• “You okay?”

    My hand was starting to wake back up and clamped harder on to the handle to try and ease the stinging as it awakened. The icy feeling slowly left as I nod and duck my head down to try and escape the devastating gusts of wind that
    tore at my unprotected face.

    “Where are you taking me?”

    He refuses to answer my question and revs the motorcycle again. The wind’s ferocity becomes nearly unbearable as our speed increases again, whipping my hair into his face and tearing off his hat.

    He maneuvers the motorcycle so it dips and nearly skins our knees as he speeds around a left turn and heads into a small town that looked seriously neglected. The bike slows down as he nears a park in the middle of the town and parks parallel to a rusted, broken swing set with one seat that dragged on the ground as the wind gently nudges it back and forth and helps me off the vehicle.

    “You sure you’re okay?”

    “What the hell was that back there?”

    “I told you the Warlocks were on the move.”

    “But it had nothing to do with me until you showed up and stole me,” I snap and cross my arms in front of my chest. “Where are we?”

    “My home town. You’ll have to live here now that I’ve claimed you as my Seamstress.”

    “I’m not a slave, and I refuse to be a Seamstress. You don’t even need one. Look at you!” He looks himself over and opens his jacket to expose a pair of torn black jeans and an ebony dress shirt underneath. “See what I mean? You’re wearing perfectly fine clothes.”

    “Being a Seamstress has nothing to do with clothes, that’s what stores are for. I need you for a completely different reason.”

    “Then what does a Seamstress do?” I ask cautiously. I would have moved from my defensive position to one that would have allowed me to run away, but my legs were still vibrating from the unexpected ride and adrenaline that was still trying to wear down its high.

    “I’ll explain it later, but right now you have some shopping that needs to be
    done.”

    “Shopping? You can’t be serious.”

    “Very serious.” he grabs my arm again and pulls it so my palm was facing the sky. What he does next surprises me; he hands me a wad of money and then lets me go. “There’s a shop on the corner of town. I need you to pick something up for me.”

    “Why should I help you?” My voice was a little less harsh as I look at the money and then back up at him. His eyes were a solid blue grey that looked like they belonged to the Greek goddess, Athena, and olive skin that was a little pale, a long scar traveled across his eye brow and right eye and ended under his jaw, thin stitches that held it together at even one inch intervals. His hair was a vibrant red that was about shoulder length and covered his eyes in a scarlet veil. He looked to be three years older then me, about 21.

    “Because you’re mine now and you have to obey me.”

    “Didn’t you listen to me? I refuse to be your slave.”

    “But you’re not a slave, you’re a Seamstress,” he huffs and takes my upper arm in his grasp, lighter than his previous holds but still tight enough to make
    me stay with him as he starts walking down the street. “Keep up, will you?”

    “Why should I? You kidnapped me.”

    “I saved you. You should be grateful.”

    “Should be, but I’m not.” I wriggle in his grasp but am kept close despite my biting his arm with all my strength.

    “Hey now, behave or I’ll have to punish you, and trust me, you won’t like it,” He smirks and shrugs off my mouth from his sleeve.

    “Bite me.”

    “Maybe later.” My eyebrow twitches at his attempted joke, or at least I thought it was a joke.

    We walk on a little farther down the abandoned street. Cracks decorated the pavement and dandelions grew from the long gagged fractures, making the street look more like a mini garden then a road. The morning sun was replaced by colorless rain clouds that blocked out the only warmth that was given by the sun.

    A light mist of warm liquid falls from the clouds as they begin to open up and spill their life giving moisture onto the awaiting Earth below, in the city I grew up in rain was taken as a bad omen because it ment the Warlocks were practicing their dark magic; but that was pure nonsense. I was lucky enough to have a family that didn’t easily fall into the trap of the Warlocks, but we were still cautious with our words and actions because no matter how much we disagreed with the superstitious mass that we lived amongst, the Warlocks were real and so were their powers.

    The Warlocks were a race that made themselves known about eleven years ago when I was seven. Their powers made it so they could revive the dead, take control of someone’s mind, or even control the elements if they put their minds to it. As a race, they were over all power hungry and violent, but some individuals were very gentle and decided they wanted to try and help humans, not hunt and kill us like the others; they were tracked down and executed just like the rest of us.

    My best friend, Devi, was a Warlock and kept it hidden, trying to keep his normal life but when the others of his race found out, they took him away. I was devastated the day he was taken, I refused to eat or go outside so I locked myself in my room and cried for a week. My brother tried to break down my door one time to make sure I wasn’t dead, but ended up sitting on the other side of my door pleading for me to come out; he told me that crying wasn’t going to bring him back, he told me to be strong and that someday I’d see my friend again. He was the best brother I could ever ask for.

    “Here we are.”

    His voice broke through my memories of my brother and made me jump. I noticed then that the rain had increased to a steady downpour and that we were standing under a white and grey stripped store awning, our backs were to a dusty shop window with faded black lettering that arched over our heads and spelled out ‘Sewing Shoppe’.

    His hand loosens its grip as he looks down at me and nudges me closer to the plain white screen door that led inside. “I need you to pick up some Frankenstein thread. Ask the lady at the counter for it, she’ll understand and give you what you need.”

    “Don’t you mean what you need?” I snap and take hold of the black plastic handle. “And what is Frankenstein thread anyway?”

    “You ask too many questions. Also, ask her for some patching needles.”

    “Whatever.” I was tired of arguing with him, he wasn’t going to tell me anything.