Watchers [SAMPLE]

Chapter Two

Pulling away from the stranger, I sit down hard on the curb. My head falls into my lap. I take slow, shaky breaths and try to calm my racing heart. People mill around us and I'm certain they're staring at me like I'm some kind of crazy. Not that I would blame them.

The boy kneels in front of me. "Are you okay?"

Mutely, I nod, though I hardly feel normal.

"Can you walk?"

Again I nod, this time lifting my head and finding myself looking into concerned, smoky gray eyes. They are fixed on me and only me, so steady, emanating a strength I wish I possessed. His face has long since shed most of its youth, and has the sharp, sculpted features of the man he will become. Shortly cropped hair as dark as night lifts and bends to the will of the wind.

It's then that I realize I am staring. Face flaming, I jump to my feet and sway when a wave of dizziness overtakes me. His hand snakes out to grasp my elbow, steadying me.

Stupid, stupid. Don't stand up so fast.

Being near him is conflicting. He looks like most any other kid around my age, but his air is that of someone who has lived much, much longer. It feels strange and not entirely comfortable.

"I'm okay," I tell him, so that he will remove the hand burning through my clothing to the skin beneath.

My fingers aren't entirely steady as I tuck my long, wavy hair behind my ear. He is still staring at me. I color again, the curse of being a red-head. I hope he doesn't notice, but it's kind of hard to miss.

"We need to get someplace we can talk," he tells me, and I nod again like a marionette on a string.

I'm not in the habit of going places with strange boys, but I sense he has the answers to all the questions swirling in my head. Questions like, who was that demon? Why did he know it by name? What did it want with me? And most important, would it come back?

Though I suspect I know the answer to the last one.

A deep, bone-aching cold settles in and I pull my coat tighter around me. My hands are like ice. I am dimly aware I read somewhere that your organs shunt all your blood when you go into flight-or-fight. Meeting a demon certainly qualifies.

I'm falling behind. I don't notice until I look up from my feet.

He pauses, holding out his hand. "Keep up."

As I rush to catch up, I can't tell if he is irritated with me for losing myself in my thoughts. His tone is far too even and his expression remains inscrutable. I take the proffered hand and am unable to help from gasping when there is an unexpected electric jolt.

Eyes falling to our joined hands, he makes no comment. The only reaction I can see is in the thinning of his lips as he turns and pulls me along. My freezing skin is scorched by the heat in his. Mine must feel like a block of ice, but he doesn't complain.

The scenery is spinning past, blurring until I don't know where we are going or how to get back. Unease unfurls in my stomach and I swallow hard. Why does saliva have to be so prominent in a frightening situation? It isn't like it will help you out or anything.

That's me, always having irrational thoughts in a time where being level-headed is needed.

We slip around a building and into an alleyway. Over-filled dumpsters line some of the walls and above those, ladders for escaping fire. There are a few cars, but they're sparse and unoccupied. In the heavy silence between brick and concrete, we are the sole occupants.

Apartments, he is dragging me toward apartments. Alarmed, I rip my hand from his and stop, clenching my fists. I'm not a fighter, never have been. But if he thinks he's taking me somewhere alone, he's insane.