José Ortiz's Arc

Chapter 1 of 6

José wiped off the front desk of the Sea Spell Inn and checked the guest book for the third time that hour. Two rooms filled, four empty. He had opened the inn eight months ago after walking the coast for two weeks, waiting for a current to pull him toward land instead of away. He wanted the place to become something specific: a house where witches and stranger folk could sleep without fear of humans finding them or hurting them. For now, every guest signed in as human, and so did he. The candles on the desk leaned toward the door before it opened. José straightened them and pretended he hadn't noticed. The man who came in stopped one step inside and went still. He was dark-haired, built hard, and he looked at José like a person looking at a photograph he had already buried. "Lavitz," he said, barely a sound. José set down his pen. "What?" The man's face closed. "Nothing. Just thinking out loud." He crossed to the desk. "Zack. Zack Salvatore. You have a room?" José nodded slowly. "We have four open. You alright?" "Fine." Zack's eyes stayed on his mouth, his hands, the line of his jaw. "How long have you run this place? Alone? You from here? Family nearby?" The questions came flat and fast, no space between them. José answered because he didn't want to be rude. Eight months. Alone. No family left. His grandmother had trained him, then died. He stopped himself before he said what she trained him in. Zack's jaw worked. He didn't blink enough. The deeper he looked into Zack’s eyes the more uncomfortable they both felt. Zack seemed almost like he’s seen a ghost. "Let me get you checked in," José said. He turned the book toward Zack and held out the pen. Zack looked at the pen. He looked at José's face again, longer this time, and something behind his eyes gave out. "I can't," he said. "I'm sorry. I can't stay here." He backed toward the door. "Wait," José said, "did I—" but Zack was already through it, down the porch steps, gone into the dark past the yellow roses. José stood with the pen still out. The candles guttered once and held. He set the pen down and walked to the door Zack had left open. Outside, the tide was climbing the bluff faster than the hour called for, pulled by something he hadn't meant to ask for. He shut the door. Whatever the man had seen in his face, it wasn't José. And José wanted, badly, to know whose face he was wearing.