by L F Seitz
“Thank you for the couch,” I said, plopping down on it beside him. The couch was brown and soft, nicer than anything I’d owed before. I made sure to sit as far away from him as I could so he had the space he liked. He tossed his phone back into a duffle bag beside the couch. I entertained the idea of him bringing his things here, possibly leaving it here: it was a happy thought that made my soul dance. It meant his presence in this apartment, and in my life, was going to be a bit more concrete. Micah planned to stay a while.
“How was work?” Micah asked, pulling his leather jacket off and exposing a tan T-shirt and his arms, the cords of muscles contracted and stretched as he moved. He wore black jeans with his black combat boots tied lazily halfway up the boot. I blinked several times before turning away.
I swallowed hard. “Nothing crazy, talked to Cindy –”
“The girl that showed you the bookstore,” Micah said.
“Yeah, and there was this smell of, like, chemicals that I couldn’t get away from today. Even talked to my manager about it, but he smelt nothing. I’m just hoping there wasn’t a spill no one knew about.”
Micah perked up. “Did the smell ever disappear while you were there?”
I shrugged. “When I went to lunch or the bathroom. Why?”
Micah explained that demonic creatures often give off the scent of sulfur when nearby, and suggested that someone might have been watching me. My blood went cold. “Oh. Do you think –”
“Maybe you shouldn’t go back there,” Micah said. I was nervous that maybe a demon had watched me today, but to not work anymore was ridiculous. It was scary, sure, but not scared enough to be homeless over it.
“I have to work, Micah, I need the money,” I retorted.
“Well, at least not tomorrow. We need to work on your defensive skills.” It didn’t seem like an argument I’d win, given that I, too, wanted to learn some things. I had enough sick days banked that it wouldn’t be an issue, but my next paycheck would be near nothing.
“Oh, all right,” I said, defeated. I thought about what he said about demons smelling bad and felt self-conscious, knowing that was part of me.
“Being half demon, do I smell like sulfur?” I asked. My luck, he’d confirm it, and unfortunately that smell wasn’t something that could be washed off.
“No.” Micah was looking off into the apartment in a daze. I think he was still exhausted. “What then?” I pushed, yearning to know what I smelled like to the Nephilim, to anyone in the supernatural world. Maybe not as harsh as chemicals, but something unpleasant like iron, or sour milk. He turned then and held my gaze for several breaths. I found it hard to keep still, and even more so to turn away as he pinned me there with his piercing glass like orbs.
“Honey,” he said softly, like the sensation of silk across my skin.
The intimacy of his answer made it difficult to process any other thoughts. “W-what do Nephilim smell like to demons?” I stammered. I wanted to get off the topic as quickly as possible. I was too tired from work to be hearing Micah say such nice things. Especially when it came to my smell.
“I’ve heard demons scold us, saying we smell like nymphs, so I’m assuming good.” He did smell good. The scent of fresh air came off him every time he moved, and in close quarters, vanilla emanated from his skin. I don’t think I would ever tell him it was true, and what I smelled, because he wouldn’t appreciate it as much as I did. He’d probably get uncomfortable.
Micah shrugged with his last comment before glancing around the apartment again. Who knows how long he slept before I got here, but I was determined to let him sleep all night. He needed it. “We should get to bed, then. You should get all the sleep you can.”
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” He grumbled, but it already appeared he were about to die from sleep deprivation.
“Well, I’m going to bed.” I stood, giving him no choice but to sleep. There was nothing to do in my apartment: not much to eat and no TV. He’d have to sleep.
I undressed quickly in my bedroom, getting into my pajamas before lying next to the already comatose cats. The apartment fell quiet, aside from the humming of the space heater at the end of my bed.
“I fed the cats,” Micah commented, his voice echoing through the apartment. I had forgotten all about that. I smiled into the dark.
“Did they say thank you?”
“No,” Micah said. Another moment of silence, and I thought that was the end of it. “They were quite rude, actually, just ate it without a word.”
I held in my laugh as I thought of how to reply to his sarcasm. “I’ll give them a good scolding tomorrow.” I thought about saying goodnight, but he might have already fallen to sleep. I was grateful Micah was here, that he was willing to stay. Sleeping in the apartment with me was another sign that he trusted me, and that made me warm all over. Micah cared, even if he didn’t want to say it.
I was excited for the morning to come. I want to be stronger. I want to fight the darkness within me. I want to win.
Fourteen.
MICAH MOVED THE RECLINER out of the way to create a space to teach me defensive skills this morning. I don’t know why I felt like I was going to puke: excitement or anxiety. I don’t own athletic clothing, but I decided leggings and a Marvel t-shirt would suffice. Micah, on the other hand, wore a fitted gray muscle shirt and loose jeans low on his hips. His hair was up off his neck in a ponytail, and I knew he rarely put his hair up, so that meant were doing something difficult.
“Do I need to stretch or anything?” I didn’t know what to do with myself. He moved the furniture with ease before coming toward me, a crooked smile on his lips.
“Do you think you’re going to get a cramp?” He answered my question with a question. I honestly didn’t know; the last time I purposefully worked out was in gym class in high school.
“Today, I’m going to teach you how to defend yourself. If this goes well, we will practice more, and eventually I can teach you to counteract and possibly punch back.” He didn’t seem that positive about my abilities, which only made my anxiety increase.
Micah stepped toward me, close enough to smell the musk that fell from him: fresh air and vanilla. Before I could ask what he was looking at, he squatted and tapped on my right shoe.
“This one is fine, but move this one back,” he said, tapping my left calf. I moved on his command, a lump forming in my throat as I thought about how physically close we might get today.
He stood, held my wrist, and positioned my arm up and angled. Then he moved his arm and hit it, our forearms touching one another. “This is a simple but direct block overhead. Usually for when someone has a weapon. I’m going to come at you, and I want you to put your arm up like this.” He took a step back as we both dropped our hands. Before I could position myself again, he was stepping to me, arm held high. My defense was sloppy.
“Don’t noodle-arm,” he said. His voice was stern and focused. I swallowed hard as I shook out my hands. “Again.” He caught me off guard, but I blocked him. It hurt yet gave me an idea of how aggressive someone would be when attacking me. I needed to get used to it. My reaction time was better, which made my hands and feet tingled with the sudden rush of energy.
“Good, Lamia, that was great. Again.” He stepped forward, and I warded off his attack, quicker than before. I couldn’t help but smile. He seemed pleased with it.
“We’ll collaborate a few moves after I’ve taught you a few blocks. Now, passively blocking an upper-hand attack.” His arm slowly descended, grasping mine again with the opposite hand, and showed me how to move to the side and push at the elbow of my attacker.
“I’ll go slow, but I want you to do it without me guiding you,” he said. His arm came down, and I pushed him away like he showed me. It was awkward, but I knew practice would make it better.
“OK, again.” Micah repeated the motion, but quicker, and I pushed hard. My actions were too hard and I lost balance, nearly falling before I caught myself.
“
It’s as much about your feet as it is your hands,” he said. I shrugged off the twinge of irritation as I got into position again. He came at me without a word. I panicked and was clumsy, but carried out the block. My misstep forced Micah to trip over my leg. He caught himself, but barely. I expected annoyance when he turned around, but his eyebrows were raised at my action.
“Did you mean to put your foot there?” He pointed at my leg, and I gave him a sideways glance.
“Maybe?”
“Well, it was smart, so keep doing it.”
✽✽✽
“What next?” I asked, stretching my arms. Hours of blocks and mistakes had worn me out. Sweat accumulated on my brow as I worked harder with every new move Micah taught me. I still didn’t have the experience he did, meaning I was tired faster than he was. He didn’t like it when I started to get sloppy. Micah was teaching me so many maneuvers at once that I was beginning to get lost in the names and the movements. Each required specific stances and muscles, all of which were completely foreign to me.
“Let’s do an attack without weapons.” His lips flattened into a hard line like I had done something wrong. Before I could react, his hands were on my throat, and he slammed me against a wall. After the surprise passed, I began to pull at his hands. I thought this was practice, but he was occluding my airway. I didn’t want to hurt him, but the longer I went without air, the more frantic I got. I tried to hit him, but he was too far away and my arms too short to reach his neck. I put my hands up in surrender hoping he’d let go. After what felt like an eternity, he released me, and I dropped to the ground.
“What the hell was that?” I demanded after minutes of working to control my laboring breaths, tilting my head up and opening my airway. The muscles in my neck ached as I sucked in as much air as I could manage.
“I wanted to see how you’d defend yourself in this situation, and you didn’t even try.” Micah shrugged and crossed his arms.
I gawked at him, completely bewildered. So I was just shoving and flailing for the fun of it? “Didn’t even try? You think maybe because, I don’t know, I don’t know how? You should have taught me first before doing that!” What would possibly compel him to choke me for real when he is literally in the middle of teaching me how to fight back?
“You didn’t even work to get out of it,” he said again, frowning.
“I did too. You’re such a jerk.” I rubbed my still aching neck, walking away from him. I understood that he was teaching me, but that wasn’t how I learned.
“This is your life, Lamia. Please tell me that wasn’t all you had in you to get away from me,” Micah said.
I snapped around and glared at him. “No, but it was you. I know you. I didn’t want to hurt you,” I argued, which was true. I wanted to fight, but it was Micah at my throat. I’m not going to claw his pretty face over a training exercise. I enjoyed looking at it too much.
“This is about fighting, not friends. Don’t worry about hurting me. I’ve had worse done to me than you could ever hope to inflict.”
My mouth fell open with the insult, but I quickly shut it. What a grade-A jerk he was being today. Then again, I don’t think he can get through a single day without being an ass.
“Enough degrading me,” I said. “Let’s get on with it.”
We both said nothing as I got back into position. He regarded me for a few breaths before dropping his hands to his sides.
“Demons are usually primitive. They have claws or fangs, which they'll use to hurt you. Cambions can be different, sometimes they'll go for a more humanistic approach despite their sharp appendages. They’ll still go for the most obvious kill, the throat, for example, but they will choke you rather than ripping it out." He paused, motioning for me to move. “Now, I want you to choke me, and I’ll show you what to do.”
We switched positions, and it took everything in me not to punch him in the face. I lifted my hands to his neck and gripped softly. Feeling his skin under my fingers – this suddenly vulnerable position he put himself in made me ill. I could never hurt Micah.
“Take your hand, and grab their wrist,” he said as he moved slowly through the motions, being thorough. “Then you’re going to come over with your arm. If they are close enough, elbow them in the face and pull at their wrist at the same time.” We ended with him spinning me around, twisting my arm up behind me and pinning me between him and the wall.
I took into account the sensation of our bodies pressed together. I knew it was silly, I knew it was wrong, but I’d be even more psychotic to lie and say it didn’t affect me.
“Your turn,” he said. He let me practice a few times going slow before we did it for real. He choked me like he did before, but I was sloppy.
“Lamia, next time, I’m not going to let go until you actually force me to.” Micah snapped, his voice echoing through the room. I glared, out of breath, as I leaned against the wall with my hands on my hips, trying to not be angry with him. He was right, but it was difficult to pretend he wasn’t Micah; he’s a stranger or a demon wanting to hurt me.
“If I do it with everything I got, will you humor me and let me do something?” I asked.
“Like what?”
“Just really choke me this time.”
He put his hands around my throat, and I closed my eyes. Soon after, the pressure increased on my neck, and when I tried to breathe in, I couldn’t. In the darkness of my head, Orias’s face resurfaced, and the pain and disgust began clanging around in my skull. I never have met a Cambion with such bold desires. The thought of his hands on my legs, on my breasts, his hot breath on my neck. The anger flared. I want to get away from him, away from Orias’s yellow irises, smiling at me, dark and mischievous. I tried to cry out, but I was suffocating. Orias was suffocating me.
I twisted my arm up and hit Orias hard. I pulled him around and threw him against the wall. He resisted, but it was too late: I had his hand up in the middle of his back.
“Uncle,” Micah’s voice brought me from my hell. I blinked as I let go, stepping away, pulling myself from out of that dark headspace. My elbow throbbed as I stared at my hands, thinking of Orias again and what I wish I could have done to him. I should have defended myself better that night.
Micah turned to me with his finger inside his mouth. He pulled it out, revealing red saliva.
“I’m sorry.” My voice was distant. Micah laughed, pulling me from my Orias memory all together.
“That was perfect,” he said.
“What a masochist,” I said back. His gaze was too heavy, like he was going to challenge me again. My senses were already too rattled from what had happened.
I quenched my thirst with a glass of water, swallowing it so fast I didn’t think to offer any to Micah. I refilled it for him, and when I turned, I nearly dropped the glass: Micah pulled the hair band from his hair and shook it out, like some motion picture hero as he stepped into the winter sunlight. His hair glowed.
“Why is it white?” I asked, swallowing hard. Micah turned to me as I moved across the room, holding out the glass.
“No one knows. I’ve had white hair since I was born.” He nodded in thanks as he took the glass from me and began drinking just as quickly as I had.
“How is your healing technique doing?” he asked. “Great, I’ve been practicing every day.”
“Let’s practice,” he said. As I turned, I spotted him pulling his blade from his side and slicing it against his forearm. I gasped as blood spewed out at an alarming rate, but Micah only held his arm out to me. I moved in a blink across the room, grabbing his arm to hold pressure.
“Heal me already,” he said as the anger inside me flared.
“Da-damn it,” I stammered, the blood flowing through my fingers. I focused on my energy. My hands tingled like when I healed Clayton’s arm; the purple glow resonating from my palms seemed to be working. The blood no longer spilled from his arm, but we were covered, like we’d been playing in paint. We’d made it to the floor at some point. I w
as kneeling so close to Micah I was practically in his lap, dark blood staining our clothes and running everywhere. The smell of iron nearly gauged me.
“What the hell, Micah,” I said, pulling away from him, the wetness of his blood covering my hands. “I’m getting really tired of blood on my clothes and floor!”
I washed my hands in the bathroom, lightheaded, focusing on the water in the sink. What if I hadn’t been able to stop it? I noticed my pale complexion as I found a towel and washed my face. It felt counterproductive with the amount of blood on my clothes. I needed to change, and I needed to wash these clothes before the blood set in.
I walked out, and Micah was standing by the window, covered in blood, with a stone expression I hadn't seen in a while. His complexion, too, was paler.
“I thought you said you were doing great,” he said, his face scrunched.
“Obviously my kind of great and your kind of great aren’t the same. Still doesn’t give you the right to slit your artery to see if I’m fast enough.” I was fuming, and Micah couldn’t argue with me. I moved quickly into my bedroom to find something else to wear, and not getting blood on everything was a struggle.
“What other abilities have you been working on?” Micah sounded doubtful, and that only made me angrier. “What other abilities are there?” I asked. I pulled out an old, large shirt I had from middle school, Mahone Mustangs in blue and gold on the front, and some jogging pants I could no longer fit into. I took them to the living room and held them out for Micah, who was in the bathroom doorway pulling his hair back into a ponytail.
“I’m fine.”
“I didn’t ask you if you were fine. I’m not doing anything else until I get my clothes washed, and yours should be, too, if you want to save them from stains,” I said, putting them on the bathroom counter. He said nothing as he stood against the doorway, throwing his own unique tantrum by resisting. I rolled my eyes.
“I think you’re just being lazy and don’t want to continue training,” he said. He wanted to pin this on me, but I wasn’t having it.