Page 24 of Broken Ties
Nothing brings me closer to the edge of my sanity than that.
“You can't tell me you're uninterested in your Bond and expect me to believe it when you're struggling this hard, Nox?—”
William’s smug taunting cuts off abruptly as Azrael bursts from my chest and lands on my desk between us, his lip curling into a snarling growl. Though they’re mostly formless at rest, my nightmare creatures have always assumed the same forms when dealing with threats, and the rabid, canine-like protector leaves no room for questions about my safety.
My mother was terrified of Dobermans.
Rows of razor-sharp teeth lie waiting to tear any threat apart, and when his void eyes fix themselves on William’s throat, my uncle shoves his chair back in a panic, but it’s not enough to placate the beast. No, Azrael doesn’t stop snarling until William’s back hits the door.
William wasn’t born with the Draven curse; that honor was held by his older brother, Nolan, who so generously passed it onto both of his sons. As far back as my research has found, North and I are the first generation with two void-eyed Gifted born as siblings though, so it’s not unusual.
Any familiarity or security he gained growing up around them was lost the day William watched on in horror as my father’s nightmare creatures tore North’s mother apart, and no matter how steadfast he usually is with the cold exterior he gives me, there's a fine tremble in his lip now.
He can't even tear his eyes away from Azrael as he addresses me, his voice shaking pathetically. “If you've ever been capable of caring for North, you need to leave before your damage takes him down with you. He’ll never find peace or happiness withthe girlwhile you're here.”
Azrael snaps his teeth and William yelps, his hand scrambling for the door handle behind his back, his voice hoarse as he throws one last plea at me, but I’m beyond giving a fuck about him now.
“The Draven name dies with him.”
Bars aren’ta difficult commodity to find in Draven, only they’re all bursting at the seams with idiotic college students and faculty staff all desperate to simper at my feet thanks to my last name and the power it holds here. When I first started going out and encountering the many obstacles to my youthful plans of drunken oblivion, I’d just drink until the consequences no longer mattered to me. It worked well, until it didn’t, and listening to North and William drone on at me in my hungover states quickly began to wear me down.
My uncle would groan and roll his eyes at my so-called petulant whining. Inevitably, he’d point out that Draven is in fact a college town, the most popular one in the country, and it was in poor taste to complain about the students who haveso muchrespect for the Draven name.
I’m not sure why he thought that would work on me, given that I’ve built my entire existence in this shitty town around being a volatile asshole wielding the Madness and the fabled nightmare creatures as easily as I wield my acerbic tongue.
I was never going to simplysubmit,no matter the reality of the situation.
The real problem is finding one that’s tolerable to drink at that won’t end in North clucking at me like a disapproving housewife, all while sprinting to my rescue like the white knight I never fucking asked him to be. It's impossible to deny that I’d be dead by now without him, even I can admit that. If I found the courage to escape my mother’s house by myself, my penchant for wanton use of my Gift would’ve surely seen me put to death, just as my father was.
Knocking back the entire glass of bourbon in one go to chase away the morbid spiral of my thoughts, I stare down the bar at the man tending it. He’s too busy flirting with the operatives drinking here on their downtime to notice at first, but when he notices my ire, he’s quick to rush over to me, gulping like he’s trying to remember how to breathe. Apologizing without meeting my eye, his attention stays fixed firmly on the expensive bottle he’s pouring from. It’s probably worth more than the building itself, ordered specifically for North and I thanks to the fussy Draven palate we both inherited.
With almost a decade of patronage here, I'm quick to dismiss any bad feelings toward the man and instead turn my scrutiny back to the other end of the bar. The operatives have quietened down now that they’ve noticed me sitting here sneering and drinking by myself, but no matter how hard they try for discretion, it doesn’t take much to notice them hissing frantically at one another.
No doubt the whispers revolve around the catalyst for my shitty attitude, but I’ll surely lose my senses and set Azrael on them all if I have to hear another fucking word about thatgirl. The bartender shoots them a savage glare of his own when he glances up to follow my gaze curiously, probably ruining his chances for a good tip he was grinding so hard for only moments ago.
“You’d think they’d know better, standing there in that uniform,” he mutters almost to himself but when he finally meets my eyes, he’s looking less timid.
Despite spending at least four nights a week here since I attended Draven myself, it takes me a minute to remember the bartender’s name; Alam, but Gryph calls him Al. He owns the bar. Tucked away on one of the side alleys in the less savory area of the town, he was close to shutting his door when I found it and decided that the empty booths and distinct lack of collegestudents among the dwindling patrons made it perfect for me. He inherited it from his father, and despite only being in his late forties, the growing danger within our community had certainly aged him.
I’m certain it’s aged us all.
Raising the glass to my lips, I sneer down the bar at the idiots until they turn away from me before I answer him. “I told Gryph from the beginning to stop asking the TacTeams to join us but the idiot never listened. They followed us here like pathetic little worms to gain favor and grasp at power for themselves. Now they’ve all been reminded of the monsters living among them and the blades are sharpening.”
The liquor has loosened my tongue, but my words are still crisp and clear, my mind still on my own. My bond simmers within my chest, waiting for a moment my grasp slips and it can take control and stand. Until I find a true resolution with it, I am forced to curb my own drinking habits. For that alone, I could kill the girl.
My frustration flares violently, a molten wave cresting throughout my blood. My eyes flicker dangerously—a war dance with the voids, but the malevolent blue finally wins out. It only lasts a fraction of a second, but the reaction is instant; the muttering group all but runs out of the building, each throwing a few crisp notes on the bar as they flee. It's a pitiful display, one that certainly doesn't rouse much confidence in their abilities to protect the Gifted community.
Huffing out a breath, I set down my glass and wait as Al fills it once more. “I tolerated their presence because your business benefitted from their attempts at bootlicking, but it looks like I've ruined that for you.”
Al shakes his head, pulling a rag out of his back pocket and wiping down the bar beside me. “I'm not worried about those idiots. You sure, and the rest of his team, will keep the rent paidand the lights on. If North stops in for a few, as he always does after the council meeting, that'll get me a month or two ahead with only a couple of glasses. Rather not bother with the rest.”
“Such loyalty is rare these days. I'm not sure I've done much to deserve it.”
He shakes his head at me with a huff, his gaze turning weary over my shoulder even as he replies to my snark. “That's because you spend too much of your time putting up with the Top Tier bullshit. Those of us at the bottom, we’re forced to stare up at the rest of you and pray for a miracle, but at least we have a grasp on what really matters. I've lost far too many friends, Draven, to give a fuck about a couple of super soldiers with their pockets full of cash but not a brain cell between them.”
Cussing is rare for him, even when dealing with inebriated assholes, and his usually light tone is deeper as it trembles with a frustration that matches my own. Responding instantly, my bond writhes within my chest and ademandpulses within my veins from my nightmare creatures as though they’ve been called to arms. My eyes flicker again, but despite dropping his gaze away from me, Al doesn’t run screaming in terror. He stands there and waits out my bond’s anger, no matter how thick his fear is in the air, there’s no doubting his respect for what I’m capable of—for what I’ll do to the Resistance the moment they come calling.
That’s the real reason I’ve stuck around Draven for so long, despite my loathing for most of the community here; those with everything but the capability to hold and defend, who’ll end up cannon-fodder when the Resistance stop playing their sick mind-games and finally start their true campaign for power.