Sirenz - By Charlotte Bennardo Page 0,5

the train grew louder. I turned my head—lights twinkled down the tunnel, growing larger and larger. It was coming up fast.

Death by train! Death by train! I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself for the inevitable smack of a subway car.

“Meg!” I heard Shar scream.

I felt my arm being yanked almost from its socket, then my whole body hitting something soft yet solid. Turning my head, I opened my eyes to see a wall of crackly leather and my nose filled with the scent of patchouli and sandalwood. I shrieked and fell sideways into Shar.

The thunder of the train filled the station, and we watched in horror as gorgeous Bad-Ass Jacket slash Sweet Jeans stumbled forward and teetered on the brink, his arms fluttering over the empty blackness.

He tumbled off the platform.

Instantly the train was there, racing through the station. Didn’t they see him? Wasn’t it going to stop? The cars screamed by like silver bullets and Katharine’s prediction flooded my mind: A chain of events is going to alter your current situation.

The last car shot past, and the rumbling reverberated into a distant hum. Nobody spoke.

I realized then that Shar was holding my arm with both hands. The shopping bag with the shoes in it lay on its side a few feet away, the corner of the box peeking out of the top of the bag. She’d stopped me from going over the edge.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” Shar’s voice shook, breaking the silence. “He … fell. He …”

Unable to stop myself, I peered down at the tracks and gasped, waves of nausea coursing through me. He lay sprawled out over the tracks, a dark pool growing under him—both pieces. He’d been sliced in half more cleanly than a tomato. Now he was Mr. Sweet Jeans and Mr. Bad-Ass Jacket.

Up came dinner. I hurled over the platform, missing the body by mere inches. At least I’d spared him that last indignity. Then a crackling noise came up from the rails, along with a smell like pork rinds, and whatever was left in my stomach decided to vacate. Poor guy—this time I didn’t miss him.

The club kids ran over to the edge of the yellow line and peered over. One of them screamed, and another stared at us and pointed. They didn’t think we did this on purpose, did they?

“Don’t look,” I gagged, grabbing Shar’s arm and dragging her back a few steps. “Why was he standing so close to the edge?”

“He’s … dead? Oh my God!” Shar choked, and put a hand over her mouth. “We—”

“Oh man!” one of the clubber girls shrieked. “Like, he was just standing there …” She trailed off and started sobbing. Then she looked at us with angry, accusatory eyes. “You totally shoved him in there. Poor dude!”

“No!” shouted Shar. “That’s not what happened!”

An acne-pocked boy in neon goggles cursed. “You were messing around and you killed this guy! He was trying to break you two apart!” The boy looked over the edge and gasped. “Look at the blood!”

The club kids huddled together and started pulling out cell phones.

“It was an accident,” I insisted, but none of them listened to me. I turned to Shar, taking hold of her shoulders. “We didn’t mean to hurt anyone. You saved me, I was falling—”

Shar looked at me helplessly. “What are we going to do? They’re going to call the police!”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” My head dropped. Then I lifted it and stared up at the ceiling, blinking back tears. “I would give anything to make this go away. Anything.”

“Me too,” she sobbed. “Anything! ”

“I believe I can assist you with that.” A silky voice wafted through the murky silence. That’s when I noticed that the station was uncannily quiet, and my heart stuck in my throat when I saw that the club kids were still gaping in horror on the brink of the platform. They were frozen in various poses. No one was moving.

“What’s wrong with them?” Shar whispered, clutching my arms. Even with my winter coat on, her nails hurt.

“They’re perfectly fine,” the voice spoke again.

We turned around to see a tall man standing nonchalantly by the tiled wall. He wasn’t just tall; he was towering tall, well over six-six, and dressed like the guys in the foreign fashion magazines that Shar always kept in our room. Long, elegant fingers hooked the collar of an expensive-looking black coat he held over his shoulder, and his gleaming white shirt was unbuttoned far enough