#WritingWonders 5.17 — Trust Issues by R.S.
"Do you trust the woman I've named as my heir?"

I instantly dropped to one knee, one hand flat on the red carpeted floor. I'd not expected Director Rainy Days to be waiting in the tiny back-alley tea shop. Building codes required tall ceilings and wide doorways to accommodate the immortal giantess. Floating in a gravity field anchored to the floor, she glowed with energies. Black patterns—the static tattoos on regular people of ropes, leaves, stars—swirled languidly across her exposed porcelain skin and face. Seeing the chimera in person left me feeling stunned.

The table held plates of fig tarts, scones, currant jam, fancy butter, and a rose-pattern tea pot.

"Sit, sit," she said, patting the chair beside her.

I gulped. "I—I almost killed you two weeks ago," I said because Her presence demanded honesty.

She snorted daintily. "Stormchaser's armor is a reward for your temerity. Had you not acted, had you not protected her from me killing her, she'd not have broken the 'enchantments' on me and humanity would be rushing toward extinction. In a sense you saved everyone, not just her." She patted the chair. "Still headed for extinction. Slower now that I have the help I need to combat it."

I shuddered, fluffed the feathers on my wings that refused to settle, and asked, "Got the right stuff, you're sayin'?" I tried to grin, to spin it in my favor.

"Gave you Captain Stormchaser's armor, so, yeah. Protecting her is better than starting a moving company. My opinion. Consider it an enlistment bonus."

The person beside me had the strength to splinter my bones. I glanced at the black armor I wore, a national treasure. "Gave?"

"As in 'not a loan'. An investment."

Crime bosses and absolute rulers spoke alike.

The antique was built of human remnants that protected me as thoroughly as a fortress, but instead of weighing me down it made me lighter and magnified my every movement. I sat in the chair. The Director of Home scooted my seat under the table with a wing, then rested it over my shoulders. Her pinions touched the floor. Static made my hair raise. She smelled of roses and lightening.

I swallowed, both comforted and weirded-out. "You know I'm a—"

"Were a crime boss' runner?"

"For eight years."

"And three months. Your boss admitted a lot when I walked in angry; a constable peed himself seeing me! You were good at your job. You could be charged with drug trafficking and implicated as a conspirator in two murders. That's why I pardoned you."

"Okay, then." My heart beat fast. "Thank you."

The tea pot glided through the air to fill my cup, then hers, with fragrant red liquid. "Honey? I know it's hard to trust me. Up to you, but you astonished me, supporting her when you should have run in terror. Normal people do. Which circles back to my question."

"Why I trust her...? Yes, honey, please."

She nodded. Golden teardrops plunked into my cup. A scone with melting butter on top slid into my plate.

I thought about it. "Astonishment describes it. She'd knew me as runner, but we co-mis-mer-ated 'bout our mistakes, us bein' blackmailed, me wanting a moving company; forgave me always bearin' bad news. When her sting operation nabbing the boss came down, I got burnt bad and a constable pinned me. She could've escaped the detective who betrayed her, but no. She fought the constable pinning me, then jumped us blocks away. She healed me and gave me the gold the boss had paid her saying it was an investment in my moving company! Had you not tried to nab us the next morning, who knows?, but I was alive and free 'cause of her. I had to fight for her! Save fer her craziness, I'd've been arrested, life ruined. When Boss hired her, we thought her a stuck up snob of a muscle nerd, but she ain't. She's maxy cool."

I sat breathing hard, still in disbelief of what I'd done thanks to hero worship, staring at the scone as the butter dripped down. Dates and caramel almonds. I bit into it. "Wow!" I sputtered crumbs.

"So you trust her?"

I'd spied on her for the boss. She'd faked a deadbeat's murder to spirit him to a hospital. Weird sense of right and wrong, that devil-girl, but she was consistent in her ethics; a mob enforcer not hurting people more than necessary, usually scaring them into paying—attending the Directorate Thaumaturgical Academy by day.

That devil-girl thought me worth saving.

Why she'd done it? Her words: "I'd hate myself if I hadn't."

"Huh?" asked the director. (Must have said that aloud!)

I blinked away tears, and this day angel don't cry. I nodded, saying, "I trust her," feeling more and more in awe, and not because of my teatime bud. No. I craned my neck up, suddenly brave enough to look her in her pale blue eyes, adding, "Actions speak louder than words."

[Author retains copyright]

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