“Come, I know a place nearby where we can dry off and find some clothes,” Sadie suggested, water dripping from her frayed sleeve onto the beach. “You wouldn’t want us puddling up your dad’s limo, would you?”

  “I suppose not,” Cynthia shrugged, her blouse clinging to her shoulders. She squinted through the downpour at a weathered sign swinging creakily in the wind.

  “Must be that place there—the only one with lights on.” She pointed to a half-shuttered café wedged between a boarded-up surf shop and the open air gym, its neon Mathilda's Soup Kitchen sign flickering weakly.

  “Owners are an old couple—sweet people. Lost their daughter years ago; she ran off to who-knows-where.” Sadie wiped salty meshes away from her cheek, her voice flattening. “Been treating me like her replacement ever since we met, just ’cause we share the same rare eye color.” She tugged her lower eyelid down with a finger.

  “Aren’t you taking advantage of their loss, in a way?” Cynthia asked, lingering under the café’s rusted awning as Sadie shoved the glass door open. A bell jangled overhead.

  “And they’re taking advantage of me—crafting some identity that isn’t mine to fill their loss.” Sadie’s laugh was dry as beach sand. “That’s what we do. What all humans do. Trade lies for a glimmer of hope.”

  “You should be a poet,” Cynthia remarked.

  “Then I’d be more homeless and miserable than I already am,” Sadie replied, rubbing her sandy feet onto the red welcome mat.

  “Deep gothic poetry’s in season. You’ve got the sarcasm for it,” Cynthia said.

  “Is it really sarcasm when it’s true?” Sadie muttered. Before Cynthia could answer, the door of the kitchen opened.

  An old man stood frozen behind the counter near the swinging door, his teacup rattling in its saucer. Trembling lips parted, his wrinkled eyes—nearly swallowed by sagging lids—locked onto hers.

  “Mira… you’ve returned!” he croaked, hands shaking as if gripped by a ghost. Sadie stood there, solemn and pale. “Mathilda—Mira’s back!”

  “Yep, I always come back to you,” Sadie said, too lightly. “Need some dry clothes. Tide’s a bitch tonight.”

  “Why are you soaked!” Mathilda’s voice crackled from the back room. She shuffled forward, her cane tap-tap-tapping against the wooden floor. Her hunched frame seemed to carry the weight of her decades. “There’s spare waiter clothes by the restrooms,” she snapped, thrusting a kitchen towel at Sadie. “Change before you catch a cold—I’m too old to care for you as I used to!”

  “Will do,” Sadie said, gesturing for Cynthia to follow her. The old man’s eyes clung to Sadie like a prayer answered, his gnarled fingers tracing the edge of the counter to hold onto something. Months of grief cracked open in his trembling smile. The happiest he’d felt in months.

  “I don’t know how I feel about this,” Cynthia muttered once they were alone in the restroom. A single bulb flickered overhead, casting shadows over peeling blue seashell wallpaper. The air smelled of salt and detergents, and an audible drip could be heard from a leaky faucet.

  Sadie tossed her a faded waiter’s shirt, its fabric soft. “That’s ’cause you never had to borrow anything in your life. You’ve got everything. Most of my ‘home’ clothes are from them. Just pretend you raided my closet.”

  Cynthia ran a finger along a coffee stain on the shirt’s collar, trying to scratch it away. “Well, when you put it that way…”

  “We can return ’em after your servants wash ’em if you’re so concerned.”

  Cynthia frowned, the flickering light sharpening the angles of her face. “Do you think the mafia we’re dealing with had something to do with their daughter’s disappearance?”

  Sadie lowered her head, the question heavy on her mind. Somewhere beyond the door, the old man’s laughter bubbled up—frail and hopeful. “Maybe we can reward them by freeing—” She froze mid-sentence. “What are you doing?”

  Cynthia had already pulled her soaked shirt over her head, the fabric snagging briefly in her pearl earring. Her arms arched as the blouse covered her face, exposing the lace trim of her bra and the smooth plane of her stomach. Wetness glistened on her collarbone.

  “What?” Cynthia rolled the wet clothes into a tight clutch, unfazed. “It’s not like I’ve got something you’ve never seen.” She cupped her chest defensively, though her voice stayed light. “Just pretend it’s a swimsuit.”

  The gesture made Sadie acutely aware of her own body—the absence of a bra, the pimples. What am I supposed to do now? She stared until Cynthia buttoned the last button of the borrowed shirt, its oversized sleeves swallowing her wrists.

  “Will you gawk at me with those nervous eyes while I take off my pants too?” Cynthia teased. “Or will you start dressing?” Then she laughed softly, the sound bouncing off the grimy tiles. Sadie couldn’t tell if Cynthia was laughing from embarrassment or amusement beneath those perfect teeth.

  My life’s too shitty to care. Sadie turned to face the wall, peeling off her shirt with jerky motions. Cold air needled her bare back. Cynthia’s silence felt heavier than God’s judgment. She saw the pimples. The no bra.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  Sadie’s skin crawled—the same dread as when that soldier ordered her against a wall, rifle cocked.

  Then she remembered: gunfire, Cynthia tackling her from behind, shielding her body. Sadie’s amber eyes widened. A warm hand grazed her spine before imprinting between her shoulder blades.

  “I’ll always have your back,” Cynthia whispered. “I’ll be outside if you need me.”

  As Sadie buttoned the last button and began heading out to rejoin Cynthia, the old hand grabbed her wrist. She looked back, seeing an emotional man staring into her eyes. "Thank you...Sadie." She remained silent, shocked that he actually knew her name.

  Moments later, Sadie stepped outside, her mind still processing the moment. There stood Cynthia at the curb, impatiently tapping her heel against the pavement, phone clutched in hand.

  "Weird he's not answering the call," Cynthia muttered, staring at her phone. "That’s never happened before. What should we do?"

  "Walk home?" Sadie suggested. "It’s what I’ve been doing all my life anyway."

  "What? It’s very dangerous for girls to walk this side of the city after midnight! You seriously have no survival instincts, Sadie. Do you know what kind of people roam the streets at this hour?"

  "Late-working people?" Sadie answered, genuinely confused. Late-working, unlike Sir James the Fourth. That’s why she’ll probably replace him with Sir James the Fifth, Sadie thought.

  "Bad people!" Cynthia exclaimed. "Criminals, hookers—we might get kidnapped! Girls shouldn’t walk alone."

  "Heh... right," Sadie muttered, embarrassed. Some of those people Cynthia described were her acquaintances.

  "But I’ve never been hassled at night. Trust me, it’ll be fine."

  Cynthia sighed and redialed home. The line went unanswered.

  "That butler will get fired if my father hears about this. Now I’m double glad you’re with me, Sadie. I’d have freaked out by myself."

  "No, you’d have practiced your wrestling moves and sat on their faces."

  "Sadie!" Cynthia gasped. "I regret telling you that. I told you not to bring it up!"

  "Oh, don’t be such a drama queen," Sadie smirked. "Come on, I’ll walk you home."

  Cynthia smiled, satisfied by the offer.

  The city’s after-hours rhythm pulsed around them—distant sirens, flickering streetlights, the occasional clatter of a trash can, reminding Sadie of her origins. She was oblivious to all the surrounding noise and tension, only heard the growling in her stomach. Cynthia, on the other hand, was walking with her arms crossed, constantly checking over her shoulder.

  "After all we’ve been through, what exactly are you afraid of?" Sadie asked, noticing her friend’s unease.

  "The unknown," Cynthia whispered. "Anything could be hiding... watching us."

  Before she could finish, a loud, shrill wail—like a baby’s scream—pierced the night. Cynthia jumped out of her boots.

  "What the hell was that? A demonic baby?!" she shrieked, inching closer to Sadie.

  "Someone’s crying," Sadie said calmly.

  Suddenly, a small, fat bird—round like a golf ball, with a pheasant-like tail—flew out from a tree and landed right in front of them. It stared, menacingly. Then, it opened its long, narrow beak and let out a bloodcurdling wail which split the air—half-human infant, half-dying cat. Cynthia vaulted behind Sadie.

  "The bird is crying! That’s freaky as hell!" Cynthia yelped.

  "It’s just a lyre..." Sadie began explaining, but the creature flapped its wings and zipped past Cynthia’s ear, screaming as a banshee as it flew. Her hair whipped back as she closed her eyes and bolted up a tree trunk like a panicked bear.

  Lights started turning on in nearby buildings. People stepped onto balconies to investigate the noise.

  A broom smacked a nearby window. “Keep it down out there!”

  “Cynthia, get down,” Sadie hissed. “You’re gonna get us arrested! It’s just a lyrebird. Weird that it’s this far north, but not impossible."

  "What if it’s a mutant, like us?" Cynthia said, still perched on the tree. "An actual baby turned into a bird. What if that’s always been the case?"

  Sadie giggled at Cynthia’s wild theory. "Well, if that’s true, the baby seems to like you—it’s perched on your branch."

  "What?!" Cynthia shrieked, then launched herself to the ground, barely missing Sadie as she landed with a thud.

  "Where is it?!" Cynthia asked, scanning the branches. Then she caught on. "Oh, you… you’re mocking me!"

  Sadie poked her gently in the side, grinning.

  “Teasing the bear?” Cynthia growled, advancing.

  "Let’s see if you can catch a sloth," Sadie challenged, already breaking into a run—faster than she’d ever moved before.

  By focusing really, really hard, Sadie managed to slow down time around her—giving the appearance that she was faster than she truly was.

  "You’re on—wait! Don’t cheat!" Cynthia yelled, taking off after her.

  Cynthia slowed, not wanting to ruin her makeup with sweat—she’d exercised enough for one day.

  Sadie was happy she was far ahead.

  Then—bam.

  She collided with something hard. Her entire body jolted. She stumbled but managed to stay upright. A familiar voice cut through the air.

  "Well, well. Where are you racing off to at this hour, Sadie?" Skulk said, flipping a butterfly knife lazily in one hand. His hooded eyes glinted, his other hand tucked into a black leather jacket.

  "Oh, it’s you," Sadie groaned, holding her head. "I thought it was someone important. Don’t block my way, Skulk. I won’t let that pass."

  "And I won’t let you pass," he replied coolly. "Me and Mountain here have business with you. Tommy Ferguson sent us."

  Sadie glanced up at the man called Mountain—twice her size, built like a slab of meat, with a bald, square head and a dull, vacant stare.

  "Now’s not a good time. Tell him I’ll pay tomorrow."

  "You know he hates being kept waiting."

  Just then, Cynthia caught up, eyeing the two men with concern.

  "Stay back," Sadie told her, half-turned. "This doesn’t concern you."

  "I’m not letting anyone touch you," Cynthia said defiantly.

  "And who's this pretty lady" Skulk grinned. "Feisty too, I’ve got a soft spot for pretty girls. Maybe we can work something out..."

  "Your balls are your soft spot!" Sadie snapped. Her boot crushed his instep, knee slamming upward. Skulk crumpled like origami.

  "And I just turned them to mush! Funny how you’ve never tried flirting with me like that. Am I not pretty enough for you??"

  Cynthia blinked, stunned by the whiplash of the moment as Skulk grunted on the ground.

  Sadie stepped over him with a sneer. "Pig."

  She turned to Mountain, trying to push past him, but he wouldn’t budge. Just stared down blankly at Skulk.

  Sadie let out a frustrated yell and kept walking. Cynthia called after her.

  "Hey! Wait for me!"

  “Um. Sorry about your… yeah,” she told Skulk, tiptoeing above him then scurrying after Sadie.

  "Excuse me," she muttered as she passed the still-motionless Mountain.

  "What was that all about? Why is Goliath just standing there?" Cynthia whispered once she caught up.

  "Because he’s got nothing going on up there... like most men," Sadie snorted.

  A faint strain of jazz music drifted from the direction of Cynthia’s mansion as they approached.

  “Isn’t your estate secluded and surrounded by trees?” Sadie asked. “The music’s coming from there.”

  “Impossible. My father’s out of town, and my brother’s on a business trip. No one’s home.”