Cara MIA - By Book One of the Immortyl Revolution - By Denise Verrico Page 0,1

I think, Forty-Second Street or maybe Eighth Avenue?

What time is it? I really should have worn my watch. I probably could have sold that, too. So much ice everywhere tonight. It’s too slippery to walk really fast. The shops are all dark. It must be past ten. Snow softly falls and coats the grime. The city that never sleeps at least rests quiet for once. So still. It’s weird to see New York streets nearly empty, but it’s kind of peaceful and pretty.

It was winter when I first saw Ethan at the theatre, so many years ago. I nearly swooned.

He spoke in a lovely Virginia drawl. “Are you all right, Miss Disantini?”

“Just a bit tired after my performance.”

I lied. He overwhelmed me, so tall and beautiful. His ice blue eyes looked on me with strange mix of awe and contempt. His laughter still rings in my head. Head throbbing. Throat dry. Pain in the gut now. I’ve got to get out of the cold soon. How many more blocks? Walk faster.

Got to get cash. So-o-o hungry! Hang on, girl. It won’t be long. It’s odd to be walking these blocks alone. You never know what lurks in the shadows. What’s that noise? Nothing. The subway below. The wind whining through the caverns of buildings. Pigeons roosting on ledges. No ghouls for the moment in any case.

Seventh Avenue, finally, signs of life! Ah, the theatre district, my part of town, well at least it was for that brief affair. That’s ancient history now. The shows must have just let out. Lots of tourists can be found here this time of year. A cornucopia of smells assails the olfactory. Pasta, garlic and fish. Those carnations at the bodega reek like a funeral parlor to me. Papa? Banish that thought! Concentrate on the important scents musk, iron and blood. Blood…

Times Square. Anything catch the eye? Group of teenagers in sheepskin jackets, Japanese businessmen, families with kids? No, not what I’m looking for. Keep going, cross Broadway and head south. Iron scent is sharp in the air, surrounding me on every side. Blood! I can’t stand much more of this. Why tonight of all nights must I deal with this inconvenience?

Forty-fifth. I hate the Marriot Marquis. They tore down two theatres for this monstrosity? Hideous. Ethan was right. Culture is dead like Nietzsche, God and Queen Bloody Victoria. Hail to the twentieth century! Your child is back on the streets again!

Forty-second. Turn west. Out of the way moron! Jesus, what a pig, I bet he can’t even see his prick anymore. How do they get so fat? Buzz. Buzz. They all sound like bugs to me. Like what you see? Must you stand in the middle of the sidewalk? Move you idiot! These porn titles are hilarious. Innocence Lost. If they only knew. No, I don’t care to come inside and check it out.

I don’t see the pawnshop anywhere. It can’t be here. It must be on Eighth. The traffic’s heavy and it’s snowing much harder, turning the streets into rivers of brown slush. Careful not to slip. Look up the block, there it is, three golden balls on the sign above the door.

What do I smell? A teenaged girl stands huddled in the doorway across the street, probably looking to turn a trick. She’s all alone. No one would miss her but her pimp. Her eyes are like glass, no expression, dead colder than me. Someone should put her out of her misery.

Forget it, she’s not our flavor. Keep going, it’s just a few more steps. No lights burn inside of the shop and the sign says closed until nine in the morning. Shit. Plan B? I’ll go to the Port Authority, get out of the cold and access the situation. Maybe, I’ll find one there.

What’s that slinking up? Turn around and face him, he thinks he’s sizing me up. Yellow crooked teeth grin. Wheels turn behind his pale eyes. He stinks like vegetable soup. Yuck. Not very appetizing, but we can’t be fussy tonight. He speaks. Buzz. Buzz. That’s a dangerous invitation you make, Loverboy. What’s going on in that devious brain? You think this is all new to me? Or have I played this game before? Oh, I’ve played with the masters. You’re getting far more than you bargain for.

He wants to know my name. Go on; use that breathy little girl voice that always gets them.

“Mia.”

Let him put his arm around you and guide you to that fleabag hotel on