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MONDAY MORNING, NINE o'clock.
Jags sat at his desk remembering Ajay's unexpected words of wisdom. He had to admit that he felt better, like Ajay had removed the boot that had been wedged against his neck for way too long, the boot that some days made breathing difficult.
What if Jags' guilt over the past was keeping him from having a future with Star?
Months had passed since he woke from the metamorphosis and he still hadn't regained his sixth sense and he was nearly mad with frustration.
The world was a hollow colorless place. The once funny, high-spirited Jags had been replaced by a downhearted, miserable and depressed Jags.
He felt like he was once painted red and someone had come along and, while he was sleeping, painted him blue. He was an entirely different person, a person he didn't recognize, a person he hated.
But at least the hate that once hummed in his heart had vacated. He no longer sensed danger in Rane.
Problem was he didn't sense anything in anybody.
Jags moved in with Star and they had spent the last few months together which had been the best months of his life.
But they had been fighting lately, which was to be expected since it was the old Jags she fell in love with and not the new, boring, monochromatic Jags.
Star confronted him on several occasions regarding his sullen mood and testy temperament but he couldn't give her an explanation, not one she would understand anyway.
His dad told him that posthaka should have returned by now and hopefully would return soon, so all he could do was wait and hope.
He'd hold on to that glimmer of hope that Ajay was right. He'd concentrate on moving forward, letting the past go and pray that'd be enough to return his gifts.
Pushing back from his computer, he gulped the last of his coffee and went to the break room to refill his mug. He turned into the cafeteria where he spotted a package wrapped in blue and green striped paper. A label on top read: JAGS.
Strange.
It wasn't his birthday.
A silent warning shivered through his body. He carefully opened the package to find a framed photograph of a knife with blood on the blade and handle.
Jags looked closer.
It was the vintage Baroque knife Star had inherited from her dead grandmother.
The frame slipped from Jags' grasp. It bounced on the tile floor, shattering the glass.
Head in a daze, Jags absently returned to his cubicle.
And found a chocolate cupcake perched on the corner of his desk.
His body tingled with vibration, the kind of sensation that hums through a person's hand or foot when circulation was cut off; except every inch of his skin hummed, not just one extremity.
Cringing at the painful sensation, he sprinted from his cubicle and came to an abrupt halt. In a neighboring cubicle was another cupcake, also perched on the corner of the desk.
"Where did you get that?" Jags asked Cloey, the woman sitting at the desk.
She turned. "Oh, hi Jags. It was here when I got here this morning. Is it somebody's birthday?"
Jags didn't reply, just ran down the hall. Every cubicle he passed had either an untouched cupcake on the corner of the desk, or the remnants of a half eaten cupcake.
He sprinted for the elevator, descended to the second floor and jogged toward Star's office.
He paused to catch his breath. Looking up, he saw Star sitting behind her desk.
Jags walked into her office.
On the corner of her desk was Star's dead grandmother's knife. On the blade was . . . he swiped his finger and wiped the red goo from the blade. He tasted it. Strawberry jam.
Star looked up from the monitor. Beside her mouse was a chocolate cupcake. She picked it up and began peeling the foil wrapper.
He took the cupcake from her and set it on the desk.
"Jags?"
He removed his shoes and socks.
"What's wrong?"
He ignored Star, proceeded to tie his socks together.
Star began to stand but he motioned her to sit.
"I can tell something's wrong."
"That so?"
"Ever since, well, you and me . . . got together."
"Got married? Fucked?"
Star sighed. "Not like you to be crass."
He scoffed. "Having an off day." Jags circled her desk.
"Ever since then," she continued, "I've been able to . . . sense your mood. I'd say it sounds crazy but then again, its you, so . . . well, let's just say when it comes to me and you, I stopped questioning the things that used to seem crazy."
He circled to the back of her chair. "Give me your hands."
She looked over her shoulder and around to the back of the chair. "What are you doing?"
"Hands?"
"I will not! Until you tell me what the hell is going on with you. I can sense . . ."
Jags grabbed her hands. She tried to slip from his grip, but his hold was tight and firm.
"You're scaring me."
Jags twirled her chair to face him. He knelt.
She tried to smile. "Whatever it is, we can get through it together, but you got to tell me—" Her jaw dropped. "You think I'm in danger?"
Jags put a finger to his lips. "Shhhh. Everything will be alright."
"The hell it will! Untie me!"
"I'm protecting you." He cringed at the sound of his own gritty voice.
"From what?"
His hands on either side of her face, he cocked his head and looked at her curiously.
A glimmer of understanding softened her expression. She knew Jags' mind because she was inside him. And because he was inside her.
But he knew she still didn't truly understand.
He smiled, trying to ease the wariness from her beautiful, vibrant mind. But a ping of jealousy turned his smile crooked.
Because he craved the calm that was in her soul.
His own mind was a jumbled mess of synaptic nerves misfiring.
Confusion.
Dark, scary voids swirled in his mind's eye.
"If I untie you, you won't let me protect you." Jags' gaze snapped to the cupcake on the desk. Calmly, he stood from his kneeling position. He took the cupcake, walked to the door and opened it. Placidly, he gazed into the expanse of cubicles, desks, printers and people busying themselves on their keyboards and at the drinking fountain and waiting for the elevator.
With a grunt, he pitched the cupcake over the sea of cubicles and clear across the room. The cupcake bounced off the elevator doors and rolled to the floor.
Jags ignored the curious onlookers. He slammed the door, locked it.
From her desk, he snatched a cylinder of pens and a University of Texas ceramic mug. He pitched them at the wall. The pens scattered. The mug cracked in half.
"Have you lost your mind?" Star rolled her eyes. "Obviously. Stupid question."
With a flick of his hand, he toppled her calendar desk pad to the carpeted floor. Jumping with both feet, he hopped on top of the desk. He faced the door, squatted, bouncing on his haunches.
And waited.
For the cupcake killer.
––––––––
SITTING AT HIS DESK, four cubicles from Star's office, Rane looked up to see a cupcake fly over his head. When Jags slammed Star's office door, everybody ventured from their cubicles. Rane's coworkers began gossiping about what kind of eccentricities Jags was up to this time.
The town had been in a buzz since the police made their announcement, warning of the cupcake killer.
Rane knew Kipp and he had to lay low awhile, but he couldn't deny the high of his secret celebrity status.
Rane shook the remainder of the shards of glass from the photograph of Star's dead grandmother's knife. He rolled it up and slid an elastic around it.
Based on Rane's glimpse into Jags' head and the unwavering and irrational protectiveness Jags felt for Star, it seemed reasonable his sanity might crack under the guise his woman was at risk of becoming the cupcake killer's next victim.
Ironic, since Rane didn't want Star. She was blonde and she wasn't a Hell Pack one.
Roger, a middle-aged, stocky man, grasped the door handle but the door to her office was locked. He looked toward the crowd that had gathered outside Star's office and back at the door. He knocked. "Everything okay in there?
"I'm fine," Star's small voice replied.
Roger looked to the crowd. "I don't think she's fine."
––––––––
ZEKE GOT WORD THAT Jags threw a cupcake across the room and was keeping Star prisoner in her own office, which seemed a bit extreme, even for Jags.
Jags' coworkers were used to his eccentricities so nobody was overly alarmed, but nonetheless, Zeke had to check it out.
He pushed past the crowd that had gathered outside Star's door. Using a key from maintenance, he opened the door.
Crouched on top of Star's desk was Jags, bouncing on his haunches. "You're here to take her from me, aren't you?"
Zeke stepped into the office. He closed the door. "We just want to know what's going on."
"I'm okay," Star said.
And she sounded okay, which was strange because most women in her situation would not be okay.
Zeke took a step.
"That's far enough."
"Buddy. Just tell me what's going on."
"I'm not your buddy."
"Jags. We've been friends for years. Talk to me."
"Take another step and I'll break both your legs."
In all the time he'd known Jags, never once had he threatened or spoke harshly to anyone.
"Leave. Now."
Zeke held his palms up. "I'm going."