I’m unwanted. Abandoned.

The room feels small and my breaths are coming in sharply, the pain intensifying, but more so when I see their names spelled out above a pair of signatures belonging to the couple who brought me into this world: Richard and Carla Burgess.

“I don’t even have their last name?” I say out loud while mentally I’m asking who named me. Whose surname was donated to the unwanted child tossed at the system without looking back? Turning to the last two pages, I encounter a bank statement with a large sum deposited days after I was given to the orphanage and a letter of agreement.

My eyes skim each line with watery eyes while stumbling into the nearest wall; I slide down and sit, feeling as though the walls are caving in. Question after question rushes through my mind. About who they were or are. About who really gave me this house.

Was he my biological mother’s brother, or my father’s?

Then, I ask myself, why now?

Why give me that lump sum along with this property?

With every tick of the clock, my chest tightens. It hurts. Physically and emotionally, I ache in a way I’ve never encountered before. Can’t breathe, and I let the papers fall to the floor. “I need to get out of here.”

Jumping up from my position on the floor; I grab my wallet and keys, and rush out the door. I’m in such a rush that I don’t remember getting in my car and driving toward Pike’s Place. I’m on autopilot and come to when I walk to my favorite artisan stall inside the market.

Everyone looks at me funny as they pass. Staring at the redheaded woman with blotchy skin, tears running down her cheeks, while wearing the equivalent of workout clothes; a sports bra and leggings. I was going to go for a run after handling the bills; I’d wanted to clear my head and work through each beast’s placement on the Astor Gallery pieces.

That didn’t work out. Nothing will.

My life is a mess of nightmares, lunatic emotions, and now this.

“Are you okay, Miss?” the shop owner, a woman in her mid to late thirties, asks me. No one else is standing near us; they’re looking but giving me a wide berth. “Do you need something or for me to call—”

“I’m fine. Just had a rough day.”

“Would you like to take a seat? I can bring you a chair.” Her hand reaches out for my arm and gives it a squeeze. The action is meant to be comforting, but instead, I’m filled with a sense of longing. How many family members do I have? Do I have a sister or a brother, maybe multiples of each?

“No.” Shaking my head, I step back a bit and give her a sad smile. “Thank you for the offer, but right now I just need to walk.”

“Are you sure—”

Wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, I give her a smile. “I’m sure. Thank you, though.” There are a few more specialty shops in this section and I take my time walking through each, not buying but admiring the artisan pieces made by local artists while staying clear of those shopping. It helps me calm down after a while, calms me to be surrounded by so many one-of-a-kind creations.

My creative soul relaxes. Welcomes the soothing vibes.

However, when I reach the farmers market section of Pike’s, I feel someone watching me. Their stare is hard and the footsteps not light in the least, as if they want to be seen, and yet when I turn my head no one makes direct eye contact.

Too many people surround me to pinpoint either.

So I move on, walking down the aisle and only pausing to buy some fresh pears that looked too good to pass up. And when I leave the area, I finally see a man in his late forties with a barrel gut walking closer than I feel comfortable with.

I’ve never seen him. I have no idea who he is.

But that doesn’t stop him from following me for the next fifteen minutes, and after trying to lose him at the Starbucks, I head to my car. Not running, but I take my kitty multi tool out and slip my fingers through the area below the ears, gripping the metal tight.

Footsteps come closer and I pause, giving myself a second to gather my breaths before whirling around and... nothing.

No man.

No more footsteps.

It’s as if I conjured everything and when I look around, taking in the many shoppers and vendors, I’m left questioning my sanity.

Where did he go? “Did I imagine him?”

26

King

H

is screams of pain rend the air, filling the warm summer night with a haunting symphony that makes me smile. His chest is red, the rivulets rising from each cut and flowing down his stomach, disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants.

The man is bound by his hands and feet to the floor of an empty building not far from Gabriella’s home and the heart of Seattle. It’s an empty space that I own and have soundproofed, dedicated each of its twenty floors to a different kind of torture, reminiscent of my home back in Italy.

I’ll bleed him dry here.

Drain him drop by drop until he talks, and still grant no mercy when he does.

This is his fault. Not mine. Not my pretty girl’s.

“Speak up, Mr. Hall.” His response is more unintelligible gibberish, his bodily functions failing him when the front of his pants become piss stained. Filthy animal. “You disgust me.”

“Please, I haven’t done anything wrong. I was there to—” I cut off his bullshit with a backhand, the force behind the blow to his face breaking the cheekbone and his nose.

“I’m going to ask you again.” I snap my fingers and two special creatures slither into the room, watching the man with spiteful eyes. One constricts. One is venomous. “Who sent you?”

“I-I didn’t.” That’s all he manages to get out as the white albino coils at striking distance from his feet. The cobra stands with a regal position, her hood expanded and forked tongue flicking in and out languidly.

I command them both.

The male is mine.

The female is my gift to Miss Moore.

“Last chance.” Then, I whistle and the cobra strikes as she knows to do, two puncture wounds on his abdomen that immediately make him tense, a curdling scream escaping his throat. Then again, another dry bite, just because he’s pissed me off. Both serpents watch and wait, my hand gestures the only communication we need at the moment. “Are you ready to talk now?”

“Don’t kill me.”

“You should’ve thought about that beforehand. No?” I trail a sharp metal nail over the two small punctures at the center and scratch the skin—stretching it while watching it widen. Because the skin’s elasticity does give under pressure if the right amount is exerted and right now, I’m slicing up from just below his belly button to his sternum. “Preying on a defenseless woman? Following her around for the past few days?”

His eyes widen, the blood quickly draining from his face. This is a new fear. Nothing to do with the damage already inflicted. “She made me do it.”

“She who?” I ask, yet the pieces haven’t been hard to put together. The past has a way of finding the present and mixing together in ways that no one predicts, but I’m enjoying the idiocy of some. My beast has been caged for too long. My thirst unsatiated. When he doesn’t answer, his limbs shaking, I undo his bindings while the animals watch.