe then, Reed and I would have space and privacy to explore our more.

But do I even want more with him?

I sip my coffee.

It doesn’t hurt that the man handing me the opportunity is handsome as all hell. An image of his boyish grin and untamed dark-blond hair flits through my mind. With those tight jeans, tattoos, and leather jacket… Nope. Don’t go there, brain. I’d never be disloyal to Reed, for one. For two, he’s a freaking gang leader.

Bad news.

I rub my eyes with the heels of my palms and groan, ignoring Mellie’s curious gaze. What I need is to take control of my own life—to not give in to pretty promises and false temptations.

Patting my pockets, I locate my phone and slip it out. I press the button to turn it on, but the screen stays black. A sorrowful reflection of my face stares back at me.

It’s dead.

The phone, and, in a sense, me. A part of me died the night I lost my parents, and pieces of me keep dying each day I’m stuck in this life. I’m alive in body—my heart beats in a steady rhythm—but my soul is wilted.

“Helllloooo?” Mellie waves a gloved hand in front of me. “Did you hear me?”

“What?” I snap my attention to her and chug the rest of my coffee now that it’s officially at an acceptable temperature. “Sorry—I was zoned out.”

“No shit.” She snaps her gloves off, tossing them into a trash bin behind the bar. “Go get some rest.” She reaches into her pocket, yanking out a set of keys and tossing them onto the bar. “Take my couch. Hell, take my bed if you want. Just go get some sleep.”

“Mel.” I shake my head, touched by her kindness. “I appreciate that, but I can’t—”

“Nuh-uh.” She puts her hand up. “Axel’s getting picked up by his Nana soon. You’ll have the whole place to yourself.”

“He’s up there by himself?”

“What would you have me do?” Crossing her arms, she juts her chin out. “Jeremiah’s a good-for-nothing piece of—” She swipes a hand over her face, a stress line deepening on her forehead. “Ax is sick—again—and Jeremiah refuses to take him. Says he can’t afford to get sick.”

Rich, coming from him.

“Shit, Mel.” I chew at my bottom lip as guilt blossoms inside of me. Even though I have nothing to be guilty for, I can’t help but pity her in this situation. “Why don’t you go be with him? I’ll take your shift this morning.”

She scoffs, narrowing her eyes at me. “Have you seen yourself today?” She clucks her tongue. “I don’t think so.”

I shrug. “It’s not like I have anything else to do. Your son needs you.”

Mellie shifts her weight, her attention wandering toward the upstairs. “Fine,” she relents. “It’s not like I’ll have enough money either way.” She pauses. “And, girl? You owe me.”

Using Mellie’s bathroom, I brush out my white-blonde hair and tie it up in a tight bun. A few tendrils fall free, framing my face. Rummaging through her makeup, I locate a few products to help liven me up. Her rich brown foundation is too dark for my creamy complexion, so I forgo that. Instead, I slather on some dark, winged eyeliner. My favorite lipstick is still tucked into my pocket from yesterday, so I apply that, too.

I tuck my bear safely away in her bedroom and try my best to scrub away the oils staining my fingers. Eventually, I give up, leaving them slightly tainted with color.

Thirty minutes later, I trudge back to the bar. I’m still dressed in my work uniform from last night—jeans and my bar tee. The hem is stiff with old beer, but it could be worse.

At least there’s no vomit on it.

“Thanks for this,” Mellie says, leaning in and kissing me on the cheek. She pulls back and points at the underside of the bar. Various fruits sit in their respective cubbies on a shallow ledge. “Garnishes are prepped. Ice is fresh. And I tapped a new keg of Sharp Wing.” She jerks a thumb over her shoulder toward the back room. “Jeremiah texted and said he’d drop off clean towels later, but don’t hold your breath.” She rolls her eyes. “Fran is coming in for closing. She’ll be here at four.”

“Sounds good.”

“Oh, and the good bat is missing—the one with nails.” She takes a second to assess me with narrowed eyes before shrugging. “You look much better, by the way—awake.”

“Something like that,” I mutter, plugging my phone charger into an outlet behind the bar.

“Hey.” She gently grabs my elbow, forcing me to look at her. “I only agreed to let you cover my shift because it seemed like you needed a distraction. But we aren’t done talking. If you need me to take over, just shoot me a text. Ax will be fine on his own for a little bit.”

I pull Mellie in, giving her a quick hug. “Thanks for this,” I whisper. “I’m fine. Go take care of your boy.”

The first two patrons come in shortly after opening. A soupy green fog wafts around one of the men, while a blue cloud radiates from the other. I force a smile onto my face.

“Welcome to The Rising Star,” I say, infusing extra enthusiasm into my voice.

“Mornin, miss.” One of them gives me a wide smile, tipping his head. “Where’s Mellie at? She okay?”

The concern in his voice is touching. These men must be a couple of her regulars. I haven’t met them before, but they appear much more bearable than Fredrik and my other unruly evening regulars. Lucky her.

“She’s good,” I say. “Her son’s sick, so I’m covering for her.”

“Shame.” He scratches at his red beard. “Hopefully the lil man feels better soon.” He holds out a hand. “I’m Kyle, by the way.” I clasp his hand and shake. He releases me and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “This is my brother, Bruce.”

Bruce supplies a quick wave and a bashful smile before averting his eyes to the floor.

“Tasia,” I say with a nod.

They order a pitcher of beer, pick a song on the jukebox, and plop down into seats at one of the high-tops. Thankfully, they chose one of the few rock bands I actually like. They talk animatedly with each other, flicking complimentary peanuts into their mouths and bobbing their heads. Every so often, one of them lets out a rumbling burst of laughter.

The vibes are good. Chill. I’m appreciative.

I busy myself with wiping down the bottles that line the mirrored shelves behind the bar, keeping an eye on the door and the pair by the jukebox.

The time slowly melts by. An hour into my shift, I’m getting antsy to talk to Reed. The more I replay in my mind what happened last night, the hotter my cheeks blaze with anger. It’s clear, after two years, that the two of us are going nowhere.

My fingers instinctively reach for my phone, until I remember it’s charging a few feet away. I unplug it and turn it on. Only a couple of messages from Stace come through, asking where I am. I sigh and stuff my phone into my pocket without replying.

I bring Kyle and Bruce a new pitcher of beer a short while later. I keep my eyes downcast, not wanting to interrupt their good mood with my pity party.

Smack.

My body jolts forward as a large hand lands on my ass.

The pitcher slips from my hand, crashing to the floor.

“What the fuck!” I yell, stooping down to pick up the largest shards of glass. Gods forbid one of these assholes cut themselves on my watch.

Kyle laughs. “You could use a little more meat on ya, girl.”

Gone is the polite man from earlier. Now his voice is slick like oil, his tone taunting. It sends a wave of unease through me.

Great.

He can’t hold his liquor.

I’ve met plenty of jerks who get handsy and rude when drunk. I don’t care if he’s Mellie’s regular, he’s getting cut off.

I stand, careful not to cut myself with the broken glass. That’s when I catch sight of a small plastic bag on the table, smaller than the size of my palm. It’s a quarter of the way full with a glittering grey substance.

“You need to get your shit and get ou—” The words die on my lips when I catch sight of Kyle’s soul-shade. No longer a pea-green soup hue, it has faded into a smoky-grey.

He stands, advancing on me like a predator stalking his prey. I slowly glide backward, not wanting to turn my back on him but also not wanting to get wedged between him and the wall. Bruce, who wears a wide expression of alarm, jumps up, his stool clattering to the ground behind him.

“Hey, Kyle,” he says, gripping his brother by the arm. “Maybe we should—”

Kyle turns, swinging a fist at his brother.

Bruce ducks at the last second, barely avoiding the impact.

“I swear to the Gods,” Bruce says to me, his voice rising an octave, “he is never like this. I don’t know what’s gotten into him today.”

My eyes shift to the left, to where the bar stretches along the wall. If I can get to my bat, I’ll gain the upper hand. When my eyes return to the brothers, my gut sinks. Bruce now stands beside Kyle with a blank face, all of his alarm and fear gone.

A smoky grey fog surrounds his frame, too.

Blood pulses in my temples, and my hands shake. Something about the situation feels wrong.

So wrong.

Words from my father’s journal blur through my mind. Only the dead have grey soul-shades. This is impossible, yet it keeps happening.

I take a step to the side, ready to bolt away from them. Screw the bat; I’m going out the door.

But they both lunge before I can make a move, and a scream rips from my throat.