7: why don't jails have tea?

Spoiler alert. There is no way for me to really explain anything. I don't think anyone could, unless you somehow operate with James Bond levels of suaveness. So Midge and I get packed in the back of a police car, driven to the nearest station, and shut behind bars in a holding cell, where we've been for at least an hour now.

This entire hour, neither of us have said a thing to each other. She's sitting at one end of the bench, and I'm at the other, and we've both got our arms folded and our shoulders cold. I'm sure she's the reason we're in this mess, but I'm also sure she thinks I'm the reason we're in this mess, so there's really no point in saying anything.

So, we both sit here and try to act like we're not slightly afraid of the huge brawny guy on the bench next to ours. He was there when we got here, wearing this torn muscle tank to show off his sleeve of tattoos, most of which are full moons and wolves and other lunar stuff. Werewolves like to make it fairly obvious that they are werewolves. You know, just in case you didn't already detect the scent of wet dog all over them.

Not that I'd ever say that to one of them. They'd turn me into lunch meat. The hot-tempered bastards.

"You know what," says Midge all of a sudden, and I roll my eyes, already sure I don't want to start this conversation. When I don't reply, though, Midge says louder, "You know what?"

I oblige, only because I know the whole situation's just going to grow more irksome if I say nothing at all. "What, Midge?"

"I have decided, Grey," Midge continues matter-of-factly, "that you are an idiot."

Oh, hell. Like I haven't heard that one before. My arms uncross, and I whirl towards her, aware the werewolf guy is staring at us but also aware that I'm beyond caring. It's five AM and I'm in a concrete holding cell that smells like stale bread and, oh yeah, wet dog, when I should be at home, asleep, dreaming of green tea and matcha powder. There is nothing to care about anymore. Nothing.

"Oh, really?" I taunt, cocking my head. "What's brought you to that conclusion?"

I expect her reply to be as snappy as everything else she always says, but to my surprise, when I look at her, she's blushing. I could be seeing things, but she's got her chin tucked a little, her hair falling to shade one of her eyes. Goddammit. I hate it, but when she's bashful, it's almost cute. The timidness of her voice doesn't help, either. "You could have avoided the police, easy. Could have turned invisible and everything, and I wouldn't have even been able to explain myself. But you let them find you. That's why you're an idiot."

"Jesus, Midge," I say, frowning at her. She's serious. I'm looking at her, searching for some hint of a smile or something, but the girl's dead serious. And I'm the idiot, supposedly. "I wasn't going to—to leave you there. I don't care how much you want me to be, but I'm not a douchebag, and that would have been a douchebag move."

"You could still go," Midge tells me, her gaze flitting towards the barred door we're locked behind. She takes a deep breath, finally forcing her eyes to mine. "I mean, if you wanted to. You could probably make it out—"

"What's your deal?" I interrupt, my voice half a snarl. "What did I literally just say? I'm not leaving you. I'm not a douchebag, okay? We got in this mess together and that's...that's the way we're going to get out of it."

Midge blinks at me, and for the most part her expression's unreadable, which is downright terrifying. I can't tell if she's angry or confused or touched, or even all three, I don't know, so when she opens her mouth to speak again, I have no idea if she's about to say "thanks" or if she's going to flame me. Who even knows with this girl. Who even knows with any girl. The most I've been taught about women, Sybil's told me. All I really gathered is that when they say "Yeah, I'm fine," they're not really fine and you're supposed to run and hide.

"Did you call someone for bail?" Midge asks me, and I feel a bit of the tension within me release. I'll live another day.

"Yes," I answer, my eyes narrow, "but, you know, she's not the type of person that does favors."

"Great."

"Especially not financial favors."

"Really great."

"Yeah, we're pretty much screwed," I tell her, like she didn't already know that. The only reason I agreed to this whole thing, really, was because I wasn't planning to get caught. And we got caught. Thus, we're screwed. I don't have a plan for this scenario, because it wasn't supposed to happen.

I notice Midge is stealing some pretty furtive glances at Mr. Wolfman, her dark eyes wide and watchful. I'm about to ask what the big deal is when she shushes me, slowly closing the gap between us on the bench. We're shoulder to shoulder when she whispers, "Alright. So you did find something, right? In the gas station. I mean, before I came through the ceiling and everything."

Mr. Wolfman isn't looking at us. I'm praying it'll stay that way. "No, I didn't find anything," I say, "and that's the weird part."

Midge doesn't have to say anything else; she just shoots me a questioning look.

"There wasn't any blood. That's typical of any vampire crime scene, though. But there were no signs of struggle, no tracks on the floor except for—water. Just a few water droplets. I have no idea what's going on, Midge," I confess. "It's like there's no motive at all."

"That's trippy," Midge mutters in response, leaning away from me. I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. "This whole thing is so trippy. What are we supposed to—"

"Margaret Osborne? Grey Meesang?"

Midge and I both yelp and spring away from each other. I don't know why I didn't hear the clicking of the key in the lock, but there's this officer standing in the doorframe, blocking it with his wide stance. His face is mostly obscured by the hat on his head, but I can tell he cannot care less about anything or everything. That much we have in common.

I scramble to my feet. "Yes sir?"

"You both have been bailed out," the officer tells us. "You're free to go."

We leave Mr. Wolfman in there, and the officer starts walking us down the hall. I'm still trying to piece the coffee shop incident and the gas station incident all together, looking for motives and what not, while also trying to figure out who'd be stupid enough to waste their money on bailing us out. In fact, I'm still furiously searching for the answer to that last one when we arrive at the front of the station and I see Safiya standing there, looking unimpressed.

Unlike Midge and I, she doesn't look like trash. For some reason, she took the time to pull on her thigh-highs and curl her hair and throw on a leopard-print parka, probably just so she can say she looks better than me. Not that she needs to say it. She's Safiya freaking Noor. She's better than me in every aspect possible without even trying.

Midge is examining her like she wants to thank her but also like she wants to screw her. Safiya has that effect on people.

"Safiya?" I exclaim. "Where in the hell did you get the money—"

"Zip it, Grey," she snaps, gesturing for us to follow her as she pivots and sashays her way out the sliding doors and into the parking lot. The sun's starting to rise, the sky just tinged pink and the ground moist with dew. Safiya pauses to shoot the flaming ball of gas a scowl before slamming a hat down on her head and hurriedly putting shades on.

"Safiya," I say.

She turns to me. "The diner or the taco shack?"

I blink. I glance at Midge to see if she understood. Then I blink again, because she clearly didn't. "What?"

"You're going to tell me what's going on," Safiya says, like that clarifies her diner-or-taco-shack question. "You're going to tell me what you were doing breaking into a crime scene with Little Miss Muffet here and you're going to tell me over food. So, I repeat. The diner or the taco shack?"

Safi knows I can't go back to the taco shack. I dropped a burrito once and now everyone that works there thinks I'm a waste of space.

Not that I'm arguing with them at the moment.

"The diner," I reply after a beat, rubbing my eyes. "The diner, I guess."

I don't exactly like the diner, either. It's all grease and body spray in there and the food's always too salty. Fifty percent of me is demon. Salt and I do not get along.

Safiya drives us there anyway, veering into the parking lot like a bat out of hell (according to my dad, there's no bats down there anyway, so I don't know where that saying comes from) and slamming through the front doors with a very loud, "Brenda, I need a milkshake. Right now."

Brenda, this nice old human lady who's been working here probably since before my mom traded me off, makes a startled noise and hurries back into the kitchen. I almost feel bad, but there's no time to, because Safi's already dragging Midge and me to a booth by the window.

Safiya technically doesn't have to eat. In fact, she doesn't, most of the time, but every now then I guess she gets tired of booze and blood and booze-infused blood and needs something with more substance. And I don't blame her.

We sit down, and Safiya points at me. "You want anything?"

"Safi," I remind her, like she doesn't already know this, "mostly anything I eat here will burn my insides out."

Midge lets out a startled, "Oh my God, what?" at the same time that Safiya just nods and says, "Fair enough." Like I said, she knows this. She just likes to remind me every chance she gets.

Safiya's eyes zip towards Midge. "How about you, Little Miss Muffet?"

"Actually, my name's Midge."

"Midget," Safiya replies. "Sure. Whatever. Are you hungry?"

Beside me, Midge squirms a little. I guess I understand. Safiya comes off more than a little intimidating if you're not used to it. And it's kinda hard to get used to it. "I could eat, I guess—"

"BRENDA!" roars Safiya. "Fries, too. Lots of fries!"

From the kitchen comes a meek, "Yes, Miss Safiya!"

The poor woman. Safiya doesn't even know she's probably slowly killing her.

About five or so minutes later, an extra tall, bright pink milkshake and about three full-size baskets of fries dripping with grease and salt separate Midge and me from our rescuer, Safiya. Shearing the paper off one of those red-and-white striped straws with her fangs, Safiya jams it into her dessert and says, "Speak. Now."

Midge and I both look at each other, as if there's any sort of way to get out of this, and then I just sigh and start us off.

So Safiya learns about everything, from the details I left out about The Steam Room to the events that led to our arrest a few hours before. Talking about all of it, it's kind of hard to believe it all happened in one day. Like, yesterday I was watching a sappy romcom with Sybil on our couch, and today I officially have a criminal record and a new fr—screw it. Midge's not a friend. I have no idea what she is, but I don't think...screw it.

Safiya reaches for a fry, drowns it in a tin of ketchup, and sticks it in her mouth like a cigarette. I can't fight a grimace. "Let me get this straight," she recounts. "Midget here got some prophecy or other—written in Sharpie on a public bathroom stall, if I'm correct—that something's wrong with Atlanta and demonboy here is supposed to help you figure it out. And that's all it said?"

"Yeah," I say.

"Grey," Safiya snaps. "I'm not asking you."

And I wonder why it even matters until I realize Midge is hesitating. She's trying to act like she's not hesitating, but she clearly is. She's not looking at either of us, fiddling with her pencil-wand-thing in her fingers instead of answering Safiya's question, like if she's silent long enough the question will just go away.

"Midge?" I prompt.

"Uh...yeah!" she says, jolting as if coming back to life. "Sorry. That's all it said. I know it's vague, but, yup, that's all it said."

I frown at her. "Midge—"

"Well, I'm in," Safiya says then, finally swallowing the fry she'd been holding between her teeth. She chases it down with the rest of her milkshake, dabs at the corner of her mouth with a napkin, and sits back with a broad, fanged smile. "You're going to need some help. From what I gather you're both nitwits and it just gets worse when you're working together."

I'm unable to fight a scowl. "You're supposed to say 'no offense.'"

"Oh, but it's meant to offend you, genius," she replies simply. Brenda swings by, and Safiya hands her a credit card. She's got one those super weighted metal ones that look more like some sort of extraterrestrial identification card than a payment method. "And I said I'm in. Are you accepting my help or not?"

"It's not like we asked for it," I tell her. I glance at Midge on this, but she still hasn't said anything since Safiya asked her about the prophecy. I'm not sure why, but she's making me uneasy.

"I know you didn't," replies Safiya. "But that just makes it ten times better, doesn't it?"

I chuckle bitterly. This can't get worse. It just can't. "What the hell, Safi? What are we now, some dumb...team?"

"Sure, demonboy," she allows, and then leans forward, close enough that I feel the hiss of her voice as much as I hear it. "As long as you don't waste my time."