by S. L. Stacy
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I insist. “Go back to sleep. I’ll walk.”
Hands gripping the corners of the sheets, he hesitates. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. We had a long day. You should get some rest.”
“But it’s late for you to be walking around by yourself. At least call a cab.”
“I’ll be fine. I can take care of myself.” I smile. He finally relents, sinking back under the covers. Taking my hand, I cup the side of his cheek. It’s rough with a thin coating of stubble. “I’ll text you tomorrow.” I know I won’t.
From the resigned expression on his face, I think he knows I won’t, too. “I’ll be waiting.”
As he closes his eyes, I turn off the light. I take our mugs downstairs and put them in the dishwasher, then go outside into the damp, chilly night.
Except for the misty light cast by the few street lamps on this block, it’s pretty dark, the lingering cloud cover blotting out the moon and stars. I put my illusion of invisibility firmly back in place, an added layer of protection. I know I could take on any would-be assailants, particularly any human ones, but right now I’m craving a simple, peaceful walk home.
I love nighttime. The even blackness of the sky, the streets unfurling in front of me, long and dark and desolate. With my mental cloak of invisibility, I walk them undetected, pretending I am one with the shadows, floating along like the pale fog that carpets the air. It’s as cold and quiet as space, as sleep. As death.
Death doesn’t come easily to someone like me. There are only a few ways to kill an Olympian. Still, if the reaper were to come for me tonight, pressing icy lips to my chest to still my beating heart, I imagine I would succumb gladly. It would be a relief, a freedom, of sorts. And, yes, maybe a bit of a cheat. Then I wouldn’t have to face whatever terrible fate waits for me on the other side of night.
Don’t worry. I’m not actually suicidal. In the end, I much prefer the certainty of being alive to the uncertainty of death. But, sometimes, I like to imagine the peacefulness of it, the finality. I wonder if there’s something on the other side, waiting for me, an afterlife even a goddess could never imagine. Or if death simply blows consciousness out, like breath to candle flame.
Sweet Jesus. Jimmy’s right. I am emo.
I burst out laughing. It rings out like the peal of a bell in the dead of the night. Smiling to myself, I walk on.
I laugh the whole way home.
Apate’s Playlist
1. Kesha, “Cannibal”
2. Taylor Swift, “I Knew You Were Trouble”
3. Destiny’s Child, “Bootylicious”
4. Marina and the Diamonds ft. Charli XCX, “Just Desserts”
5. Justin Bieber, “Sorry”
6. Aqua, “Barbie Girl”
7. Marina and the Diamonds, “Homewrecker”
8. Lady Gaga, “Poker Face”
9. Marina and the Diamonds, “Guilty”
10. Zella Day, “Compass”
11. Amy Winehouse, “You Know I’m No Good”
12. Lana Del Rey, “Fucked My Way Up To The Top”
13. Lady Gaga, “Marry the Night”
Bonus Tracks:
14. David Bowie, “Heroes”
15. Lana Del Rey (as Lizzy Grant), “Pin Up Galore”
Afterword
Thank you for reading Reborn Books 1-3.5! I hope you enjoyed these stories. There is more to come!
If you have a moment or two, please consider leaving a review with your thoughts wherever you purchased the book. Reviews, no matter how short, are the single most important thing you can do to help an author.
Sneak Peek:
Redemption
Reborn Book 4
“Siobhan. Siobhan.”
The biology advisor says my name in a tone that tells me she’s been trying to get my attention for a while. I shake myself and look up from the sheet of paper she handed me a few seconds ago. It’s still warm underneath my fingertips, fresh off the printer. My end of semester grades.
Dr. Meera Joshi sighs, folding her hands on her desk. She looks like she always does, with a white lab coat thrown over whatever she wore to work that day, her dark hair gathered back into a tight bun. In addition to teaching genetics and running her own lab, she serves as the academic advisor to all of the undergraduate biology majors. Our eyes meet, hers studying me over a pair of black-framed glasses.
“You’ve been a very good student, Siobhan.” She hesitates, then clears her throat, probably to stop herself from qualifying that with an up until now. “You’re in the top five of your class.” I was, I think to myself, but I don’t correct her. “I know things look grim at the moment, but some of these classes are offered over the summer. If you take those, then retake my genetics class and Introduction to Biophysics next year in addition to the typical senior course load, you’ll still be able to graduate on time.”
Again, she pauses, waiting for my response. I nod without saying anything. “Registration for the summer term closed yesterday, but due to your...extenuating circumstances, I’ll give you a permission code that will let you register. You’ll have until Friday to do so. Does that make sense?” Dr. Joshi’s brow is furrowed, her brown eyes searching my face. I must have that deer-in-the-headlights look. Sitting up a little straighter, I nod again, more vigorously this time.
“Of course. That sounds great. And thanks. I’ll be sure to register for summer term by Friday.” As we’ve been talking, I’ve been worrying the progress report in my hands. I glance down to find it already wrinkled, some of the fresh ink smudged. Letting go of it, I rest my hands on the chair arms instead. “And Dr. Joshi—”
“Meera. Please.”
“Meera. Thanks for all of your help with this. You’ve been so supportive and understanding. I really appreciate it.”
She smiles. “Not a problem. I like to see our students succeed and want to do my part to help. Like I said, if you work hard and really focus these next few semesters, you’ll stay on track to graduate. I know you’re a hard worker.”
“Thanks,” I say again.
“If you do start to feel like you can’t handle the extra course load,” she continues, seeming to weigh each word carefully, “worst case scenario you might realize you need some extra time. Instead of next May, we would aim for a December graduation. I don’t think it will come to that, but I know you’ve had a rough time this year. There’s no shame in taking a little extra time to finish.”
A rough time? That’s the understatement of the century. I resist an eye roll. I know she’s only trying to help. Instead, I force a smile. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind, but I’m going to try my hardest to graduate on time. I don’t want these last few months to set me back any further than they already have.” That, and I’d rather not have a fifth semester of student loans looming over me.
“Of course. I expected nothing less. I just want you to know that you wouldn’t be alone. Lots of students have done it.” Dr. Joshi’s tone is unnervingly gentle and patient, as though she’s concerned the mere tone of her voice might break me. I could kill Farrah.
“Look, I know that my house mother spoke to you and the administration on my behalf regarding my...situation.” I don’t know what else to call it. The excuse Farrah gave them for my unexpected, extended absence was a complete fabrication, and, as far as I’m concerned, an embarrassing one.
Well...I guess I shouldn’t call it embarrassing. I know a lot of students experience mental health issues in college. There’s a lot of stigma surrounding these types of problems, and there shouldn’t be. We should be able to talk about them and feel comfortable enough to ask for help when we need it.
The only thing is, that’s not what happened to me. But before I could come up with what probably would have been a much less believable excuse of my own, Farrah swooped in to save the day. She told my advisor and the department heads that I’d had some sort of mental breakdown and spent the last seven months at a psychiatric facility. Somethi
ng to that effect. Even I’m not sure of the exact story she fed them, but whatever it was, it seems to have worked. Not only that, but everyone, including Dr. Joshi, has been exceptionally accommodating.
Under normal circumstances, I doubt the school would take the word of a sorority house mother concerning the whereabouts of one of their students. But these weren’t normal circumstances, and Farrah isn’t your average house mom, to say the least. She’s not even human, but part of an advanced civilization from a parallel universe, the Olympians. In ancient times, humans worshipped them as gods, and Farrah as the goddess of love and beauty. My sorority sisters and I are considered halflings, part human, but part Olympian as well. Having Olympian heritage certainly comes with its perks, although we’ll never be as all-powerful as our otherworldly ancestors. But more about that later.
To make a long story short, I didn’t spend the last seven months in the loony bin. A mission to rescue one of my sorority sisters from Pandora, the space between universes, took a very wrong turn. Although I successfully managed to get Carly out of there, I ended up getting trapped there myself.
I shiver, closing my eyes in an effort to steady myself. Bad idea. I open them again quickly, feeling suddenly grateful for Dr. Joshi’s brightly lit office.
Every time I close my eyes, I’m back there. Back in Pandora, where there is nothing. Literally nothing. It’s an endless expanse of blackness, an empty, airless void.
For seven months I was there. Floating. Nearly suffocating. Starving. And waiting. Waiting for someone to bust me the hell out of there. Without the Pandora jar, there was no way for me to make a portal to return to Earth. No way out. Believe me, if there were, I would have taken it. All I could do was wait to be rescued, so I did. I waited. And waited. And waited.
In Pandora, I had no real sense of the passage of time, although it felt like I was there for an eternity when my unexpected savior finally opened the portal that brought me home. It was then that I found out seven entire months had passed, a little over half a year, gone, without me even realizing it. I was stuck there for seven months, with no food to eat or water to drink, no air to breath—and yet, somehow, I had survived. Carly had been trapped in Pandora for about a week and was nearly dead by the time I got there.
So how did I survive?
***
This is the question that’s been plaguing me for the past few weeks, but I don’t have time to contemplate it now. Dr. Joshi is staring at me, waiting for me to go on.
“It’s just...I know she spoke to you,” I continue, “and of course I appreciate it, all of her help, everything, but I’m fine now. I went through some stuff. It was difficult, and I can’t pretend that a few times I thought I wouldn’t…” Survive seems like too extreme of a word, so instead I say, “get back to normal, but I feel like I have. I know I have. So I guess I just wanted to say thanks again for all of your help with everything, for your understanding, but you don’t have to worry about me. I’m not some fragile thing that’s going to break because I have to take a few summer classes.’’ Not that seven months ago this had been my vision for the summer before my senior year, but there are worse things.
“No one thinks you’re fragile, Siobhan.” I’d expected my tiny monologue to have rattled Dr. Joshi much more than she lets on, or at least to have offended her somewhat. Her smile is as serene, her tone as encouraging, as ever. “In fact, I admire your strength and fortitude. I have no doubt that you’ll do very well this year.”
“Thank you.” I mutter the words this time. Searching her face, I try to see past its calm facade, that unwavering smile. Is her demeanor just a little too calm? Her gaze too distant, a bit glazed over? I’m starting to wonder if Farrah’s “spell,” whatever you want to call it, is influencing Dr. Joshi even now.
In addition to being, even I’ll admit it, jaw-droppingly gorgeous, Farrah has the charisma of twenty Angelina Jolies combined. Her unearthly charms seem to go beyond mere power of persuasion. I’ve witnessed it firsthand.
Back in the fall, my sorority had a blind date dance, and...well, that’s another long story. In a nutshell, some of our halfling adversaries crashed it. The night ended in disaster, the venue destroyed, a young woman from a rival sorority dead. When law enforcement showed up, Farrah had every officer in some sort of trance as she recounted a non-supernatural version of the night’s events. The cops were so enthralled, I’m pretty sure she could have convinced them they were somehow to blame for the fiasco, if she’d wanted to.
“There’s one more thing we need to discuss regarding your schedule.” At last, that dazed-looking smile disappears from Dr. Joshi’s face, her expression becoming serious once again. “You still need three research credits in a biology lab, outside of the undergraduate lab courses. Most students complete this their junior year, so I’d recommend knocking that off this summer, too. I know that Drs. Chan and Holland have positions open for student researchers in their labs right now. Have you met either of them?”
“I’ve met Dr. Chan a few times.” Lionel Chan teaches biochemistry. Although I went to his office hours a few times the semester I took it, I doubt he remembers me. Jeremy Holland is supposed to be a bigwig in our department. “Dr. Holland heads the big vaccine development lab, right? I’ve heard of him, but I’ve never met him before. Or even seen him around, really.”
“That’s right. Unfortunately, it’s true he’s out of the country a lot, heading vaccine initiatives in development countries,” she admits. “That means he has limited time available to mentor his students. But in any lab you join, one of the graduate students or postdocs will serve as your primary mentor, anyway. I suggest emailing both of them your resume, letting them know you heard about the openings from me. They will likely have you come in for an interview and to meet the rest of the lab.
“Go ahead and reach out to both of them, just to keep your options open, but the more I think about it, you would be a great fit for Dr. Holland’s group. I think his research interests will align well with your interests in medicine and public health. You’re still considering applying to medical school, right?”
“Sure. I think so.” There’s only the little matter of, in addition to catching up on coursework from my junior year, taking the MCATs and actually applying to schools. And the fact that the sight of blood makes me want to vom.
“That’s great. Stop by and see me in a few weeks after the semester starts and you’ve settled into your classes, and we’ll talk medical school applications.” Dr. Joshi gives me a closed-lip smile, rising from her chair. I take this as my cue to go.
“Sounds good.” As I get up, I fold up the crinkled sheet of paper with my grades a few times, stuffing it into my purse. “And thanks again, Dr. J— Meera.” I’ve always wondered why some professors insist you call them by their first name. After six or seven years of graduate work, plus two or three additional years of postdoctoral training, I think I’d insist everyone call me doctor.
“Have a good rest of the day,” she tells me on my way out the door.
Outside, a warm May sun greets me, set high in a cloudless blue sky. I sit down on one of the wooden benches outside of the science building, to enjoy the sun as much as to collect my thoughts. Bright, cloudless days in Shadesburg are few and far between.
Closing my eyes, I tilt my head up toward the sky, reveling in the sun’s tingling warmth on my face. Ever since I returned from Pandora, my senses have felt heightened. A gentle breeze wafting through campus feels as smooth and cool as a brush of silk against my skin. Inhaling, I can smell the scents of distant woods and wildflowers it carries with it.
Although I know it’s a cliché, I’ve come to realize how important these little details of life are, these small moments of stillness and beauty that can get lost in between the responsibilities and commitments of everyday life. I’ve tried to take more time each day to simply appreciate the world around me. Time away from worrying about grades, about medical school. My future. About seeing my parents this
weekend. About how I left things with my Gamma Lambda Phi sisters when I stormed out of our sorority house last week in a fit of rage. Time to just...be. Exist. To notice things like the sweet taste of the air, the rustle of leaves in the tree above me. Probably a bird, or a squirrel. I open my eyes, squinting up through its slender branches.
“Siobhan?”
Victoria’s hesitant voice jars me back to reality. She’s standing a few feet away from me, eyebrows raised. Before I can make a run for it, she closes the distance between us in a few quick strides.
“I’m so glad I ran into you.” She plops down next to me, her words coming out in a rush. “Look, we need to talk.”
“Um, I’m kinda busy here,” I tell her, getting up.
“Doing what?”
“Being one with nature.”
Her mouth twitches like she wants to laugh, but one look at my furious expression makes her think better of it. “I know you’re still angry with us,” she continues, standing. In a pair of gray workout leggings and matching t-shirt, her auburn hair swept back into a messy ponytail, she looks like she just got out of the gym, or was on her way there. “And you have every right to be. But can we just talk about it?”
Crossing my arms, I shake my head. “I’m not interested in anything you have to say.” The words seem to have taken on a life of their own, flying out of my mouth before I can really think them through. The truth is, even though I do have a good reason to resent Victoria and the rest of the sorority, it’s hard for me to be angry with her, with any of them.
Victoria is our president, my “big sister,” and, as I found out last semester, the goddess of victory. Among the Olympians, she goes by the name Nike. Long ago, she and the first Gamma Lambda Phis erected the walls between our universes to protect Earth from Olympian influence. This year, the sisterhood was once again required to answer to a calling greater than hosting rush parties and scheduling mixers with fraternities.