Page 6 of The Harbinger

“Not that I saw. Did you see anyone, Vlad?”

“Hmm?” Vlad turned back to the conversation, clearly distracted.

“Did you see anyone with her?”

“No.” He shook his head. “She was alone.”

I tapped her face, harder each time. “Wake up.”

It took a few tries, but her gray eyes flicked up to mine, followed by the sweetest smile of innocence as she stretched her frail arms above her head like she’d taken a cat-nap.

“What’s your name?”

Her quiet tone had me leaning towards her to capture every word. “Alexander Ruslanovich,” I thumbed her hair away from her forehead. “But you can call me Sacha. What’s yours?”

“Mia.”

“And how old are you, Mia?”

She shook her head, then sat up and leaned forward, bracing her face in her palms. I backed away, avoiding her filth.

“I’m not sure. There are things I don’t remember.” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed.

Ivan glanced down at her. “It’s best to dump her before we take off. I can tell the pilots to wait.”

Her ring caught the sun, and I shook my head, holding up my hand. “No.” Bracing my hand on my hip, I rubbed my stubbled jaw as she looked around, the confusion pinching her brows together.

“Where are we going?”

“Mia. Do you have any family?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Husband, child, boyfriend, friends?”

Her throat muscles worked up and down as confusion grew to wide-eyed fear. “N-no. Well,” she stumbled. “There’s Jenny, but I’ve only known her for a few days.”

I glanced at Ivan as the plane pulled onto the runway. “It seems you’ve found someone worth keeping.” I rubbed my two fingers together as I took my seat across from her and buckled.

Someone worth keeping, indeed.

The pilot made an announcement, and as soon as everyone had their seats, the plane careened down the runway.

Mia. So close to our wordmilaya—darling.

The girl’s fingers wrapped around the plastic-covered armrests as the roaring engines grew louder. I braced my elbows on mine, my hands resting in my lap.

Her unnaturally blonde hair hung in her face, and the soot covering her body gave way to the idea she hadn’t taken a shower in quite some time. Yet the lack of odor suggested otherwise.

Mia’s holey clothes were thin, as though they were the only pair she’d owned for a long while, but her hair was freshly bleached with maybe two weeks’ worth of recent growth, which meant she’d had money not too long ago. Her shoes were last year’s style Vans, so distressed, they could’ve been mistaken for the late 90s. And no socks, which meant she was a runaway and didn’t have time to put them on, or she never had them in the first place.

Then there was the silver ring on her finger. Does it have sentimental value? And if so, who gave it to her, and how did she come across my path of all people? If she was living on the streets without money or memory as she’d suggested, why not sell it?

She was a bit of a conundrum wrapped in one—an abused one at that.

Her bruises along her upper arm were fresh, no doubt caused by Ivan, and the rest along her flesh suggested she’d been roughed up. By who?

Was that person the cause of the jagged scars that wrapped around both wrists like keloidal bracelets?

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