Aine Crabtree - The Thief

Her smile stiffened. “What about him?”

“Ahh,” Gabriel said, apparently seeing some sort of answer in her reaction. “Still that bad?”

“Don’t give up on him, okay?” Charlotte said. “One of these days he’ll come around.”

“You say that...”

“It would help if you’d stop provoking him,” she admonished.

He smiled. “I like to think of it as teaching him to lighten up.”

“Pigs will fly before John Tailor learns to lighten up,” Charlotte said dryly.

“Maybe I should be the one telling you not to give up,” he said.

She laughed. “That’s just being realistic,” she said. “Well, I should get back. Looks like I’ll be seeing you in class tomorrow, Camille.”

Camille shrugged.

“She’s excited,” Gabriel lied.

Charlotte laughed. “I bet I can teach her to be. See you.”

Camille and Gabriel went back into the stuffy half-finished cafe. He pored over lists and schematics on the unpainted counter. She leaned against a pillar, wishing for a chair.

“I don’t want to go to school with these people,” Camille said, glad to be back to speaking Japanese like a normal person.

“Oh, they’re not all that bad,” said Gabriel. “Charlotte’s lovely. Didn’t you hear? She’ll let you set things on fire in chemistry.”

“I don’t like that Umino woman,” she grumbled.

“And she doesn’t like you,” he agreed cheerfully. “Though to be fair, most of that is my fault. There’s always going to be someone out there who’s bent on ruining you - best to get used to that now. Speaking of...tell me the rules again.”

Camille sighed. If she had a nickel for every time he’d made her repeat the stupid rules. “Stay out of bars. Stay out of fancy restaurants. Stay out of forests. And never - ”

“Ever, ever.”

“ - smoke anything.”

“Ever. If you see a man in an expensive suit?” he prompted.

“Don’t look him in the eyes and find you immediately.”

“If you see a man with green hair?”

“Pretend I don’t see him and find you immediately.”

“If you see a woman dressed all in leather?”

“Run like hell.”

“That’s my girl.”

“These are really weird rules, Gabriel.”

“These are weird times we live in, kiddo. I tell you these things for your own safety. Now you can either go unpack, or listen to me serenade you with inventory lists.”

Camille made a face.

Upstairs, Camille looked around her new living space and took stock of what Gabriel had signed them up for. Her room was small and cramped, but that was actually comforting. There was one window, cracked open a few inches to circulate the breeze, facing the forest. She didn’t have a bed, just a futon mattress on the floor, but she preferred that too. The rest of the space was taken up by a large whitewashed dresser/vanity leftover from the previous owners, complete with a chair and a large gilded mirror in desperate need of polishing, facing the door. Camille leaned closer to inspect the frame. Who knew what kind of metal the frame was actually made of, underneath all that patina? Her hand reached out to touch the metal.

In the mirror, she saw a shadow slide behind her. She jerked, and spun around, but nothing was there. Her right arm cradled her left with its iron bracer as she tried to slow her breathing. It had to be nothing, she told herself. It’s just some old cloudy glass. Downstairs, Gabriel turned on some music.

Camille moved back to the mirror. Oval shaped, it rested on the long side to stretch across either side of the dresser. Still, it was huge – the entire piece of furniture was taller than her own five foot one. She ran a hand over the mirror’s frame, thumb tracing the time-dulled pattern. There was a chance that there was something floral shaped under all that patina. She peered closer at the discolored glass. Two things ran through Camille’s head at once – Alice Through the Looking Glass , and Phantom of the Opera . The juxtaposition did not calm her.

“Down, girl,” she barely heard behind her. The shadow in the mirror flitted.

Camille spun again, eyes wide, clutching the bracer. She was alone in the room.

She must have made a noise, because Gabriel poked his head around the doorframe. “Alright in here? Everything to your liking?” His voice was pleasant, but his expression was guarded. He stepped inside, glancing casually around the room.

“I think my room is haunted,” Camille said lowly, feeling foolish even as she said it.

He looked at her briefly as he moved to the window, but she gathered nothing from his expression. “I doubt that...” he said lightly, closing the window all the way. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. And if there were ghosts, they wouldn’t be out in the daylight.”

Then why had he closed the window? “You said this was the safest place, but I have to ask,” said Camille. “Did something follow us, or was it already here?”

“Ask me later,” was all he said.

Mac

Once upon a time, there was a boy who knew no fear.

Hi. My name is Mac Dupree. Mac is short for MacAlister, and I’m short for just about everything. My specialties include online fighting games, obscure comic trivia, and a certain personal magnetism. Only problem is, the only thing I seem to attract is trouble.

There are days where everything goes your way. And then there are days that start with you getting tripped in the parking lot. Exactly how I wanted to start the week.

My shins sting. Little bits of asphalt dig into my palms as I push myself up. I’d chosen the wrong day to wear shorts, apparently. My best friend Destin fared better in jeans. It looked like his jacket had torn, though.

Raucous laughter surrounds us. Hyde’s laugh is the loudest. He had taken one of the wooden swords from kendo class and swiped our feet with it when we crossed in front of his truck. He leans against the truck’s hood now, resting the sword across his shoulders.

“Forget to tie your shoes, midget?” he cackles.

“Yeah it’s really hard to find laces for flip-flops,” I return, getting to my feet. I’m a solid foot shorter than he is, three years younger, and I get better grades, which makes me his favorite target.

Hyde isn’t a huge guy - honestly, Destin’s taller than he is. But Destin looks like he’s built out of sticks and a mop, where Hyde has been massacreing people in karate and kendo class for the last two years. Hyde is usually dressed in various combinations of slashed, torn, and singed leather and jean, and has piercings in his lip, one eyebrow, and all over his ears – but his most striking feature is the scar that runs from the bridge of his nose halfway across one cheek. Rumors abound as to how he got it, but no one seems to know for real.

“Maybe you should watch where you’re going,” Hyde grins. His scar crinkles.

“Maybe you should hide behind cars and trip people in the parking lot like a coward,” I shoot back. “Oh wait, that already happened. Get a life.”

He hops off the hood of his car, brandishing the wooden sword. I stand in defiance. Still on the ground, Destin cringes.

“Unless there’s a meeting I’m unaware of,” comes a familiar disdainful voice, “break it up and get inside, people.”

The small crowd parts, startled at the appearance of our English teacher, Mr. Tailor. Tailor looks kind of professor-y with his collared shirts and wire-rimmed glasses, but he has this way of staring you down that makes you just want to disappear. Soda would stop fizzing if he told it to settle down.

The spectators quickly break away and go on to the school, not wanting to arouse his wrath. Hyde’s look sours as Tailor regards us. There are only three people I’ve seen who can exert some kind of control over Hyde, and Tailor is one of them.