Unknotted

Romance Novels and Burgers

Georgie

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Without the tide, the miserable day was washed in grays. As if to punish her for failing to catch her mother’s murderer, the roiling clouds poured tears. Her hair and clothes clung to her skin as she ran for the shelter of the small bus stop.

The bench was so filthy that Felicity declined to sit. She wrapped her arms around herself to hold back the pain. Her mother was dead. The murderer still roamed the territory. And Felicity had exhausted all leads.

Pull yourself together Felicity, I thought as I tapped my finger against the rim of my glass. An outdated song played softly from a jukebox. Its merry tune contrasted with the mood in the diner. Every hybrid who had come in and out over the last three hours was more nervous than a balled-up armadillo.

From what I gathered, the Keadanian ultras had challenged and killed a Namenite sub-dom early this morning. After the sub-dom’s death, the sub-territory and all coavani knots tethered to it automatically transferred to Keadan. Then, with Keadanian soldiers hosting their traditional prisoner round-up after their victory, it was no wonder why the newly knotted Keadanians were anxious about their new citizenship. Sure, the victors claimed they were only going to test their new citizens’ coavani knots—can’t have traitors hiding in their own homes—and offer them all sorts of government assistance. Those lies made me mentally roll my eyes. The not-so-clever ploy was less about testing loyalties and more about databasing beasts forms. Some hybrids were worth more dead than alive to their new ultras.

I read on: Through the curtain of rain, a man ran across the street with only the protection of a soggy newspaper held over his head. He ducked under the bus stop’s shelter, tossing the soiled paper onto the bench.

His white button-up shirt hugged his massive chest. Dark hair fell in wet ringlets to chiseled cheekbones. Nerves fluttered in my chest. By the way he stood, the charged air encircling him, he had to be a dominant with claimed territory.

I groaned, begging R.F. Letcher not to follow this plot point. I swept my gaze casually around the diner. It had an old school feel: black and white tile walls, clear bubble glass dividers between booths, and round stools behind the bar that overlooked the kitchen. Like all establishments on Cenzia, the floor was made of dirt. Nothing said clean like floors that turned muddy when it rained. The obsessive need to stay connected with their territory and the hybrids they shared a coavani knot with was something I hated about hybrid culture—hence why I wore shoes while most hybrids did not.

It was insane really. Who wanted to be channeled into their community all the time? It wasn’t like there weren’t other, less magical ways to connect. Like using a blasted phone for example… But no, my kind relied on magical knots to bind them together.

Felicity wiped at the makeup that was undoubtedly running down her face. This dominant was too beautiful to look at, especially for someone as plain as her. Yet she couldn’t pull her eyes away as he analyzed the sky, then said, “You weren’t expecting the rain either?” He laughed and extended a hand. “I’m Dontello.”

She knew she shouldn’t trust him.

Then don’t, I wanted to scream. I paused to check the room again. Beside the bar, there were four rows of booths, twelve total. Only three were occupied. A young family sat kitty corner to me, near the windows and side door. At the table beside mine, separated by a short wall of bubble glass, sat the two enchanters from the factory. They hadn’t recognized me in my current disguise.

When the magic was in, the blue contacts would disguise my honey-colored eyes, so long as nobody stared too intently. For whatever reason, the magic had a way of dulling out anything that camouflaged eyes. It was another of the Core’s annoying habits.

My black wig in two messy braids, dirt-covered overalls under a flannel shirt knotted at my waist, a touch of smudged make up, and a few swipes of dirt on my chin, forehead, and cheeks were better cover. I was going for the busy gardener look. And nailing it. The pair hadn’t given me more than a cursory glance when they had come in half an hour ago.

I checked my phone and tried not to sigh. After Helt reported that the Sparkers made it to the Sanctuary safely, he hadn’t contacted me again. What was taking him so long to identify these two enchanters? Reluctantly, I turned back to R.F. Letcher.

Something compelled her closer, extending her hand to him. “Felicity,” she said, and slipped her hand into his.

No, no, no.

The tide surged in, filling Dontello’s eyes with startling blue color. They pulled her in farther. Cords of magic slipped around them, raising the hairs on Felicity’s arms. Delicious warmth that she hadn’t felt since her mother’s death filled her. No—the warmth was stronger, more irresistible than that.

“What’s happening?” Felicity breathed, heart thundering. Exhilaration and fear warred within her.

Dontello stepped closer, as if he too was being drawn in by unbreakable cords. He slid her soaking hair behind her ear and whispered exactly what her heart was shouting, “Pragmora knot.”

“Tides,” I swore under my breath, snapping the book shut and tossing it on the table. That was it; I was never reading another book Peth recommended. They were all the same. A heroine starts off strong, capable, and decisive until the love interest bulldozes into her life, all demanding and controlling. Suddenly, the heroine can’t do anything without him or his permission.

I knew exactly how this book would end. The now knotted pair would become separated just as they tracked down her mother’s murderer. Dontello—bleh—would tell her that he would handle it. But, as if Felicity had to prove she wasn’t the pushover she had become, she would confront the murderer and end up the distressed damsel instead. Dontello would swoop in all heroic-like, save her, and capture the murderer—probably one-handed. Predictable. So blasted predictable.

That wasn’t what drove me nuts though. It was the use of the blasted pragmora knot. Was there some unwritten rule they had to be included in romance novels? The reality was they hardly ever happened. In fact, a recent study, which I had found rather comforting, showed pragmora knot formations had dropped fifty percent in the last ten years.

“Dessert, miss?” the waitress asked sweetly. The young hybrid’s uniform was a short dress with a full skirt, a sweetheart neckline, and a little apron.

I handed the waitress my empty plate and used flatware. “No, thank you. Just another drink, please.” The burger had been okay. By far, not the greatest in Namen or Keadan as the sign outside suggested.

“Sure.” She smiled but there was tension about her eyes. This blasted Expansion War needed to end, but it wouldn’t so long as hybrids clung to the belief in the ridiculous prophecy.

(Chapter continues in part 2...)