Enemies(7)

“You should have been here with me for this,” I whispered as the train doors shut with a squeak and a hiss. “It should have been on our list.”

Sorry, babe, Zack said. I wish I was there, too. But I’m with you in … His voice in my head hesitated before finishing with enough amusement to cut through the graveness of the thought, … spirit.

“Not funny,” I muttered. There was a weight on my heart as I stared out the window, the houses just past the station blurring as we began to move. Soon we were back underground again, the darkness around the train swallowing me up, the flickering of the lights overhead causing the whole compartment to go dark for a moment.

I felt a tug of something before the lights went back on, a person behind me, a hand in my bag, another in my back pocket. It was the lightest sort of touch, something expert, something I shouldn’t have felt. But I did, as if a tingling feeling was coursing over my body in the places where I felt the abnormal pull on my jeans and the tightness of the bag’s strap on my shoulder as it moved ever so slightly.

I whirled without thinking and slapped my newly regrown hand down on the one in my pocket, then put my other on the one that was in my bag. The lights came back on and I stared into wide eyes; a guy, a little older than me, a little taller, dark hair, and a mustache that was waxed at the ends. He was not terribly bad looking in a way that made me want to only drain him to within an inch of his life instead of taking it entirely. Looks used to count more for me, but my prior experience in relationships was going to cause me to cut him a lot less slack than he might have gotten a year earlier.

“Damn,” he said mildly in a deep Irish lilt, an easy grin breaking across his face, though he still looked a little flummoxed, “never had that happen before.” I maintained my firm grip on his wrists, and he didn’t struggle. He gave me a wink. “Can’t blame a lad for trying, though, can you?”

“I can not only blame you for trying,” I said, clutching onto him, “I can make you suffer for it.”

He cringed. “Ah, lass, not the forgiving type, are you?” The last word came out sounding like “ye” when he said it. “That’s all right.” His eyes flicked to his right. “This is my stop anyway.”

The train began to slow and he snapped my grip around his wrists, much faster than a human could have done it. He reeled his arms back toward him and backed to the door a step. He looked at me a little warily and I saw him blink away a little lightheadedness as he looked at me, perplexed. His little move would have sent a human flying across the compartment. I didn’t break eye contact with him, didn’t take a step back; my balance and strength kept me in place, feet spread in a ready stance.

Adrenaline coursed through my veins and there was a little thrill of excitement within—whether from one of my ghostly accomplices or myself, I couldn’t say—at the prospect of a fight. I tightened my hands into fists and watched the Irishman catch his balance, his pale skin, mustache, and two days of beard growth giving him a shadowed look as he snapped into a fighting stance of his own. It was looser, less martial arts, more boxing, and he gave me a little juke as though the mere threat of it could get me to back away. I caught a hint of sadness in his eyes and a dullness that told me he was still feeling the effects of my prolonged touch from holding his wrists only a moment earlier. I knew that he was a meta; I wondered if he had figured the same out about me.

“I don’t think you know what you’re getting into, little lady.” He raised his hands in front of his face like a boxer, as though he were going to throw a jab. His eyes flicked right again. The train was slowing; the station wasn’t far off.

“Right back at you, Irish,” I said and threw a jab that breezed past his defense, popping him in the nose. I heard the crack of the cartilage; I don’t throw weak punches. His eyes crossed as he looked back at me and adjusted his defenses as he staggered from the force of my hit. For my part, I grinned and hit him again, this time in the cheek. His head crashed into the steel frame of the carriage door.

He tilted his head as he regarded me carefully, watching for my next move even as he tried to clear his head. “Canadian?”

“American.”

“Shoulda known. So violent!” He bounced off the doors and took a swipe at me that I dodged. “Gah,” his words slurred, “of all the times for luck to fail me.”

I punched him in the jaw, holding back just a little. “It does not appear that fortune is with you today.”

With that he sagged against the door, mouth open and dripping blood. “You noticed that too, eh? I’d always heard she was a finicky bitch, but I never had cause to believe it ’til now.” He held up his hands in surrender. I hit him again, in the nose then the gut and let him drop to the ground. “I effing surrender, all right!” he said from the floor, slapping the ground as though he were tapping out of a wrestling match. “In case you didn’t notice, I didn’t actually get my hands on your wallet or any of your personal belongings—”