Air: Elementalist Book 1 by Rebecca Wolf (christmas read aloud .TXT) 📗

had been the Sword Swallower, who had ended her finale by impaling herself on stage multiple times before dying in a pool of her own blood. There was a moment of silent horror, before she rose from her own ashes in a burst of flame and the relieved applause of the crowd. Phoenixes. They always treated death like it was a big joke.

It was a busy night, and I was pulling drinks nonstop. At a couple minutes after midnight, Sara Lee wearily sat down on the stool to the far right of the counter. Her thin body curled in on itself like a dry autumn leaf at the end of the season. Gray scraggly hair hung like a wet blanket to just above her drooping shoulders.  She ordered a shot of mercury, the code drink for all my clients, and closed her eyes as she waited to be served. Sara had contacted me a year ago when her son, Tommy, had started having difficulty breathing. Tommy was a ten-year-old mouse shifter, who worked in the sweatshop delivering messages through the air ducts in the factory. His difficulty breathing was most likely because of the dust and debris that was clogging the air ducts, but the owners refused to take accountability for cleaning it or covering his meds. Sara had four other children, all younger than Tommy, and if he wasn’t working, they would all likely be out starving on the streets. It was a lose-lose situation, and it made me sick to think about it.

I poured her a shot of water from a bottle of vodka I kept on hand and slid her the meds in between the napkin folds towards the side by the wall, away from prying eyes. Sara was religious, and she didn’t believe in drinking alcohol as it “marred the soul and clouded the judgement”. Sara opened her eyes to a squint as she slid me the cash, taking the shot without hesitating. She was a repeat customer, she knew it was water.

“The meds should be good for three months,” I whispered quietly. “It’s a stronger dose, so it lasts longer, but the side effects have been known to be more brutal.” Sara nodded and turned to go, easing herself slowly off of the stool.

“Listen Sara”, I said, grabbing her hand. “Penny and I were talking, and we have a new opening for a stock boy if Tommy can fill it. The pay is horrible, but the conditions here aren’t bad.” Sara looked at me and her eyes hardened. “I appreciate what you do for us, Zephyr. Really, I do. And your intentions are in the right place, but this establishment is spiritually toxic. I would rather my boy breathe the tainted air in the sweatshop with a pure heart than breathe clean air with a filthy heart.” She turned to go again, and this time I let her. I shook my head as I wiped the counter down. Maybe if the idea sat with her a little bit she’d change her mind.

Chapter 4

We kicked everyone out at four am and managed to close up by five before heading back home. We took a twenty-minute detour to eat at Black Jacks, our favorite breakfast joint. Black Jacks served the fluffiest pancakes and waffles known to mankind. I drowned it all in a moat of maple syrup, just the way I liked it. They put canned apples on top and I counted that as a fruit serving. When we were both slightly sick from the amount we had consumed, we squeezed out of the booth and rolled our way to the car.

We were both in that hazily happy mood that good carbs provide for the first few blocks, but as we turned onto the highway, Penny seemed to tense up, glancing frequently in the rear-view mirror.

“Something wrong?” I asked finally.

“Yeah,” she said, then hesitated, glancing again in the rear-view mirror before replying, “I think there’s a dude on a motorcycle tailing us.” I glanced behind us, searching. “Two cars back in the right lane,” she directed. I zeroed in on it, there it was.

“Slow down and see if he passes us with the other cars,” I said. She did as directed, the cars behind us honking angrily before swerving around us. The motorcycle gave up any pretense of not following us and switched lanes so that he was directly behind. We continued driving, slowing back to a normal speed, both of us tense and silent.

Just as we were about to pass the next exit, Penny swerved, switching to the exit lane, nearly crashing into the concrete barrier as she sped up to make the turnoff. We both glanced in the rearview mirror. The motorcyclist was still there. Penny’s face scrunched up with concentration as she ran through the red light at the end of the exit ramp, just as the two lanes of opposing traffic started speeding past. Horns honked angrily as several cars were forced to swerve out of our way. She continued on and then turned down the first side street, pulling hard on the brake to make a sharp u- turn and face the way we had come. We both waited, hearts pounding.  Seconds later, the motorcyclist turned down the street. Penny revved the engine, forgetting she had the emergency brake on.

“Gaahhh!” she yelled, the acrid smell of burnt rubber filling the car. She looked at me in horrified panic.

“This would never happen in an action film,” I muttered in frustration, reaching over to press the emergency break back in place. Penny gunned it, barreled towards the motorcyclist, a freaked out look on her face. My stomach flipped. Apparently, we were going to play chicken.  I held on to the grab handle on the roof of the car, and pressed an imaginary pedal on the passenger side, hoping this wouldn’t end in a homicide charge. We were so close I could see the car’s reflection in his helmet’s visor