Fury's Fire Read Online Free Page A

tired,” Angel said as Gretchen reached for the platters laden with club sandwiches he had just placed in the window that separated the kitchen from the counter area at Bella’s Diner. “Why don’t you go on home?”
    “Why does everyone keep saying that? I’m fine, Angel.”
    “You’re pale. Like you’re gonna fall over or something.” He twitched his red mustache impatiently. “I don’t want to have to pay out workers’ compensation.”
    Gretchen gave him a wry smile. “Thanks for caring,” she said. Weaving through the crowded diner, she hauled the platters over to table seventeen, a sullen mother-daughter pair. They looked almost identical, and Gretchen wondered how much of that was becauseof the identical expressions they wore. “Enjoy,” Gretchen said brightly, but the women didn’t even look up.
    From the next table, Lisette gave Gretchen a wink with spidery fake eyelashes. The retro-punk head waitress had dyed her bangs purple and the rest of her hair black, and wore heavy navy eye shadow and diamond-studded cat’s-eye glasses. She looked more like a rock star than like a person who ran a diner with the precision of a general and the personality of a cheerful Muppet, but looks could be deceiving.
    Gretchen grabbed a pitcher of ice water and refilled the glasses at table thirteen. She checked in on the group in the booth, and tore out a check for the couple finishing up at the two-top near the window. Her actions were mechanical, automatic. That was what she liked about her work—she had to keep moving, but she didn’t really have to think. Waitressing turned her into a robot, which was exactly what she wanted at that moment.
    “Need a refill?” Gretchen asked, indicating the empty soda glass on the Formica table.
    Kirk Worstler’s large, dark eyes were trained on the open notebook before him. It was your typical spiral-bound, college-ruled Walmart special, but Kirk was using it as a sketchbook. “No, thanks,” he whispered to the page. His arms were wrapped around the notebook in a protective posture.
    Gretchen tried to peek into the center, where the shadow of his arm obscured the image he had been creating for the past hour. “May I see?” she asked.
    Reluctantly Kirk leaned back, revealing the page. It was a picture of a woman, her head half out of the water. The lines were loose; ink blots smeared the page. In the margins, notes were scrawled in an uneven hand. The style was loose and unsophisticated. Still, there was something arresting about the image. The woman’s eyes were in shadow, which gave the viewer the eerie sensation of being watched. Gretchen shivered a little.
    “You hate it,” Kirk said.
    “No. It’s good.”
    “But you still hate it.”
    There wasn’t much Gretchen could say to this.
    Kirk was a skinny kid, and his pale skin and lanky limbs made his body seem younger than sixteen. But his sad, watchful expression made his face look older. “You’re an artist,” he said after a moment.
    “I like to draw.”
    “That’s what an artist is.”
    “Then I guess I am. I guess we both are.”
    “No.” Kirk pressed his palm against the page. “I don’t like to draw much. But my therapist says it’s good for me.” He shrugged. “I don’t really know what else to do, I guess. So I’m doing it.”
    Gretchen shifted her weight awkwardly. “That’s good.” It was no secret that Kirk had been pretty crazy for a while. But lately he’d seemed much better. Still wary, still eccentric … but better.
    Kirk dug into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled dollar bill. He tossed it on the table, then dug aroundagain, finally coming up with a quarter and six nickels. He blushed. “I don’t have a tip.”
    “Soda’s only a dollar fifty.”
    “Five cents. Some tip.”
    “All I did was bring you a Coke. Seems fair.”
    Kirk bit his lip, then picked up his pen and went back to his drawing, darkening the shadows on one of the rocks.
    “What, that kid has no