The phone clattered against the wall of the phone booth. I ran, the cold air keeping my adrenaline pumping. I was trying frantically to work my way to a subway station through the labyrinth that is (well, was) the unmarked side streets of
Despite the way thrillers portray this action, men step out of alleys often in
“Why did you hang up on me, Eira?” the man asked in the same voice that had been on the other end of the phone.
“I didn’t technically hang up on you.”
“Flippant in the face of danger. You know, I really like that in a prophet.” The man broke into a smile and rocked back on his heels. Under a street light, I could see that he was tall, large in a neither muscled nor fat way. His suit was obviously high end, probably tailor made just for him. His black hair was messy and a layer of scruff grew across his chin.
“Are you saying you’re danger?” I shifted so that my hand was closer to my pocket which contained every girl’s best friend: an easily concealable can of mace. “And prophet? Who the fuck are you?
“Danger is in the eye of the beholder.” The man’s smile had a predatory edge to it. I took what I hoped was an imperceptible step backward. “Yes, I did say prophet. You are one, whether you know it or not. You can call me Mr. O, by the way.”
“I’d rather call the police.” I was bluffing, of course. I wasn’t willing to stick my hand down my shirt in front of this man unless absolutely necessary. “I’m pretty sure you’re mistaken about this whole prophet thing anyway. I can’t see the future. I’m not even religious. I don’t hear the voice of God or whatever shit prophets are supposed to do nowadays.”
“How do you know you haven’t seen the future? No one ever knows they’ve seen the future until it happens. As for the, er, shit prophets are supposed to do, not all prophets here the voice of God. Some just talk to, you know, a god.”
I looked at him, incredulous. “Unless some girl in the
“Do you believe me now?”
I crossed my arms in front of my chest. When faced with anything beyond my understanding…I turned into a petulant child. It was my automatic defense. “No. People die in wolf attacks all the time, don’t they? Like shark attacks.”
“More people die in freak toaster accidents every year than are killed by sharks.”
“Not the point.” I scowled. “It can’t be that uncommon, can it?”
He gave me a look that told me I should know exactly how ridiculous I was being. I did know, but wasn’t ready to admit it. Who the hell was a prophet these days? They just didn’t exist any more. And it wasn’t a god speaking to me, it was an old fat guy. An old fat guy who just happened to know my first name and the number for the public telephone booth I would run to after a blowout with my boyfriend. Okay, so my reasoning was beginning to look weak, even to me.
“All of that rationalizing will give you wrinkles.” I shot him another dirty look, slowly letting out the anger I’d been storing during my argument with Robert. “Seriously. Why is it so hard for you little humans to accept what you don’t understand?” I cocked an eyebrow at him. “And now she’s gone nonverbal. Wonderful. Listen, lady. The world is ending, whether you like it or not. And you are a prophet, whether you like that or not. There’s nothing you can do about that. You can’t change it or pass it along. You can’t save anyone. What you can do is listen to what I’m telling you if you want to live.”
“Say I believe you…”
“Fantastic! So, there are two others. They’ll be coming your way soon, sent by others of my kind. When they get here,”
“Yes?”
“Kill them.”
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