Catalyst

Chapter Ten

They ended up at a motel called "The Sleepy Village," which, to the best of Phoebe's knowledge regarding sleepy villages, didn't look sleepy, nor remotely village-like, and instead looked like a run-down apartment building with gray paint and dirty windows. It wasn't charming. Or clean. But it was cheap, and at this point they just needed someplace to regroup that wouldn't wipe out what remaining cash they had. Trains were expensive, and she still didn't know if it would be prudent to visit an ATM or use her debit card.

Also, the guy at the front desk, a skinny old man in a red shirt with far too many holes in it, didn't give her too much trouble when she asked to rent a room, given that she was underage. Or maybe she wasn't. Phoebe didn't know if laws in Maryland were different than Massachusetts when it came to that sort of thing. They might have been lucky, or completely legal. At this point it didn't really matter. She already felt like an outlaw.

She even gave the guy fake names. She was Amy Cooper and James was listed as Eric Winchester. It was probably the most fun she'd had since they left Aunt Linda's, making those names. It made her feel like a spy. She came up with a list of names they could use in the future, mostly bits of television characters she had obsessed over in the past, and stowed them away in her mind for future use.

When they opened the door for Room 16, with an old fashioned key and not an electronic card or pass, a gust of stale air puffed into the hallway. She coughed and waved the air in front of her face. The room looked decent enough. There was some blue-striped wallpaper, an arm chair, a couple of lamps, and a white card table with three short stools. And one bed.

Oh crap, only one bed. She hadn't even thought to ask, and the guy at the desk hadn't bothered to. James was still mostly inebriated by whatever smokes and sounds and textures he had been exposed to at Bruce's store, so he just stood back and rocked on his heels while she handed over the cash and requested a room. When the guy asked how many days she had shrugged and looked back at James for an answer but he was carefully inspecting the speckled carpet and humming.

"Three," she had guessed.

She was going to spend three nights alone, unsupervised, with James, in this room where they had to share a bed. Phoebe felt warm all over, her stomach burning with it, as she thought of all the hours they might get to talk and just hang out. Of course, she knew this was a serious situation, and that they would probably spend a good amount of time planning something or other, but every night, when they were too tired to ponder where the hunters were, or what they should wish for, or how they should fight a band of shape-shifters, they would tumble into this bed, which only looked to be a Full. She imagined her hand reaching out for him in the dark and finding his chest, his arm...

James cleared his throat loudly and shuffled past her. "Whassa matter, Pheeb-jeebs?"

He looked around the room while she stood awkward and stiff in the hallway as he scanned it from left to right, his hands on his hips like he was surveying his land.

He turned back with a dopey smile on his face, his eyes half-closed and he looked... so adorable. She had to remind herself every other second that he was basically high. Hence, "Pheeb-jeebs," which he had never, ever, called her before. Some part of her liked the silly nickname, but she'd die before admitting it.

"Are you worried that we have to share the bed, Phoebe? Hmmm?"

"No, I was just wondering where you were going to sleep." She dropped her bag by the table and shut the door behind her with a sure 'click.' The armchair was forest green with faded stains, and sat underneath the only window of the room. She nodded to it. "You can have the chair, or if you think it's better you could try the floor. I'll give you one of the pillows."