Damian's Oracle

"I want to go out," she said and emerged from her bedroom.

"Great," Jake said, rising from his seat outside her door and trailing her down the stairs.

"To the airport," she added.

"That's a no-go, Sofi."

Ignoring him, she pulled out a set of keys and walked down the hall to the front door.

"Sofia," Jake called, trailing.

"You're not allowed to touch me," she reminded him.

"D is."

"D's at some meeting. Remember?"

He frowned but followed her into the cool, pre-dawn morning toward the garage. Damian had a lot of cars, and she found the black BMW whose lights flashed when she clicked the key fob. She climbed in. Jake slid into the passenger seat beside her, pulling out his cell as he did.

He dialed and spoke in a different language to the man on the other end. She tightened her grip on the wheel, assuming he spoke to Damian. He didn't appear out of thin air to stop her, and she made it from the mansion to the Tucson airport's arrivals drop-off area, where she stopped in front of the Delta curbside check-in sign and handed Jake the keys.

She was pretty sure Damian would find her no matter where she tried to go, but damn them all, she was going home.

Jake didn't follow her as she strode into the airport and checked in, careful not to brush up against anyone for fear of the jarring visions. She didn't relax until her plane was in the air, and only then was she able to loosen the muscles in her neck when she sat pressed against the window to prevent her elbow from touching the man beside her.

Several hours later, just as evening set in, she entered the disaster that was her apartment. Sofia dropped her backpack onto the kitchen counter, taking in the damage. She rummaged around one of the cupboards for her prescription painkillers, her head pounding.

"Hello, Sofia," a familiar voice said. "I was worried when you didn't show for your appointment."

She turned, startled to find the man in front her of the same make and mold as Damian's men. The doctor's eyes were the color of cold steel, his face stoic, his large form tense. His hair was silvered.

"Dr. Czerno?" she managed. "You're not a doctor, are you?"

"No, Sofia."

She stared at him and edged around the kitchen island. She darted for the door, but he snatched her arm. His visions were more than just his death; they were the first-person experience of the torturing and killing of many, many others, as if she were mutilating others. She staggered under the weight of them, dropping to her knees. He released her.