Page 19 of Tempest

“The fuck?” I think I hear our driver say.

“Spare us the lecture, old man,” Mila says. “We didn’t do drugs in your car.”

But he’s not glaring at us. He’s staring through his rearview mirror at something behind us.

Mila’s arms are entangled with mine, my hair catching on her wrist bangles, but I turn my head to see out the back window. Flinching, I scrunch my eyes shut at the glare of headlights.

Clover turns, too. She frowns.

The driver does a hard left, smacking me into Clover and sending Mila into a fit of giggles.

I laugh with her, the world going fuzzy at the edges like I’m living in a ball of cotton candy. Oh, this is so much better than what I witnessed back there.

What did I witness, anyway?

All I can remember are bright, vicious green eyes, the color of a royal jewel, the kind you’d have embedded into the hilt of a lethal, ancient sword…

Where were we? An art thing? A show? A broadway play? It must’ve been an avant garde production because most plays don’t involve such a realistic display of violence…

“Shit!” The driver makes another hard turn, slamming me into Mila this time.

We both howl with laughter.

A small part of me, that survival instinct, registers the pure terror on Clover’s expression. Her hand smacks against her window while her other clutches my bare thigh, keeping her upright.

“Drive faster!” she screeches. “Don’t let him—”

I lurch forward so violently that the seat belt cuts into my skin, instantly fracturing my pelvis and crushing my internal organs.

Glass shatters. Deafening screams burst my ear drums, coming from Clover, Mila, the driver, me…

Metal crunches, squeals, and twists into impossible shapes, with us trapped inside.

My last thought is that the shadows have caught up to me beforeI’m consumed by utter blackness.

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