by Vance, Ramy
I will never understand humans and their attachment to parents.
He shrugged and took in a deep breath before moving closer. Grabbing each point-making finger in his hands, he put them together and said, “You’ve been distant since—”
“I already told you: I get why you proposed, and it’s no big deal,” I said. And it was true. A few weeks ago, Justin had been cursed and transformed into a very, very, very old man. I mean, I-have-minutes-to-live kind of old. Not wanting to die alone, he proposed to me … and promptly took it back when he reverted to his nineteen-year-old self.
I get it. Really, I do. Besides, I didn’t want to get married anyway.
“You know damn well I’m not talking about that,” he said, his voice rising. At least he was still holding my hands. “But since we’re there, I am referring to that whole incident. Ever since all the stuff that happened, happened, you haven’t been the same.”
“What ‘stuff,’ exactly?”
He let go of my hands. “Come on, Kat. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“No, I don’t. Are you referring to the ‘mission’ we went on?” I air-quoted the word mission. “Where you had one task—to be quiet—and you couldn’t even do that right?”
He threw up his arms in disbelief, and given that he was over six feet tall, they hit my ceiling. “I have apologized over and over and over again for that. And besides, nothing happened. That dybbuk demon didn’t try anything on me.”
“That dybbuk demon—”
“Ester?” he added in an annoying, smug fashion.
“Yes, Ester—because even demons need names—is one evil, evil bitch.”
“She’s trapped in a box,” Justin said.
“I know, but there’s a loophole to her containment. She can possess those who know her true name.”
“Ester?” he gave me a coy smile.
“Yes, Ester, smart-ass. I should have never told you her name. She could possess you, and—”
“Again, trapped in a box. Besides, it’s been weeks.”
“She could be waiting for the right moment to—”
“What, suddenly decide to possess me? Or you? You know her name too, after all. Kat, let it go. It’s been weeks, and besides, that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Then what are you talking about?” I yelled, and my hands pulled at my Dubarry Lily white shirt so hard I actually ripped a button free. I love this blouse … he’s going to pay for making me hurt it, I thought in a very healthy, non-passive aggressive way. (OK, maybe in a way so downright aggressive it turned the corner on passive and drove right to the edge of full-on nuclear.)
“I’m talking about how depressed you’ve been these last weeks. How you spend hours alone in the Others Library archives, always muttering to yourself.”
“I’m working on that.”
Justin ignored me. “And when you are around, you just mope and refuse to talk.”
“I talk.”
“You make noises with your mouth, but that’s not talking. You’re not sharing your feelings. Refusing to admit that …” he stopped, his eyes darting away like he was about to say something he shouldn’t.
“Admit what?” I asked. Now it was my turn to fold my arms over my gorgeous chest.
“Nothing,” he said, waving his hand like he was chasing away a bee. “Forget about it.”
“No, say it. Like what?”
“I said forget about it.”
“What am I, a goldfish? I’m not going to forget about it.” I had him in my death stare—a look that has literally stopped an angry mob in its tracks.
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
I shook my head.
“OK.” He sighed, sitting down. “What I’m about to say is going to make you very angry, so please keep in mind that I did it out of love.”
“What?” I upgraded my death stare to apocalyptic.
“I know you’ve been seeing a counselor,” he said in a quiet, apologetic tone.
Of all the things I thought he might say, those were the last words I’d expected to hear. I had been seeing a counselor. Went four times, and I hadn’t told a soul. Not one single person—especially not him. So the only way he could know was if he followed me.
Until that moment, I had never really understood what a catch-22 was. I mean, I got the concept, but I had never been in one myself. And yet, standing before my mournful, very afraid boyfriend, I found myself caught up in the middle of a doozy.
On the one hand, I wanted to deny I was seeing a shrink. On the other, I wanted to call him on it. Scream at him for following me, for betraying my trust, for not giving me my space.
It didn’t matter that he was right about me feeling depressed. That I walked around feeling as if a part of me was missing, and that no amount of time or sleep or distractions had made those feelings go away for even a few minutes. I felt like I was dragging around a dark cloud, like a ball and chain, while drowning in despair.
OK, I’m mixing my metaphors, so let’s just leave it at: I felt like shit. All. The. Time.
And here was a guy who genuinely loved me, and showed it by … what? Stalking me?
I was angry, if anger was the word to describe a volcano of fury trapped in a hurricane of rage.
But given my catch-22, I went another route altogether. “I’m not going to spend Christmas with you,” I said in a calm, emotionless voice. I stood up, flattened my silk skirt I bought from a seamstress in China before there were clothing labels, and walked to my dorm door and opened it. “In fact, I’m not going to see you again for the rest of this year.”
“Kat, I … I love you,” he said, walking toward the door. “I was worried. I am worried. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, and—”
“If there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for me, then do this: Go home. Have a nice Christmas with your family. And when you get back, we’ll pick up where we left off.”
“Which is?” he asked, reluctantly walking out of my room.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I wish I did, but I don’t.” And with those oh so sensitive and inspiring words as my goodbye, I closed the door.
Healthy Stalker Relationships Are Hard
I knew I was in trouble when Legally Blonde did nothing to lift my spirits. Afterward I lay in bed, my eyes on the ceiling.
A few weeks ago, I was cursed. And not in the fun, colorful, insulting kind of way. I was literally cursed, which in my case meant I was turned into a vampire—again.
Luckily, the curse was lifted less than twenty-four hours later, after I had only bitten two people—both bad guys—and somehow managed to not kill anyone.
So all in all, not the worst day of my life. But when the curse was lifted, instead of going back to normal, I felt different. My mood was all over the place: sad, unmotivated, alone, ugly, angry. I felt like I was playing some twisted version of Wheel of Fortune.
More like Wheel of Feeling Like Shit.
I figured it was just having all that power, only to have it stripped away a second time. That my malaise was a result of feeling sorry for being human—again.
I also thought it would go away. And if not go away, at least become less intense. But it wasn’t becoming less anything.
If anything, I felt like I was slowly descending further and further into my own darkness.
Just when I was about to curl up into a ball of self-pity, the earpiece in my purse crackled.
How the hell does he always know to call when I’m at my worst? I thought, and picked up the earpiece.
↔
“Are you spying on me?” I said into the earpiece.
The man with the raspy voice chuckled, his light laughter more like someone trying to hold back a cancerous coughing fit than harmless mirth.
“You know that every sound you make is creepy,” I said.
There was a pause before the man rasped, “Sadly, I do.”
“It would be less creepy if you
just told me who you are.”
“We will get to that. I promise.”
“You know, I didn’t believe Harold the Homicidal Maniac when he said some creepy guy was feeding him information about me. That was my first mistake. My second was picking up this damn communicator when I saw it in Harold’s ear. I should have just thrown it away. But noooo, I had to keep it. Curiosity killed the cat. More like boredom killed the Kat—as in me. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to go drown myself in a shower and—”
“I am not,” he rasped.
“Not what?”
“In answer to your earlier question: I am not spying on you.”
“Really?” I said, doubtful. “Then how is it you always manage to call when I’m at my worst?”
“I told you, our souls both occupy the Rooh Ina’ah, the Soul Jar. It senses your distress and communicates it to me. That is how—”
“And I told you that I don’t believe in the Rooh Ina’ah, or that my soul is missing, or any of the crap you’re constantly spewing at me.”
“Then why do you always answer my calls?”
He had a point. I didn’t know why I did, just like I didn’t know why I wasn’t trying to track him down or, better yet, why I didn’t throw away the earpiece and be rid of him forever. But here I was, dutifully picking up the damn communicator every time it pinged.
“May I hazard a guess?” he said.
“Sure.” I plopped myself on my bed.
“Because you and I are uniquely connected. Two humans with no souls. Two—”
“You don’t give up, do you?”
“No. And I will not give up until I am whole again.”
“So go find the damn thing.”
“I cannot.”
I sighed. We were about to go through this whole song and dance for the umpteenth time. Mocking his raspy voice, I said, “ ‘I cannot. The Rooh Ina’ah is hidden, and only someone with the right question in their heart can find the Rooh Ina’ah. The Amulet of Souol is our only hope. If, that is, you hold the right question in your heart. Do you, Katrina Darling? Are you ready to ask the Amulet of Souol the question that burns in both our hearts?’ ”
There was a pause before a man with an actual raspy voice said, “Well, are you ready to ask the amulet?”
The Amulet of Souol, not that again. A few weeks ago my mother showed up and the two of us spent some quality mother, daughter time finding the damn thing. At the time, I didn’t know why my mother wanted it, but I do now … the amulet will answer its wearer one question and one question only. But the catch is that the question it will answer isn’t necessarily the one you asked, but rather the question to which your heart most desires an answer. And my raspy stalker wanted me to use the amulet to find my soul.
“Given that I don’t believe you, I guess not. But I was thinking about asking it where the best discounts will be on Boxing Day, or—”
“You are not ready, but you will be soon. Until then: Adieu, my fair Katrina. I shall call again when I feel your soul cry out in pain.”
“Maybe I don’t want you to call. Maybe I’ll just destroy this communicator and be done with you.”
“You won’t,” he rasped.
“How do you know?”
“Because we are two soulless humans in need of one another.”
“Are we? How about you take your soulless self and—” But before I could blast him with the totally witty retort I had in the chamber, the earpiece crackled into silence.
Great, I thought, throwing the earpiece back in my purse, I can’t even maintain a relationship with my stalker.
It’s Beginning to Feel a Lot like Christmas
All I wanted was time alone to … what? Wallow in self-pity? Contemplate the nature of my possibly missing soul? Or perhaps remain undistracted as I incessantly worried whether this emptiness would ever be filled?
OK, time alone wasn’t the best thing for me right then. Maybe what I needed was a distraction, something to get my mind off things. But given all I was going through, that “something” would have to be pretty all-consuming.
And just as that thought ran through my mind, an answer to my all-consuming desire entered the room: Deirdre, my changeling roommate.
She walked in swooning like a princess in a musical. “I can’t believe it,” she said with a gleam in her eyes that betrayed unfettered joy.
Good for you, Deirdre. Bitch, I thought before immediately scolding myself. Just because I was depressed didn’t make it OK for me to hate my roommate for her ear-to-ear smile, the skip in her step, and the—oh, screw it. I was jealous.
Before my thoughts ran down the path of irreversible rage, she said—or rather, practically sang, “The bestest thing ever is happening.”
“Let me guess, Ryan Reynolds has finally agreed to marry you?”
She paused, narrowing her eyes as she assessed my joke. When her changeling brain finally comprehended that I was teasing her, she walked over to her poster of Ryan Reynolds and gently touched his cheek. Good for her—she was finally getting human humor.
“You are right to mock me, milady,” Deirdre said. “Ryan Reynolds coming to profess his love would be the bestest thing ever. As a result, I must adjust my statement to: The second bestest thing ever is happening.”
So much for Deirdre getting human humor, or any kind of humor. “OK,” I said, “I’ll bite. What is the second bestest thing ever to happen?”
“The FSA is hosting a Christmas event, the—”
“Sorry to interrupt, but did you say ‘the FSA?’ ”
“Yes milady, the FSA—the Fae Students’ Association. They are throwing an event to honor the work of Professor Oighrig End. The event will be held at Douglas Hall and shall last from December 23rd until the 26th.”
“Three days?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll be sleeping there?” I said, really hitting the words you and there hard. I wasn’t going to tell her I thought that was ridiculous. I was going to let my tone do it.
“Yes, if we sleep,” she said, oblivious to my admonishing tone.
“Wow,” I said, popping my eyes. If she didn’t get my tone, I was hoping she’d clue in to my facial expressions.
“I know,” she said, mimicking my popping eyes. So much for facial subtlety. “I, too, was disappointed by the brevity of the event. Normally the UnSeelie Court would honor one such as he for three hundred years, not three days. But alas, now that we are all mortal we must truncate our celebrations.”
“And this is at Douglas Hall, you said?” It was more a rhetorical question than actually fishing for more information. But alas, Deirdre’s conversational deficiencies were not limited to missing humor, tone and facial expressions.
“More specifically, A, B and C wings in Douglas Hall. Seems that the dorm has not been able to fill itself since the university started letting in Others. Douglas Hall, as well as some of the other resident dorms, is resorting to other means of earning income.”
“Like hosting fae celebrations?”
“Yes, milady. That is exactly right.”
“Fae celebrations that will take place over Christmas?” I knew my sarcasm would be lost on her, but didn’t care. It wasn’t lost on me, and I would relish its sting even if my intended target was oblivious.
“The celebrated birthday of the Human Who Rose Again. It is no winter or summer solace, but still a worthy time to honor one such as Oighrig End.”
“I see,” I said. Fae and their celebrations … who was I to argue? “And who is Oighrig End, exactly?”
Her eyes widened in disbelief, like I’d just asked who Barack Obama was, or admitted to never having seen Star Wars. Usually I was the one staring at her in disbelief. It was strange being on the receiving end of the indignant eyeballing.
“Why, Oighrig End is only the greatest revisionist historian of our time.”
OK, I thought, not what I expected. A popstar or movie actor, sure. But a historian? And what is a “revisionist his
torian,” anyway?
I must have spoken my thoughts out loud, because her indignant gaze upgraded to near fainting shock. It was the kind of look I’d give someone if they, in all seriousness, had just told me they thought the Earth was flat, the moon was made of cheese and every story ended with the hero and heroine living happily ever after.
“There are so, so many myths written by humans who have no regard to the suffering of Others caused by their hands. For instance, does anyone care for poor Polyphemus, the cyclops blinded by the cruel and trespassing Odysseus? Or what about the horrible Beowulf and his needless slaughter of Grendel? And lest we forget the—”
“I get it, I get it. Lots of good Others, bad humans, and this Oighrig End is setting the record straight, right?”
“I know not when the record was bent or where it must be set. All I know is Oighrig End retells these myths from the perspectives of the wronged Others. He is a hero.” She placed a hand over her heart, the changeling warrior’s salute.
“Right,” I said, “he’s a storyteller you admire. Kind of like me and my relationship with Legally Blonde.”
No smile. No hint that she’d even gotten my joke (as lame as it was). Just a serious nod and an audible sigh of relief that I was finally getting what she was trying to tell me.
“So,” I said, sitting on my bed, “the favor.”
“Request, milady,” she said. “And one that will put me even further into your debt. Since I have already sworn my sword arm to you, I shall also bestow upon you my shield arm,”—she lifted her left hand—“my bosom,”—she grabbed her … well, her goodies—“and my womb,”—she touched her belly—“should you grant me this request.”
The thing about fae: when they grant you parts of themselves, they mean it. She really did plan to give me full use of her breasts and womb should I request them. “You can keep your boobs and belly,” I said. “I’ll take the shield arm. Shoot.”
I probably should have asked her what she wanted before being so willy-nilly with my request-granting ability.