Catalyst

Chapter Sixteen

 Scanning the world around her, Phoebe turned in circles as she rose again above the clouds, not wanting anyone looking into the sky to see her massive green body and the area it was climbing from. Nothing jumped out at her. There were no helicopters, no dirigibles, no kites or commercial airplanes. She didn't see anything except for forest and, as she got a bit higher, the edge of the city. Not knowing how far James had flown with her before the attack, she could only guess that this was still Maryland, and if not, she was screwed. She would have no idea what direction to try.

Above the clouds, she headed in the general direction of the city limits she had spied, periodically surging low to take a peek at how far she had to go. When she looked down ten minutes later and saw gray buildings and smoggy stacks of air rising from warehouses, a closer inspection revealed the train station, achingly familiar. Her shoulders dipped with relief; she was now over the right city.

She followed her gut, but also some weird pull that seemed to anchor her to the center of the earth, no matter how high she flew. She'd heard something similar about homing pigeons, and tried not to be offended by the comparison as the sensation told her to shift a degree east, then north, and then east again. She was rewarded with a bright spot of fiery red a few hundred feet ahead and below her: a maple tree ripe with autumn colors she remembered seeing on Bruce's road. It was taller than the others around it, and the colors shone like a hot beacon.

Thanking every god or goddess she had ever read about, she dashed back up into the clouds and when she was above Bruce's store, dove headfirst into his small backyard, which seconded as a parking lot.

It only had four spaces, but one was taken. Hopefully it was Bruce's own car. Never having seen the shop from this angle, she took a moment to panic that she wasn't in the right place, but the back door had the palmistry symbol glowing on it.

Landing even more ungracefully than her first attempt, and smacking into a trashcan, she shifted as she rolled, picturing James on the ground, trying to laugh while he was leaking blood onto her leg. She was human in an instant.

Her shirt had mostly survived, sustaining only a few slight tears, and she pulled it on. It just covered her butt and she hoped no one had heard the commotion and was now lifting their curtains, watching her scramble to the psychic's back door, pounding on the glass with one fist while the other was clenched at the hem of her shirt, keeping herself covered. Why hadn't she thought to find a pair of shorts?

"Bruce!" She tried the handle and it opened. Slamming it shut behind her, she found herself in some kind of storage room. It was full of cardboard boxes listed "CARDS" and "GLOBULES."

"Bruce! It's Phoebe. Hello?" As she walked through a narrow path between the boxes, tiny pieces of glass poked her left instep and the floor's rough concrete made shallow furrows in the balls of both feet, but it hurt less than it probably should have. Her legs were numb with fatigue and panic. Ignoring the harsh floor, she wandered through the dark room until she found a thick curtain hanging at the end of the room and recognized it as the one behind the counter where Bruce kept the register. She pulled it aside just enough so that her head would stick out; she didn't want to terrorize any patrons who might be a little disturbed by a half-naked girl coming out from the back room with blood on her legs and feet. Might send the wrong message.

"Bruce," she hissed into the room, but no one was there. Some of the lights were on, but they were dim, and the purple curtains on the windows blocked out all of the weak sunlight outside.

"Shit!" She pushed her hair, the curls damp with sweat, out of her face, anxiety sweeping through her.

He wasn't here. She hadn't thought about that, had assumed he'd be here. This was his home. If the car out back wasn't his, then she didn't know what to do. Where to look. This was her only idea; she had no plan B.