Freed-wrecking havoc | Silas's Sister

12

Scarlynn woke in Andrea's apartment feeling entirely too warm, trapped beneath a sunbeam that sliced through the blinds at a vicious angle. It tracked right across her face, and for a moment, she was torn between yanking the blankets up and greeting the morning. She almost went with the blanket approach—she was comfortable, half-dreaming of chaos and centuries past—when a random thought slid uninvited into her mind.

"Good morning, sweetheart. Sleep well?"

She groaned, blinking furiously as she sat up. That voice again. That man, that presence who'd tried to kill himself with a turkey. The same sardonic intruder who called her Scar. She'd nearly forgotten him in the haze of a half-dozen uneasy dreams—some featuring monstrous poultry, others featuring the dull hum of a vibrator she still insisted she wasn't going to use.

"You again," she mumbled, pressing the heels of her palms to her temples. The early morning hush of the apartment amplified how bizarre it felt to speak to someone who lived in her head. "Don't you ever sleep?"

"Sleep? Not exactly." His tone was breezy, as though he'd been patiently waiting all night for her to stir. "When you're stuck in a prison dimension for ages, you learn how to power-nap your life away. But I gotta say, listening to you snore? Unexpectedly entertaining."

Scarlynn scowled. "I do not snore."

"Sure, sure," he teased. "Keep telling yourself that."

She tossed the covers off in annoyance, rising to her feet and noticing the indentation on Andrea's spare bed. Yesterday's events washed over her—the street festival, the tarot reading with those ominous cards, the knowledge that this telepathic jerk was apparently locked in some eternal jail. For reasons no one had explained, she was the only one who could hear him. She tried not to dwell on it too heavily. Dwelling was not her style.

A sense of humor, flippancy, and a healthy dose of cunning had kept her alive this long. But no matter how she tried to appear cool and composed, the past day had her rattled.

She stretched, wincing at the stiffness in her shoulders. She was not used to sleeping on a half-busted sofa bed. Usually, she stayed in more comfortable, flamboyant digs—often paid for by other people. Necessity, though, had landed her in Andrea's orbit. The witch was young, bright, and sometimes naive, but had a quick wit and zero fear. And apparently, a questionable taste in electronics.

Scarlynn's thoughts drifted momentarily to that neon pink vibrator perched on the coffee table. She tried not to grin at how unsettled it made her to realize the voice had arrived exactly as she'd been about to explore it. It was comedic, humiliating, and borderline infuriating all at once.

"Coffee," she decided, padding out of the bedroom in bare feet. "I need coffee. And a plan to get rid of you, you turkey-obsessed lunatic."

"Ouch," he said in mock offense. "You say that like I came uninvited."

"Didn't you?" She entered the small living area, scanning for any sign Andrea was awake. The apartment was quiet, and the door to Andrea's bedroom was shut. Maybe she'd gone out, or maybe she was sleeping in.

"In my defense," the voice replied, "I just sort of... latched on when I sensed you. Hardly my fault you have the cosmic equivalent of a neon sign that says 'Come bother me.'"

Scarlynn rolled her eyes. She beelined for the kitchen, rummaging through cabinets for mugs and coffee filters. "I'm not the cosmic version of anything, buddy. If you're so powerful, can't you just unlatch yourself and vanish?"

A short, bitter laugh. "Powerful? That's one way to put it. More like I can't do anything except talk. And apparently watch you attempt to commit moral crimes with your friend's property."