Free Light Errant by Chaz Brenchley

the sort of punishment my swift flare of anger might have sent after the man. I nodded, turned again, walked on with one of them on either side of me now, working in mute concert here to prevent the same thing happening again.
    â€œCan we get off the street, then?” I murmured. “If my face makes me a target, then some idiot’s going to go for it eventually. Last thing I want is a confrontation.” Actually, the last thing I wanted was a bloodbath. Never mind what it did to her, even assuming that she really was seeing it; that image of human torches scared the hell out of me. Spontaneous human combustion was not quite so spontaneous in my ambit, and my score was too high already. I could make it happen, and knew I would if I had to, to save my own life; and hated myself for the knowledge, and wanted never to hate myself for anything more substantial, the fact of it, knowledge made history.
    â€œRight. Good idea. Anywhere special you want to go?”
    â€œNo. Coffee-shop. Not a caff.” Enough of instant: I wanted the bitter tang of strong fresh coffee, and the kick of it in my blood to supplement the sunshine. Also I wanted to talk, and it wasn’t possible out here, on the move, with my eyes jittering constantly from face to face to track that ever-swelling sense of risk. It was so odd, such an incredible change: resentment I’d been used to all my life, I was a Macallan, but all I knew of resentment was that it was twinned to fear, and fear was the stronger. Resentment sulked, it didn’t throw stones. But now suddenly I was resented and hated, and fear was subsumed or so it seemed, unless that was my own fear rising to mask it. Because I was afraid, where I’d never expected to be afraid again, and I was afraid too of my own reactions. Even if they literally started throwing stones, I had ways to protect myself and those around me; no call to torch the stonethrowers. But I was still afraid that that might happen, I had the strength to do it and I might not have the strength to stop myself. Power without responsibility, that had always been the family curse and I had it, full measure.
    â€œMorry’s Deli, then?” from Jon; and it was flashback time for me, just at the name. Memories of being thrown out of Morry’s Deli for my face, for my name, for the crime of my inheritance; and then allowed back in again, but only to be shown what my sweet late sister had done to poor Aunt Bella.
    â€œNo,” I said. A bad time, that, and building up to worse. Nostalgia’s thorns lay everywhere, I couldn’t hope to escape them, but that didn’t mean I had to throw myself onto the spikes. Besides, “Morry might not be so pleased to see me, actually.” If strangers had taken to staring Macallans down and shoulder-barging them for fun, then I for one was not walking into Morry’s. He had better cause than many, to hold a grudge against my blood; and his deli was down below ground-level, almost a basement, only a couple of high windows and precious little sunlight to work with. I was going to be cautious, at least until I knew what was going on.
    Jon and Janice pulled faces at each other, looking for inspiration.
    â€œSome of the pubs do coffee in the mornings...”
    â€œOr there’s that new place, the bistro thing down by the station...”
    â€œThat’ll do,” I said quickly. Anything that end of town would take us out of the crush, though it did mean pushing our way through it first.
    â€œAll right. We’ll go the back way,” Janice said firmly, tucking her arm through mine. “Less chance of trouble, in the alleys.”
    Less chance of rescue also if trouble came regardless; but by the collective look of them, there was precious little rescue to be had in any case from the people thronging the streets today. Not when the young man needing rescue carried the Macallan imprint on his face as deeply as I did. Old friends and