Dangerous Creatures

CHAPTER 11 Read Between the Lies

In the morning, Ridley left apartment 2D and came downstairs to see Link sitting alone in a booth in Marilyn’s Diner, talking into his cell phone.

Interesting.

A cold cup of untouched coffee sat in front of him. He was wearing Mario and Luigi on his T-shirt, which meant only one thing: Link was feeling nostalgic and sentimental. That usually meant trouble for Ridley, who never admitted to feeling much of either.

She moved toward Link, wary. She was wearing her favorite fishnets, her peep-toe suede booties, her buckled mini-kilt, and her oldest black T-shirt. All of her most trusted comfort clothes—yet somehow, this morning they weren’t doing the trick.

Ridley didn’t know why she felt so off her game. Nothing around her looked that out of the ordinary. Spinning fans turned above a long counter in the center of the room. A faded New York City Department of Health certificate hung on the wall next to an out-of-date calendar featuring Marilyn Monroe, the namesake of the diner. Not a Siren, as far as Ridley knew, but she should’ve been. Rising behind the counter, dusty glass shelves offered sticky doughnuts with frosting stained by old colored sprinkles. Stale slices of cake in plastic wrap leaned against oversize chocolate muffins or mini boxes of sugar cereal or small pitchers dripping with maple syrup—in other words, Siren bait. She could smell it in the air.

But Rid was the only Siren in the diner, of that she was pretty certain. The counter and vinyl-covered stools were crowded with nose-ringed students, tattooed arty types, even stressed-looking office folks in jackets and running shoes—mostly Mortals, it seemed. When she walked past them, they avoided her eyes, as if they knew something she didn’t. As if there was something about her they didn’t want to know.

Or were afraid to know.

Strange.

She felt the same familiar coldness—the one from the curb, the one from the Vindicabo Cast. From her dreams. She tried to shake it off. New York City was complicated enough—second-guessing herself wasn’t a luxury she could afford.

Nothing here I can’t handle, is there?

She tried not to consider the answer to her own question.

Besides, there were a few familiar faces. Upon closer inspection, Ridley picked out a Blood Incubus chopping up raw meat in the kitchen, a Dark Caster hunched over the Marilyn’s Sweetheart Specials menu, and what appeared to be an aging Siren bartender nursing a coffee at the counter. A mixed crowd was relatively rare in the Caster world, and Ridley didn’t know what to make of it.

She didn’t know what to make of a lot of things since they’d arrived.

“What do you know? The joint is jumping,” Ridley said, sliding into the booth across the table from Link.

He kept talking into his phone, holding up one hand. “Hang on. My roommate just walked into the dining hall.”

Rid raised an eyebrow.

Link’s mom.

He looked at her, pleading. She got the message.

Don’t blow this for me.

“Gotta go, or I’ll be late for the Righteous Freshman breakfast.” He nodded. “I know.” He nodded again. “Sure thing.” And again. “Yes, ma’am.” Again. “Yep. Yep. Yep. Flossed, too.”

Ridley held up a canister of cutlery and shook it by Link’s face, making a loud clattering noise. He started to laugh in spite of himself.

“Whoops—I’m losin’ you. I think the band’s practicin’ or somethin’. Call you next week—I can’t hear—” He clicked off with a sigh.

She smiled. “How’s my favorite Mamma?”

He tossed the phone down to the tabletop. “Who cares, as long as she doesn’t get in her car and haul all the way to Georgia Redeemer to make sure I change my underwear?”

“Did you?”

“Why? You wanna see for yourself?” He smiled at her, Rid’s favorite smile. The one that said: Third Degree Burns, Babe. That’s how hot you are. After last night, she hoped that was what it still meant. Instead of: I’m feeling guilty because I crushed on some rocker girl.

Either way, she smiled back, Link’s favorite smile. The one that said: I know, Hot Rod. I’m the one holding the match.

Come play with fire.

My fire.

The moment she reached for his hand, Link pushed his coffee cup away from him. “I’ve been thinkin’.”

Uh-oh.

She pulled back her hand. He kept going. “The thing is, Rid, you’re right. You were right all along. I thought about it last night while I was working on some new lyrics in the practice room.”

“So I heard. Seems you’re getting along with the girls in the band. At least half of them.” Ridley forced a smile.

“Whatever,” Link said. He wasn’t falling for that one.

Ridley made a mental note to change the stripe in her hair from pink to some other color. Any other color, so long as it doesn’t remind me of Pink Floyd.

Link jiggled his leg beneath the table. “Why was I so mad at you yesterday? I came to New York to play my music, and you gave me that opportunity, right here and now.”

“I did? I did.” She tried not to sound surprised. Right? You did. See? You’re not such a terrible person.

“You just did it in your own messed-up way.”

“Messed up?” She tried to look confused.

Link ignored her. “Which used to be all right. But now we need to set a few ground rules,” he said.

Um. O-kay. “You know I don’t do well with rules.”

“I do. That’s why we’re goin’ to get it all out in the open.” Link looked unusually serious. “This is the way it’s going to work with us. This is the only way I can handle it. If we can’t do it the right way, I don’t want to do it. Not anymore.”

Not anymore? He’d better do it. Just like I promised he would.

In all their many breakups, Ridley couldn’t remember Link ever being so reasonable. It was almost horrifying.

This wasn’t how they talked. They threw things at each other. Insults, jokes, sometimes even remotes. They made war and made peace and made up and made out. They didn’t do things like set ground rules. They didn’t do feelings talk. They didn’t get it out in the open.

Ridley looked down at the red, bowling-ball-speckled diner table. “It all sounds so grown-up when you say it like that.”

A sad expression crossed Link’s face. “So maybe we gotta grow up, Rid.”

“But ground rules?”

“Yep.” Link tapped on the tabletop. “First, no magic. No Siren stuff.”

She looked liked he’d slapped her. “What are you talking about?” No one had ever dared say anything like that to her before. No Siren stuff? Why didn’t he just say no Ridley stuff?

They were one and the same.

Ridley drew a deep breath.

“Wait,” Link said, grabbing her hand before she could launch her attack. “It’s just that I don’t want you charmin’ anyone or gettin’ out your little Blow Pops to make sure everyone loves me. That’s not everyone lovin’ me, or my music. That’s everyone lovin’ you.”

“I don’t see the difference,” Ridley lied, her voice still cold. It was one of those chicken-and-egg, tree-falling-in-the-forest problems. Siren School 101: If a Siren charmed a Mortal to shoot someone, who was the real shooter? Just because Ridley didn’t want to debate the Power of Persuasion in a coffee shop with a Caster wearing gauges and a soul patch didn’t mean she didn’t get it.

Link wasn’t finished. “Second, no more lies. Just tell me the truth. You want me to meet up with a band, just say it. You want to come with me to New York, same thing. There’s nothin’ you can’t tell me, Rid. Nothin’.”

Ridley raised an eyebrow.

She had been working as a Siren long enough to know that those words were the single biggest fantasy in any relationship. It wasn’t even up for debate.

There was always, always something you couldn’t tell the other person.

Look at Link, who could have kept three little words to himself and saved them both a breakup. Hadn’t he learned anything?

When it came to relationships, the truth never set anyone free. The truth only set things on fire.

If you thought otherwise, you were deluding yourself, or you were seriously stupid. Ridley was neither, and as much as she wanted to believe those words, it was all she could do to nod, because she knew Link believed them.

Even the nod was a lie.

“Truce?” He held out his hand with a smile. “No Siren stuff? No more secrets and no more lies? Just you and me, and maybe or maybe not Lucille Ball? Trying to make it in the big city like a couple a regular people.”

Regular people? Us? Did he really just say that?

She looked at him with a smile of her own. “Right. A couple of regular people. That’s us.”

What does he think? I’ll just join the DAR and learn to make biscuits? He’ll get a job pumping gas at the BP?

He has no idea.

“Rid? You shootin’ straight with me? Tell me the truth.” Link didn’t seem convinced.

She squirmed on her vinyl seat cushion. “Honest.”

For the thousandth time, Ridley wondered how the two of them had ever gotten together. But she couldn’t ignore what he was saying. Link wanted something more out of their relationship—and somehow more translated to real and regular.

Like he was looking for a Lena, not a Ridley. Someone honest and kind, not deceptive and selfish. A girl who wrote poetry on her bedroom walls. Not a Siren sitting alone on the curb.

I hate my life, Ridley thought. I hate myself. I just wish I hated him.

It would make everything so much easier.

Ridley grabbed the menu off the table, suddenly desperate for a sweet fix. “Now it’s time for some sugar, Sugar. And I’m not talking about Marilyn’s Megga Monty Christo.”

“That’s my girl.” Link grinned.

As Ridley started to order, she wondered if Link noticed that she never shook his hand.

Regular people? That’s what he wants us to be?

Breakfast had come and gone, and Ridley still couldn’t let the idea drop. Now she had retreated to the curb in front of the diner.

Here I am again.

Link had gone upstairs to practice, and she needed to figure a few things out for herself.

I should give up now.

When Wesley Lincoln was the guy giving you relationship advice, it was a low point. The odds of that happening were about the same as Mrs. Lincoln telling Ridley to show a little skin. By Siren standards, Ridley was hitting rock bottom.

Regular people.

Regular people aren’t Sirens.

Regular people don’t use magic.

She had to face it. Her relationship was doomed.

She hadn’t known hearing the words come out of Link’s mouth would bother her the way it did. How could she? Not many intelligent words came out of his mouth in general.

Ridley traced the cracked edge of the curb with her finger. It reminded her of the cracked stone walkway that led up to her own front door—the one that her mamma had slammed in her face the morning after her Claiming.

She remembered stumbling up the stone steps, pounding on the chipping paint of the old wooden door. She could still feel the way her clothes constricted her, damp with sweat and fear, as she stood panting on the veranda.

You need to go, Ridley. You can’t come back here. Not anymore.

She closed her eyes as she remembered the screaming and the wailing, the way her voice seemed to belong to someone else. Someone small and fragile and alone.

Someone who still needed a mother and a family, no matter what the moon had told them.

You’ve been Claimed, child. The Dark is your family now.

Ridley pinched her red glitter nails into the soft flesh of her hand. The pain brought her back.

Wake up. That’s not you. That’s not now.

You’re not that girl. Not only that girl.

Ridley looked out at the street in front of her. She could already see a pile of parking tickets on the Beater’s windshield, a metal boot snapped around the tire.

This wasn’t Gatlin. Things changed here.

Things could change.

Ridley couldn’t promise she wouldn’t use any magic. After all, she wasn’t a miracle worker. You couldn’t just go cold turkey.

The rest of it, she could at least try.

For Link.

It was the kind of thing a Lena would do for an Ethan, and if a Lena was what Link was looking for, Ridley could give it a shot.

Like a regular girlfriend would.

But there was a lot she didn’t know, like what regular people did all day.

Work? It seemed like the obvious answer. Did he expect her to find a job? Earn Mortal money?

Learn all the rules? Stand in the lines? Wait for my turn, like everyone else, every day?

Play nice?

The last thought was too terrifying to imagine.

For the rest of the day, it was all she could think about.

But when Ridley fell asleep, her nightmares were anything but regular. They were filled with disasters, with fires and explosions, with gold-eyed Casters watching her in the shadows, figures of terror cloaked in darkness and fear.

Everywhere she looked was blood. Magic and blood.

Hers and Link’s.

The longer she tossed and turned, desperately trying not to fall back asleep, the more regular life began to look like the lesser of two evils.

Finally, Ridley gave up, clutching her knees as she sat on the striped mattress, staring at the cracked wall. Maybe it’s a sign.

The next day, Ridley Duchannes had made her decision. She was ready to face the regular world. At least, she thought she was.

She was ready to try.

“I need a job,” Ridley said out loud, testing the words out. They might have sounded more legit if she hadn’t been lying on the beach as she said them.

It’s not my fault the living room floor is a beach, she thought, irritated. Besides, it’s only a fake one.

Necro burst out laughing and sat down in the sand next to her, sloshing a cup of coffee that narrowly missed hitting Ridley’s shiny red leather, heavily zippered jumpsuit—the one that made her look like a ninja-robot-assassin from the eighties. It was an outfit that signaled Getting Down to Business, which apparently Ridley intended to do. Even if the waves looked pretty nice, out on the horizon in front of her.

Necro put down her paper coffee cup, still smiling.

“Why is that so funny?” Ridley looked insulted, and this time, she didn’t have to fake it. “Mortals have jobs. They work. They get up in the morning and get on their little train things and go places with telephones and plants and—”

“Elevators?” Necro asked innocently. She pulled out an apple and flipped open her switchblade. With an expert flick of her wrist, she began to carve, smiling to herself.

Ridley was a little unnerved. Yesterday she had met the homeless-punk-looking Necro, the one wearing the jacket made of old carpet samples and black high-top Docs, the one who liked to pass on threats from unnamed people or things from another world. Not the laughing, smiling Necro. Ridley was instantly suspicious. At least she knew where she stood when a girl was threatening her.

“Elevators. Sure. Whatever. Why couldn’t I do that?” Ridley shrugged. “I could completely do that.”

“Ride in an elevator?” Necro fingered the silver hoop in her nose, trying not to laugh. “You really are gifted.”

“Is that a job?” Ridley wasn’t sure. She kicked at the sand. It sprayed up and into the balmy breeze that wrapped itself around the living room.

“Not really. But, man—you’re a Siren. That’s not you.”

“I’m also not a man.” Ridley frowned. “Sirens have had jobs. Some are real pros.”

Necro raised an eyebrow.

Ridley frowned. “Not that kind of job.”

“There’s probably an opening at the club somewhere. You could ask Nox.”

“No,” Ridley said quickly. “Not at the club.” She didn’t want to deal with his smug face any more than she had to.

“Hey, a job’s a job. And you’re the one who said you wanted one,” Necro said. She snapped her knife all the way through half of her apple.

“Not that badly.” Ridley shook her head. “Besides, I don’t want a Caster job. I want a Mortal job.”

At that, Necro began to really laugh, as if Ridley had told a joke. She tried to think what it could have been, but she couldn’t come up with anything.

“Again, what’s so funny?”

Necro tried to look serious. “What can you possibly do in the Mortal world? And why would you ever want to do it? Mortals are—”

“I know.” At least they could agree on that. Rid sighed. “You never know. It might turn out to be useful someday. If things get old around here.”

“Things like gambling debts?” Necro sliced through a section of apple.

Ridley ignored the implication. “Besides, I want to show Link that I can get by without the Power of Persuasion. Because he’s part Mortal. And because he thinks that’s all I know how to do. I’m more than just a Siren. I’m also—”

Necro leaned forward. Now she was interested. “Yeah?”

Unfortunately, Ridley couldn’t finish that sentence. If she could, they wouldn’t be having this conversation in the first place. Because she wasn’t a regular person. She wasn’t a regular anything. And aside from being a Siren, she wasn’t sure what else she was.

Ridley gave up. “Enough with the interrogation.”

Necro snapped her switchblade shut. “That’s what I thought.”

Ridley clenched her fists. She’d show Necro. Rid would make it in the Mortal world on her own. She could be regular. She could do more than any of these idiots thought she could.

Even if the idiot happened to be Ridley herself.