#John Hancock Tower windows glass falling

[artchyoungk]

John Hancock Tower, Boston, 1976.

Pyramid of the Louvre, Paris, 1989.

Louvre, Paris, 1989.

Bank of China, Hong Kong, 1990.

[lakethread48-blog]

Dine in Summer Style at These Waterside Restaurants

Dine in Summer Style at These Waterside Restaurants

Summer in Chicago is the best time of year to dine with a waterside view overlooking sea-sized Lake Michigan, drinking in the panoramic views as you simultaneously drink wine, cocktails and beer. Whether it’s a skyscraper-sized view or a casual cafe, these are some of your best options for beachy views and waterside vibes in the city this season.

The Signature Room: Just above the waterside Chicago’s most iconic location for dining with a soaring view is undoubtedly The Signature Room. Unless you’re paralyzed by a fear of heights, that is, because in order to get to the restaurant you’ll need to ascend an elevator to the 95th floor of the John Hancock. Once here, you’ll savor modern American cuisine with a seasonal tilt, plus craft cocktails, wine and beer. No matter where you’re seated, you’ll be rewarded with majestic, awe-inspiring views of Lake Michigan and the skyline. The best seats in the house, though, are the ones perched up against the north-facing glass wall, which affords a stunning vista of Chicago’s beach-lined north side.

Cite: One of the most criminally underrated restaurants when it comes to sky-high dining in Chicago, Cite gets you so close to the lake you may actually feel like you could fall in. Located on the 70th floor  of Lake Point Tower, the only skyscraper east of Lake Shore Drive, and just in front of Navy Pier, the soaring restaurant has extraordinary views from every angle. The seafood, steaks, cocktails and tasting menus aren’t too shabby, either. Using French techniques and a seasonal mentality, the restaurant features ever-changing dishes like lobster tail with butter gnocchi, sesame-crusted Alaskan salmon, venison strip loin with poached pear and rack of lamb with ratatouille.

Caffe Oliva: When it comes to beachy dining in the city, it doesn’t get much better — or beachier — than Caffe Oliva. This bright and sunny cafe is literally located right on Ohio Street Beach alongside Navy Pier, providing a warm, relaxing vibe to your patio dining experience. This year’s menu is better than ever, featuring an eclectic lineup of shareable plates like Greek bruschetta, fried calamari with lime aioli, coconut shrimp, margherita flatbreads, blackened whitefish with tzatziki and a slew of sandwiches and burgers. There’s also a kids’ menu, desserts, brunch and a ton of cocktails. Keep the group party going with one of Caffe Oliva’s fish bowls, designed to satisfy a thirsty group with potions like the “Finding Nemo”: blueberry vodka, pineapple juice, sour, fresh lemon juice and Swedish fish.

Pinstripes: If the idea of dining and drinking at a bowling alley sounds like a joke to you, then clearly you haven’t spent any time at a Pinstripes. This beloved mini-chain is popular for good reason, and their Streeterville location (the only one in city limits) backs it all up with the added bonus of being right on the Ogden Slip harbor, with a lengthy fire pit-lined patio overlooking the lake. In addition to bowling and bocce inside, Pinstripes sets itself apart as a restaurant destination in and of itself, with casual yet inventive Italian food that’s great both for snacking-while-gaming and for a leisurely meal al fresco or indoors.

Cafe Spiaggia: For upscale Italian fare with an equally impressive vista, don’t miss Cafe Spiaggia. Or really if you’re feeling decadent, it’s even more upscale sister restaurant Spiaggia. But due to its more accessible offerings, Cafe Spiaggia is certainly an easier stopover for a quick lunch with a sensational overlooking the top of the Magnificent Mile and Oak Street Beach. The restaurant offers a contemporary, elegant take on classic Italian cuisine, making for a fine meal while nestled along the windows above one of the most famous shopping streets in the country.

Source: http://www.diningchicago.com/blog/2018/09/01/dine-in-summer-style-at-these-waterside-restaurants/

[russianspy24]

Devils in the Windy City - Chapter 3

Summary: Elijah travels to Chicago, led by a vague prophecy about a girl who could be the Mikaelson family’s salvation. Klaus soon confronts him, and later Rebekah is drawn into another case of family drama. However, this trip to the Windy City turns out to be longer than a short stint. The Mikaelsons discover that their lives may change forever. Including every other vampire’s.

Word Count: 5,924

Author’s Note: This story is posted on FF.net and AO3, and since I’m on Tumblr, decided to post it here. ‘Bout time I’d say. Hopefully you read and enjoy!

Warnings: Rated M

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Chapter 3: When the Levee Breaks

The following three days went by uneventfully. Elijah made sure that he was careful. Olympia Belugin was indeed gone, and Liza was alone. He figured that the wolf girl was somewhere—and far away, he hoped—for the full moon. Not only was he glad that she was gone simply because werewolves and vampires naturally disliked each other; but he was happy that he could watch Liza without her having any disturbances.

Why the hell was she friends with this Olympia was something he didn't end up figuring out. But no matter. He would eventually, he was sure.

There was a minor roadblock during those three days. Not figuratively. Literally. Unable to approach the graystone since that dog of hers would sniff him out, he could only guess as to what the girl did after work. Using his heightened hearing and sight. The window curtains weren't open all the time, though.

The old hotel-converted-apartment building was too high, nine stories, so the bricked house on the other side was fine enough—its roof, that is, for watching. He even had a view into her bedroom. But obviously his mind did not fall into the gutter. He wasn't Niklaus!

Elijah quickly gathered that Liza was a loner. She didn't really leave to go anywhere aside from work, and she and her dog were joined at the hip. The dog even slept with her in bed. And Elijah sensed that she was melancholy more than half the time. The first day that Ollie was gone, Liza went to work by nine in the morning. Elijah watched her sluggishly walk Ramsey, from afar, so that the animal could do his business. Skipping breakfast, she grumpily made her way to the train.

Grumpily—because Elijah was able to discern her body language pretty well. Her shoulders were stiff, and her head was dipped down, hair in a ponytail this time. Her fists were clenched, one around the strap of her bag and the other just at her side. On the train, she wore a face that looked upset. People called this "resting bitch face." Then again, the train car was crowded.

She stood first, then a spot had opened between an elderly man and a busy woman, who read the Wall Street Journal. Liza, with her earbuds in, looked at her phone in her lap, listening to music loud enough to drown out the grinding of the rails and the announcements overhead. Because this was routine, she knew how many stops she was away from her destination at any given moment.

The train had dipped underground before it entered downtown. The stop names were there on the walls of each station, seen through the windows across from her. Luckily, the crowd always thinned by this point. The air became just a bit easier to breathe.

Nothing particularly interesting happened on the ride. There were no begging men or women, or any of those random solo performances that you see on YouTube. No one busted out in a rap or decided to show their acrobatic skills on the hand rails.

The girl watched those around her in between browsing the usual apps, which everyone had, on her phone. Her music ranged from early 2000s Coldplay, the Red Hot Chili Peppers; the classics Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin; to artists nowadays, like The Black Keys and Halsey.

Above on the street, Elijah followed her into the plaza, where there was a Jewel-Osco, the grocery store. There she bought what appeared to be her breakfast. In his opinion, it was a poor one, but it wasn't like he could do anything about it. Liza put the single banana, yogurt cup, and to-go sandwich into her bag. Then she opened a bottle of one of those premade Starbucks frappuccinos and sipped it on her way across the street. She'd made it just in time to the tea shop, getting to work quickly. After a short while, the coffee looked like it perked her up.

The distraction of her job seemed to temporarily fix the girl's mood. Either that or those smiles of hers were masks. But something told Elijah that there was honesty in her expressions when she interacted with her customers. It was just a sales job, but the way she talked about the product, the way she spoke like she cared—maybe Liza afforded herself a reprieve from whatever weighed so heavily on her shoulders. Selling tea was enjoyable to her.

The number of customers during the day was steady. There wasn't a single lull. Liza had a half hour lunch, which she took in the store in the back room. She ended the day at five this time, then headed straight home. As soon as she got there, she took Ramsey out, taking a long walk with him this time—several blocks east to Sheridan, where the beach was in sight. But instead of going further to the edge of the lake, she then turned back. She followed Sheridan up and made their way back around to Winthrop.

At one point, Ramsey had stopped on Ardmore (which intersected Winthrop), looking across the street, and started to bark. There were a few passersby walking in the other direction. Liza had no idea who or what Ramsey saw, but she had to yank him forward. He never even barked at squirrels or birds. There were no fellow canines, either.

Scanning the residential buildings, she saw no one suspicious. When she finally got Ramsey to give up, and the two continued on their way, Elijah stepped out of an alleyway around a four-story apartment complex.

###

The following day, she had off. Despite this, her night of sleep was tremulous. She didn't fall asleep right away, tossing and turning until three or four again. Until...at last...Liza reached for an orange medication bottle from inside her nightstand and shook out one of the pills. The label read Xanax.

When Elijah realized what the medication was, he grew somber. This took him by surprise as much as the smoking did. When the Xanax kicked in fully forty minutes later, the girl was fast asleep, her breathing steady, her pulse languid. With the aid of the drug, she seemed to finally find some sort of peace.

Ramsey remained in bed with her until she woke up around noon. By that time, Elijah had already been there for a couple of hours, waiting for her to rise. Part of him worried, at first. There was a feeling of disappointment that he couldn't shake.

The melancholy had returned. As the girl went about her day, doing the bare minimum, Elijah wished desperately by now to find out exactly what was the matter. What was ailing her...soul. Even though he himself was quite stoic, Elijah was able to feel a great deal. And he knew that when people were alone, they gave into their inner turmoil.

The bare minimum included washing up, showering, and all that; taking Ramsey out for a walk (albeit a short one), and settling on the couch in front of the television with a yogurt and some toast. When daytime television grew insufferable—Liza was not a fan of reality TV—the girl picked up what looked like a journal, or sketchbook, and drew, it looked like. Elijah couldn't tell exactly.

After a more substantial meal—reheating some leftovers, soup maybe? —Liza went into her room to read a book. It was The Unbearable Lightnessof Being by Milan Kundera. Elijah knew of the book, having read it once (he'd read millions of books.) An interesting choice. She read intently for several hours. He had the feeling that she was going to continue to surprise him.

The third day, back to her schedule, didn't allow Liza to wallow. Getting to work in the morning, she returned home before dark and spend the rest of the night doing similar things as the day before. She decided to go to bed early, read again, and eventually reached for the Xanax once more. With it, she fell asleep before midnight, this time.

Elijah didn't camp out on the roof of the neighboring house. He wasn't a caveman or a peeping Tom. There was a hotel that he was staying at in downtown, and he caught a cab to take him there; only he ended up asking the driver to drop him off on Michigan Avenue, off of Lake Shore Drive, so he could walk the rest of the way south.

He was that type of guy—the "take a walk" kind, yes—whether he was in a good mood or bad. Plus, the city was beautiful at night. Magnificent Mile started at Oak Street and roughly spanned all the way down to the Chicago River and the DuSable Bridge. This part of Michigan was an upscale stretch of shopping and hotels. Despite it being very late, there were still people out.

Elijah liked to people watch. He saw how much they had changed. Not only in Chicago, though, of course. Everywhere. In the late 1800s, the sky beckoned the people of the windy city. So, there was a reason why Chicago became the birthplace of skyscrapers. Elijah admired both the classic architecture and the new gleaming steel and glass additions that were added in the 20th century.

He passed the John Hancock Tower, the looming, black pillar that seemed both a monstrosity and an impressive giant. Dark gray masses of clouds dulled the very top. Two blocks down, to the right, was the historic Water Tower, which was one of the few public buildings that survived the fire of 1871. In the years since, it became a symbol of old Chicago.

In Elijah's opinion, the architecture became far more impressive once he neared the bridge. The twenty-minute walk thus far hadn't broken him out in a single drop a sweat. Vampires didn’t sweat. The gothic Tribune Tower glowed a warm orange as he passed it on the left, its flying buttresses haloing the very top like a crown.

Just ahead across the way, the brilliantly illuminated Wrigley Building stood near the edge of the bridge, facing the river. Its terra-cotta facade was flooded with lights. The clock at the very top of the tower read half past midnight, and once Elijah reached the bridge, he paused to look around at the rest of the glittering buildings.

The gaudy Trump Tower stood in all its glassy glory. Across the river, there was the London Guarantee Building, which was much more refined and classic with its colonnade at the entrance. On that side of the water, across the wide, busy street, was the 333 North Michigan Avenue building. It had an art deco style with solid, polished marble slabs on the lower floors, which gave way to vertical bands of limestone and windows that reached all the way to the top.

Those were just some of the remarkable buildings. There were many more that flanked the shores of the river, all reflecting off of the gently rippling water. Elijah put his hands on the dark red rails of the pedestrian walkway of the bridge, facing west, his back to the lake, and took in a lungful of the chill, early spring air. He was yet again reminded of how much Chicago had changed.

With the modern era, tour boats went up and down the river, and he knew that around Saint Patrick’s Day, the water was dyed green. The river was a marvel to all now. In 1893, that was not the case.

Back then, the river was used as a dump where waste was thrown. It drifted into Lake Michigan, and when rains flooded the river, an oily plume flowed out into the body of water. Whereas the atmosphere was fresh now, Elijah still remembered how this part of the city, in particular, smelled like pus oozing from an old wound. There were sanitation projects underway during the time of the World Fair, but the process hadn't been fast.

There was nothing more enjoyable right then and there than this stroll. Niklaus wouldn't appreciate it nearly as much as Elijah did. Rebekah, on the other hand, probably would, particularly because of the fond memories she had with her older brother. Elijah had almost forgotten why he was there in this part of the Midwest, for a brief moment, until he turned his head, the sound of paws on cement reaching his ears.

An orange dog, on a leash, passed by, led by a couple. Upon first glance, it looked like Liza's dog, but this one's ears were floppy. It was a red retriever. And, with a reluctant exhalation of breath, the man let go of the railing and proceeded the rest of the way down.

There was no traffic at this time of night. Sounds of sirens reverberated through the corridors between buildings, but not enough to distract Elijah from his walk. So, he didn't notice the black Cadillac SUV that was slowing down slightly as it passed him.

The London Guarantee Building happened to presently be a hotel, and that was where Elijah was staying. As he approached the corner of Michigan Avenue and Wacker Drive, stepping off of the bridge, he looked up at the concave facade, which was bathed in its own spotlights.

Then he heard the dull sound of a car door shutting somewhere behind him, but he also heard the footsteps and heartbeats of people passing him, and the honking of other cars. He didn't realize that someone was following him until he reached the columns of the hotel's entrance. He was about to walk inside, then stopped suddenly. He just hadn't been paying attention.

But never one to react rashly, Elijah wasn't spinning around. The scent of clean-smelling cologne masked the faint smell of blood, and he quickly recognized the voice.

"Elijah? I knew it was you!"

The person who'd followed him, who'd gotten out of the black Cadillac, was a handsome, young Black man. He had cat-like eyes, a smooth, closely shaved head, and full lips, which were smiling. He wore a sleek, expensive leather jacket and equally expensive jeans and shoes. He looked extra, as kids would say today.

Elijah could never forget Marcel Gerard. He was his brother Niklaus' former protégé, after all, and a man whom Klaus had turned in the early part of the 19th century in New Orleans.

"Marcellus," Elijah said, genuine surprise crossing his features and entering his voice. He was the last person that Elijah had expected to see here—of all places. "What are you doing here?"

"I was about to ask you," Marcel said, uncertain at first, for Elijah was tense. But then another smile spread across the younger vampire's face, and he was reaching to pull the Mikaelson into an embrace that Elijah wasn't ready for.

He returned it half-heartedly, Marcel clapped him on the back, and Elijah smiled slightly in return when they pulled away a second later. "Business," he replied coolly.

"Oh yeah? Me too, actually." Marcel, with his coal eyes reflecting the lights around them, glanced back at the view of the river. "Been here for a while actually."

"Is that so?" Elijah had schooled his expression.

Marcel's hand went to the back of his neck and he chuckled. "Yeah. Thought I'd get out of Nola for a bit, been doing some work with the factions here. Some projects. In fact, gotta say that our city could learn from some of the stuff they've got going on here. Nola could do way better."

Elijah's eyebrow raised. A few people stepped out of the hotel, passed them. The vampires took a step to the side. They glanced at the humans, and then Marcel continued.

"What, you surprised? Chicago runs like a well-oiled machine. Well, at least when it comes to our kind and the wolves. The humans always have their own shit going on, all that crime, but yeah—yeah, man, I've been here, helping out, learning a thing or two. I don't plan to stay here forever—I'm definitely going to go back home at some point—but for the time being, I'm working with the vampire council here."

"Sounds very productive, Marcellus," Elijah said with mild interest and didn't inquire further. With Marcel's smile fading, however—for he probably expected a bigger and better reaction from his elder—Elijah cleared his throat and spoke again:

"Yes, I'm really just passing through. I haven't been back here in a while. A long while, actually." He looked past the younger vampire at their surroundings. "I haven't really thought about returning to New Orleans, but perhaps I might. I am very much enjoying Chicago, seeing how much has changed. History has always been one of my weaknesses…" he trailed off.

Although Marcel didn't seem too pleased about his vague explanation, since Marcel himself had just been so frank; at the same time, the younger vampire wasn't really surprised. Elijah was a stiff. "Right. Well, that's cool. Tried those hot dogs at Portillo's yet? Oh, you gotta stop by Lou Malnati's. Best pizza in the city."

Elijah forced a smile in reaction to his cheerful demeanor. "Thank you for the suggestion. I'll take it into consideration."

Marcel pointed to the building behind Elijah. "You staying here?"

The latter looked up at the columns. "Yes, I am."

"I'm staying a couple blocks away from here." A pause from Marcel. This was becoming increasingly awkward for the both of them, yet Marcel was trying to keep their interaction afloat. "How is Klaus?" A beat of hesitation. "Rebekah?"

Elijah replied readily. "Rebekah is in New York. Last I heard from Niklaus, he was...in Miami, I believe?"

Marcel was nodding and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Good to know. Good to know. I've been meaning to see what he was up to." He said nothing about Rebekah, though. "You know what, we should catch up later. Have a drink. I know this nice rooftop place nearby. Beautiful view."

"Yes, all right. Another time." Elijah reached to clasp him briefly on the shoulder. "Sorry, but I was just about to retire for the night." He already started stepping backward toward the glass doors. "We should catch up later." It sounded more like an afterthought.

"Cool. See you later." Then Marcel also began to back away. He raised a finger, pointing at Elijah. "I hope you're not pulling my chain. I do want to catch up. Maybe if you're interested, you can meet some of the city’s council members."

"Maybe. It was nice seeing you." Elijah opened a door. "Good night."

Marcel watched him go inside, the glass door shutting behind the older vampire. Rolling his eyes, he then turned around and started down the sidewalk and around the building. He always thought that Elijah had a stick up his ass.

Marcel wasn't going to be surprised if he never hit him up, but he’d tried. It was the least he could do. It was the right thing, the polite thing. And despite the differences he had with the Mikaelson family, they had been a part of his life long ago.

Taking his phone out of his pocket, he dialed a number and told the person on the other line, "Hey, I'm by the London Hotel," then he hung up. He started pocketing his phone afterward, only to look at it again and click on messages. He searched for Klaus' number in his contacts and started writing a text.

Hey, Klaus. It's Marcel. Been a long time. I'm in Chicago, and just saw Elijah here. He told me last he heard you were in Miami. Hit me up sometime. I'm in Chicago for a bit.

He sent it, frowning slightly. He wasn't sure if Klaus would answer him. He also wasn't sure if that was Klaus' number anymore. But he hoped that it was. Elijah being his cold, boring self was fine with him.

Whatever.

But if Marcel wasn't going to hear from his maker, that was going to be a little more disappointing. He wouldn't let it bother him enough so that people would notice. He wasn't like that. He was naturally upbeat and positive, the "life of the party," and charismatic and smart in his business ventures. But, it would still sting. Especially since it had taken so long for him to get over the second-to-last time that Klaus had daggered Rebekah; and the tons of other shit that Klaus had pulled in the last century.

Rebekah was a sorer spot. Marcel tried not to think about her, which was why he hadn't said anything about her apparently being in New York. Before he could fall into that scarred-over black hole, which promised misery, he saw the Cadillac approach, slowing down, and he went to it, opening the passenger side door.

He thought that he'd needed to reach out to Klaus, to at least to tell him about Elijah, and that was that. Marcel wouldn't overthink it. The car took him down Michigan Ave.

###

Elijah was pretty confident that Liza was safe because he was watching her. He hadn't sensed anything supernatural other than her roommate—and not including himself. While there might've been something about her that was more than human, he was simply not certain. So far, there had been only the mention of wolfsbane, but that proved nothing.

So, Liza wasn't in any danger for now, under his watch, from other vampires, wolves, or anything else that went bump in the night.

He thought that she was safe until the day that Olympia was supposed to get back—at least, that's what he assumed since there was no sign of her the night before. That following day, when the effects of the moon should've been completely gone, was a rainy one. It poured from morning to night. Armed with an umbrella and some boots, Liza had to go to work. Despite the weather, the day went as normal. She'd come in by eleven in the morning and left by eight at night when they closed the shop. The train was particularly crowded that night because of the additional people taking public transportation.

When it was time to get off at Bryn Mawr, Liza couldn't squeeze her way through fast enough before the doors closed and the train continued onto the next stop: Thorndale. She cursed her luck, exhausted and sweaty, for the inside of the car was humid. This didn't happen often, but it wasn't a surprise that the people that had been in front of her hadn't let her through. A certain aggression overcame those in a rush to get home.

The girl had sworn under her breath, first in English—"Fuck!"—then in Russian—"Suka!" which meant bitch. And an older woman near her seemed to agree, calling someone who had been ahead of them a Puta for not letting others pass.

Then the woman added, glancing back at the girl: "Some people. Shiiiit. It's a little rain, not the apocalypse."

Aggravated, Liza gripped the rail closest to the sliding doors and clenched her jaw. This meant that she'd have to cross onto the other side of the platform at Thorndale in order to catch the train going in the opposite direction back to her stop.

But when they finally reached Thorndale, and she had gone downstairs to street level, in order to get to the other stairs to go back up, the throng of people was so thick that in a fit of frustration, she threw up her hands altogether and trudged to the exit of the station.

She needed to breathe.

When she got out onto the sidewalk, under an overpass just like the one at her station, she took in a lungful of air and exhaled it. It was just so musty back there. She couldn't take a minute more of the crowd, the lack of breathing space, how hectic it all was. She was hungry and tired, and just wanted to get home to where it was dry and warm. Her stomach churned nauseatingly.

She fixed the strap of her bag on her shoulder, made sure her jacket was zipped all the way and decided to walk. She was already damp from sweat and catching some of the rain before. She had an umbrella that somewhat helped. Getting wetter wasn't worse than suffocating in another train car. She'd worn a sweater underneath, anyway, so it wasn't too chilly. She had three blocks. It might've been three longer blocks than normal, but only three.

Without delay, she marched around the corner and down Winthrop. Headlights smeared across the street like paint, splashes from tires sounding like buckets full of water. The trick was to walk as far away from the street as possible so as not to get possibly splashed. The earthy smell that came with the rain mingled, unpleasantly, with the smell of exhaust.

Her home was ahead. Hopefully, Ollie was feeling much better. Liza knew she would be. After a full moon, she always was. The girl's feet were getting wet, but it wasn't going to take too long.

Once she passed the elementary school on the first block, there was only two more to go. At the first intersection, the light took forever. A couple more people crossed with her, but they turned in different directions. The rest of the buildings ahead were residential.

Elijah was getting wet too, and he didn't have an umbrella. He trailed behind her, the rain helping to mask his presence. Unfortunately, though, the intersection switched lights, and cars drove by before he could get across. He narrowly missed a sheet of water as a car drove by.

"Damn it," he swore. Looking both ways, wondering how long it was going to take, he ran a hand through his short, wet hair and then wiped his face uselessly. He knew he wasn't going to lose Liza, but this was enough for him to miss the sight of her for just a few minutes. But a few minutes were enough. He hadn't expected a couple of humans to endanger the girl.

Liza didn't notice the figure behind her. The rain was just too loud, and so were the cars. She was just concentrating on putting one thoroughly-soaked foot in front of the another. She also had to wipe clinging hair out of her face. While the rain wasn't coming down at an angle, the wind still blew, and her hair was soaked now. She gathered it to one side, one shoulder, and out of the way.

She wasn't close enough to the second intersection when she approached an alleyway, one of those that ran along small buildings. She didn't see the shape that stepped in front of her until she almost ran into it. In her moment of startle, she yelped and quickly backed away before the hands that darted out could catch her.

"Sorry, I—" she started.

It all happened too fast. One of those moments that only gets hazier after it passes and shock sets in. As Liza turned to walk around the man whom she nearly knocked into, she caught sight of the second man who'd caught up behind her. Gasping, she spun around, fear shooting through her all the way from her wet, cold feet, to the hair follicles at the crown of her head.

"Hey, need a ride?" the guy in front of her said. While the second man didn't touch her, he shifted so that he was blocking her path back the way she’d come.

The words rushed out of her mouth as she tried to walk past the first guy: "No, I don't." He stepped in her way. "I don't need a ride—"

She started to shove past him when he grabbed her by the arm. His face was obscured by the rain, the hoodie he wore, and the street lamp that shone behind him in the alley. They both could've been white or otherwise, she didn't have any idea. They could've been young, they could've been a lot older than her.

"Let's get you somewhere dry, baby," the second guy started to say. They wore indistinguishable clothes, whose details she would never remember even if she tried. Baby—it had made her cringe.

Perhaps because the weather seemed to make every citizen of Chicago wary, or the fact that cars drove past, or that silhouettes of people in the distance were blurry but in sight—the two guys began to pull Liza into the alley. She struggled, the umbrella was all but knocked out of her hands, and the rain, full force, filled her eyes, making it harder to see.

"Stop!" she cried out. "Stop! Stop!"

There was a tangle of limbs—hers, theirs. She felt hands on her body, arms around her middle, a hand on her chest, one at the crook of an elbow, and another was on her neck all of a sudden. That one gruffly tried to cover her mouth. She vehemently shook her head to knock it away.

They pulled her into the alley. She tried to hit them with her bag, but she couldn't. It ended up falling to the ground, probably in a puddle because she heard the splash. She was soaked to the bone—her jacket, pants, sweater, seeping into her undergarments. She knew she was crying because she heard the sounds in her own throat, but the rain mixed with the brine that came out of her tear ducts. Through the haze, she could see the dull yellow lights of a car parked in the alley.

Why me?  she thought distantly. Why me? Did they follow me from the train? Were they waiting?

The two guys were saying something, but she didn't register what words they said. Maybe they were panicking, or anxious, or angry—she had no idea. They certainly weren't calm or relenting. They dragged her to that car. All she could do was fight—even though she quickly became tired, a girl against two grown men—and stare at the vehicle, thinking, Am I really going to get inside of it? Were they really going to make me?

The noise all three of them heard—before either of the men were able to open one of the doors—sounded like a splash of water, or a whoosh, or both. It was hard to tell. Liza heard it, realized her assailants did too, because the one behind her, who was essentially pushing her, gasped. Then he was suddenly ripped away.

That was the only way to describe it. He was there one second, his arms around her, one hand still trying to cover her mouth so that she wouldn't scream, then he was pulled away. Someone else was there.

There was a scream—that man's scream—then a hard thud. Liza saw a blur out of the corner of her water-filled eyes, and the other guy holding her was yanked next. With this force, Liza found herself falling backward. Her ass hit the cracked, uneven ground of the alley, the palms of her hands seared with pain, and she tried to scramble away from whoever, whatever, was there, too.

Another scream, a kind of scream one rarely hears from a man, longer than the first, and shrill. Her eyesight couldn't focus, but she definitely saw a body being thrown through the air, only to land five feet past the car. The girl herself screamed. Then another blur, this time toward her, and her voice all but died in her throat. She coughed, choking on rainwater and saliva, and she instinctively shielded her face, lying on her back.

It was another man, who fell to his knees before her.

Elijah's normally calm, velvety voice was wavering with concern. Even as she tried to kick him away, he raised his hands in a placating gesture and said, "I'm not here to harm you. Are you hurt? I promise I mean you no harm."

Recognizing his voice from somewhere, Liza was too stunned to say anything. Seeing his face, his familiar face, she let out a horrified sob and scrambled back further. Elijah remained where he was, his hands raised and kneeling before her.

"Elizaveta, I am not going to hurt you," he insisted earnestly. He too was soaked—white button-down, his suit, the black trench coat he wore over, shoulders shining with raindrops.

Liza shook, her eyes wide. How did he know her name? Then she remembered. This man had stopped by her shop earlier in the week. He had bought tea from her. Terrified, she lifted her own hands, as if to fend him away.

"Those men—they can't hurt you anymore. I've stopped them," he went on. "You're safe now. You're safe."

Liza glanced very quickly at the shape of the closest body—dead body, she knew for certain.

"Elizaveta—"

The man inched toward her, making sure she saw his hands all the while, simply wanting her to calm down. This was not what he’d intended. This was not how Elijah had wanted her to meet him. This wasn't supposed to happen. And yet it did. All because he hadn't hurried across the damn street.

The girl was terrified, in shock, and afraid of him, as well—even though he'd had saved her. Mascara and eyeliner smeared those dark eyes of hers. Her lips trembled. He meant her no harm, yet how the hell would she believe him now? But he didn't blame her for being afraid, not at all. He'd just killed those two men. They lay dead on the ground. Frowning deeply, Elijah opened his mouth to say something else.

But in a renewed wave of fear, Liza cried out, squeezing her eyes shut, and there was a ripple in the air between them. It was an invisible yet tangible force. It came from her hands.

Elijah was knocked backward. He was pushed back with such energy that he flew across the alley and toward some trash cans. Liza's eyes flung open, the breath went out of her. Not believing what she'd done, she then turned her hands over, palms toward her, and stared at them.

"Oh, God. No, God. No, no, no," she said.

Elijah's crumpled body was covered by the trash cans, their contents spilling out. Shaking, the girl was climbing to her feet, not wanting to know whether she'd killed him or had only knocked him out. Seeing where she'd dropped her purse, she grabbed it. Without looking back, she sprinted out of the alley.

Tripping on the sidewalk, she scraped her hands again. They were definitely bloody, for they felt warm. But she quickly picked herself back up and didn't stop. Didn't look back. Even running through the last intersection just as the light changed from green to red. Cars honked. She didn't pay attention to them. She ran as fast as her legs could carry her, her life depending on it.

She didn't stop until she shoved her way through the gate of her graystone and scrambled up the steps. It took a few tries to get her key into the keyhole. She was past crying. She was weeping, hiccupping, hands shaking. And by the time she reached the second-floor door, she broke down completely.

Inside, she was greeted by the smell of cooking food and the sound of Dean Martin's Mambo Italiano playing. It came from the kitchen.