Science Fiction Romance: Biomechanical Hearts (Space Sci-Fi Love Triangle) (New Adult Paranormal Fantasy)

by Olivia Myers

  ‘Duds’ was the term that had been applied to the girls who’d recently appeared in the village. The name was an adaption from the word ‘dread’ from ‘dreadlocks,’ which adorned the heads of a number of the new girls. The hair was greasy and thick and hung like enormous rats’ tails, often from beneath a patterned bandana or a straw panama hat. The hair was the easiest means of identifying a Dud but there were many others, from the flannel shirts and baggy jeans to the cannonball laughter that erupted like firecrackers, complete with the smoke of the girls’ cigarillos. Grouped together, the Duds were a striking and even threatening sight.

  “I want to say something to them.”

  “It’s not going to get us anywhere,” Imogen said, trying to be diplomatic. “It’s an open café. They’re allowed to make as much noise as they want.”

  “But it’s not right,” Agatha said, standing. “These bitches are guests in our town! Someone needs to let them know when they’ve overstepped their boundaries.”

  And without another word, she was out of her chair and making her way to the Duds. It took Imogen roughly twenty seconds of watching Agatha go pale to see that things would not end well unless someone jumped to the rescue. She was at the table a moment later.

  “Hi,” she said briskly, putting on her most neutral smile. The Duds, fixed blankly on Agatha, slowly turned to regard Imogen. There were three of them, two of which could have been twins. The third, sitting with her legs sprawled in a position of comfortable dominance, had both a burlier frame and more elegant face than the other two. Imogen recognized her instantly as the leader.

  “There’s no problem here, is there?”

  The burly girl shrugged.

  “I don’t know,” she said, her voice hot and intense. Imogen felt a shiver quiver upwards inside her. The girl motioned to Agatha, who was doing her best to slide away from the table.

  “This your friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “This one? The one who’s telling us to be quiet?”

  “Yes,” Imogen planted her hand on her hip.

  The girl snickered when she saw Imogen take her stance. “Okay, okay big girl,” she smiled. Her teeth glimmered like enamel. “Y’all are cute when you’re mad.”

  The other two Duds barked laughter. This wasn’t at all what Imogen had been expecting and the comment threw her for a loop. Her mouth went dry. All the impudent remarks she’d been prepared to make ran back up her throat.

  “And by the way, that stuff you’re reading over there,” the girl pointed over to the table, where shy Alice blushed like a cherry and tried to sink into the ground. “Cowper, right? Real poets’ poetry,” she grinned lewdly. “That shit makes me wet.”

  This was the final straw for Agatha. “Oh my God,” she said, revolted, and grabbed Imogen’s arm. “Let’s get out of here. We don’t need to sit next to this trash,” she spat. “We’ve got the Rose.”

  Imogen let herself be hurried out of the café, shy Alice following on her heels. She turned back once before they exited the building and saw the girl blow her a kiss while her friends laughed uproariously. “Lucille,” the girl shouted. The other guests lifted their heads from their conversation and looked at Lucille in disgust. She paid no attention to them. “Just so you know who to ask for when you come looking for me!”

  “My pet,” a voice purred behind Imogen shortly after she and her friends had taken their seats in front of the comfortable hearth inside the Red Red Rose. Imogen did not even need to look at the speaker to recognize her girlfriend, Cerise.

  Immaculate as usual in an ankle-length pencil skirt, silver-buckle heels and thin sweater, from which her breasts protruded like two perfect, black moons, Cerise dangled her fingers along Imogen’s backside, causing her to shiver and giggle. The movement ended in a caress and Cerise bent low, kissing Imogen fully on her delicate, pouting lower lip. The kiss struck Imogen like a lightning bolt, but she savored it.

  “You’re bothered,” Cerise frowned, pulling away. “You and the other pets,” she said, seeming just now to realize that Imogen wasn’t alone. Alice and Agatha were sitting across from the couple, eyes averted politely. Cerise giggled to see them so demure.

  “Oh, it’s nothing but a bit of love, darlings,” she continued to giggle. “Why, you don’t blush to hear your fubgy poets describe their lovers’ lips or lovers’ cli—”

  “Okay,” Imogen laughed. Cerise smiled, revealing her brilliant, sharp teeth, and circuited the large-backed chair where Imogen was sitting, planting herself in her girlfriend’s lap.

  “Now,” she said, and ceased her caressing. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  A moment of silence passed, and then Agatha blurted out: “The Duds are everywhere.”

  “Duds?”

  “Those butch, dreadlocked girls who started showing up a few weeks ago,” Imogen clarified. “We can’t stand them: they’re so loud and obnoxious, and they’re always in groups. Like a bigger and more dangerous version of the Golden Girls,” she said, referencing the prima donnas who had tormented her last semester in Saint Nocturne’s. “Of course,” she went on, “it’s probably different in the Rose. I don’t even know if they come here. They stick mainly to the cafes outside.”

  “Miss Charles has even mentioned that some of them might be starting class with us next week!” Agatha said. “I couldn’t even imagine! St. Nocturne’s isn’t for rude bitches like that. Girls without class. Without taste.”

  “Your school,” Cerise said, “nestled between Mother Nature’s beautiful breasts, separate from all the hardships of the world: your school, founded by someone clearly trying to get away from the world, is for precisely these kinds of girls who have nowhere else to go, my pet.”

  “But it’s ours!” Agatha said. “It’s our home!”

  “Your home because you happened upon it,” Cerise said coolly. “All of you artistic darlings are refugees in some sense of the word. You’ve all come here because you didn’t belong anywhere else. As a fellow outcast,” she bared her fangs to emphasize the fact, “and one who has been traveling the world much longer than you, I feel qualified to speak on the subject.”

  “Refugees?” Imogen said. “How much do you know about the Duds, Cerise?”

  “Those brash, little wolverines?” The vampire lit a cigarette and let the smoke curl out of her delicate nose. “As much as anyone else in the Rose, I suppose.”

  “Wolverines?” Agatha leaned closer, clearly interested. Even Alice was wide-eyed. “You don’t mean to say…”

  “Of course I mean to say,” Cerise’s charming laugh rang out. “I don’t understand how these girls have been here for so long and you little darlings have failed to make the connection. Why, with those bushy brows and that ropey hair and those flaring nostrils, and the fact you mentioned that they’re always in packs.”

  “But refugees?” Imogen pressed.

  “Well, wolverines are hot-blooded. Think Siberia. Think Alaska. The only reason they’d be this far south is because another pack has forced them out. Either that, or else they’re planning something. Gearing up for war. Mass extermination.” Cerise laughed again, either failing to notice or else disregarding that her three companions were white in the face.

  “But you don’t really believe that,” Imogen said. “That part about war.”

  “Historically, it’s incredible to believe,” Cerise said. “Wolverines make a bit of fuss now and then but it’s not often anyone gets hurt. And if they’ve already been here a month and nothing’s happened I’m quite close to guaranteeing you that their aims are peaceful. Peaceful enough,” she said, looking at Agatha. “I know they can be rough to handle, but that’s their nature, darling. They’re really rather good-humored once you know them.”

  “You’ve been close to wolverines then?” Imogen said. With her girlfriend, every day brought more surprises than the one before, but never would she have expected the vampire to have dealings with werewolves. Something about it was unsavory. It was so unlik
e Cerise’s nature: the gentility, the class.

  “I’m culturally aware,” Cerise laughed. “We have run-ins every once in a while. I don’t go out of my way to see them, but I don’t shun them once we’re together. Some of them can be quite ingenious.”

  Cerise twisted and planted a kiss on Imogen’s cheek before rising daintily from her perch. “And now pets, one of us has work to do.”

  Agatha and Alice said their goodbyes while she and Imogen exchanged kisses, but something was not wholly satisfactory about what Cerise had said. There was more to her knowledge than just a few observations, and Imogen had the uncomfortable thought that she had not been told the whole truth. But why would her girlfriend keep secrets from her? What did she have to hide?

  A week passed and the Duds became more and more visible around town. Imogen and her poetry club ignored the other cafes and kept mainly to the Rose, where as of yet no wolverines had ventured. If they kept to the school and to the club, it wasn’t difficult to simply avoid them. Imogen was hopeful. They would learn to adapt.

  Then, on a Monday morning as Imogen made her way to Miss McReddy’s Classics course—her favorite subject—she was struck dumb by the sight of not one but three Duds sitting in the back row of the class. One of them was Lucille.

  “What are you doing here?” she cried.

  Lucille gave her a disarmingly innocent look. “Why, has no one told you yet?”

  “Told me what?”

  “That we’re going to be sharing the semester together.” Lucille smiled to see Imogen so obviously perturbed. “I thought you knew.”

  “That can’t be true,” Imogen said, though even as she spoke she felt the words drop into her stomach like lead weights.

  “One hundred percent, baby,” Lucille grinned. “Student exchange program. Our headmaster wants to buddy-up with St. Nocturne’s—thinks it’ll make the educational system that much more rewarding. He’s a genius, our headmaster.”

  A response began to form in the back of Imogen’s throat but before she managed to get anything out, Miss McReddy bumbled into class and sternly ordered the students to take out their copies of Sir Gregory Thornwhip.

  For an hour, Imogen fought between concentration on her text and distraction from the girls behind her. Even when they weren’t talking, the Duds were as noticeable as ever. They had a cold, gamey smell that conjured in Imogen the image of sickly sweet maples, draped in snow: not wholly unpleasant, but not exactly savory. And the way they breathed, deeply through the nostrils and with powerful exhalations, caused little gusts of wind to cool the back of Imogen’s neck, making her spine tingle. Once, she whirled around in her seat intending to say something, only to discover that all three girls were deeply immersed in their books and hadn’t noticed her at all. Feeling deeply foolish, she turned back around and tried to find her place in Sir Gregory.

  Towards the end of class Miss McReddy set aside her beaded librarian’s glasses and turned her small, squinting eyes to her audience. The class had just finished a small talk on the famous dueling scene and now it was time for open discussion. Those small beady eyes, clustered with wrinkles, quickly found Imogen. Miss McReddy’s face broke into a smile. “My star pupil,” she said brightly. “Now why do you think Mr. Nigel Spindle agrees to the duel?”

  “Well, I think it’s because it’s exactly what Northrup doesn’t expect,” Imogen said confidently. “Northrup knows that Nigel Spindle can’t fight and that sleeping with his wife is probably the last thing on his mind.” There were chuckles in the classroom—Spindle was gay. “He’s trying to get Spindle under his power by exercising all of this authority over him, sort of like a look-at-what-I-can-make-you-do mentality. When Spindle doesn’t take the bait, it’s proof that although he doesn’t have any of the characteristics his father thinks makes a good lord, he has a developed sense of honor which someone like Northrup isn’t capable of.”

  “Wait,” a voice interrupted. “Just, wait a second.” Imogen knew the voice immediately.

  “Why, yes! Let’s hear from one of our exchange students,” Miss McReddy said, eager for the exchange of opinions.

  Lucille arched her back in her seat and put her boots up on her desk. It was a repulsive sight and Imogen loathed the girl more than ever.

  “Sorry, but I just don’t see it.” There was a pause. Imogen wondered if this was all—if Lucille had simply interrupted her for the sake of it and not because she had anything to say.

  But then she continued: “I mean, the way you’re describing Northrup, the guy sounds like a Victorian Darth Vadar. The man helps the poor for Gods’ sake. His sweatshop is practically a charity.” More chuckles. The class was warming to Lucille’s easy way of talking.

  “And besides, Spindle doesn’t even end up fighting the duel, right? So how can you say he’s being ‘honorable’ when he’s accepting something he doesn’t even mean to do?”

  “His intention is to fight,” Imogen said levelly. “The man can’t help it that his sister’s parrot bit his little finger off the day before the duel.”

  “The parrot doesn’t matter,” Lucille waved the matter aside. “He’d have found an excuse somehow. I mean, can you really imagine this simpering queen, with his speech impediment and his love of lace, blowing a hole in another man’s head? And look at the guy he chose for a second—Siegfried Mortimer. A mercenary. The best gun in Great Britain. Spindle’s not going to fight when he’s got Hercules behind him.”

  “I think we’re getting off topic,” Imogen said, trying to keep her mounting anger in check.

  “I think we’re precisely on topic,” Lucille countered. “Your gist is that Spindle is being a hero by accepting. I’m arguing that he’s as much a coward as ever, he just has good resources.”

  “He’s not a coward!” Imogen cried. “He’s trying to prove himself, but every chance he gets something goes wrong! That’s the whole point of the novel. Actions don’t show character. Sometimes, intentions are all we have!”

  Silence greeted Imogen’s outburst. She regretted at once letting herself get so carried away, but she couldn’t have helped it. She knew that she had spoken rightly and that it was inevitable, given Lucille’s infuriating personality.

  “My,” Miss McReddy said, wearing a generous grin. She was the only one who didn’t look visibly uncomfortable from the altercation. “What passion!”

  Returning to the blackboard she scrawled out next week’s reading assignment before announcing that the class was over.

  “You made me look like an idiot!” Imogen said once she’d caught up to Lucille in the hallway. The wolverine looked at her in surprise and then gave a little snicker.

  “You didn’t need my help for that, baby.”

  “What’s your problem? Did you come here just to torture me?”

  “I thought we were talking about books. You call that torture?”

  “But you don’t talk!” Imogen said passionately. “You argue. You cause problems. Everything about you is confrontational!”

  They were getting stares from other students milling about in the hallway. Imogen was as heated as ever but she was beginning to get embarrassed. She was not the kind of girl who made public scenes.

  “Here,” she said, taking Lucille by the arm and dragging her into the nearby girls’ restroom. Lucille grinned lewdly. “Oh, baby.”

  “We’re just here to talk,” Imogen said. “You’re not even my type anyway.”

  “So you’ve even got a type?” Lucille’s grin became wider. “I thought so the moment I saw you. Can I guess? She’s thin as razor wire, tall, walks like she’s got a pinecone up her ass.”

  Imogen said nothing.

  “Oh, come on. I’m just trying to get a rise out of you is all. I’ve only seen you twice but I could tell after a second that you’re too uptight. Just relax, baby.”

  “Don’t tell me to relax,” Imogen said, batting away the consoling arm Lucille placed on her shoulder. “Things had just started to go well, and then all of y
ou wolverines came flooding in. This place doesn’t even feel like home anymore.”

  Lucille was frowning. “Wolverine, huh?” she said.

  “Oh my God,” Imogen put her hands over her mouth. “Did I actually say that out loud? Did I—”

  “The less you say now, honey, the better.”

  Imogen’s mouth clamped shut.

  Lucille eyed the restroom furtively, peering beneath the stalls to make sure that they were alone.

  “Well,” she said once she’d completed her check, “there’s always one who knows. And I guess as long as you don’t go announcing anything to anyone else there’s no harm in knowing.”

  “I didn’t mean to say anything,” Imogen whispered. “It just came out. I don’t know why that happens around you. Things I never say when I’m around other people just pour out when I’m around you.”

  “You’re uptight again,” Lucille grinned. And then without any forewarning, she enveloped Imogen in her arms and kissed her fully on the mouth.

  “What—!” Imogen gasped, freeing herself from the kiss. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  “Relaxing you, baby.”

  “Why the hell did you think that would relax me?”

  “Because it’s nature,” came the carefree reply. “I get that you’re into your philosophy and your metaphysics. That’s cool. But if I start to pleasure you, you’re going to roll over on your back and stick out your tongue, same as every other living creature. You’re made for it, baby. Stop living in denial.”

  Again the larger body pressed against hers. Imogen felt the voluptuous breasts, smooth and soft, but with a wild, animal heartbeat quaking beneath. She didn’t know why she was allowing herself to open to this girl, but when the mouth enveloped hers again Imogen found it nearly impossible to tear herself away.

  “You’re more stubborn than I gave you credit for.”

  “I don’t know how to say it,” Imogen whispered. “This isn’t me, I know. This isn’t what I want. Something’s taking control over me—like hypnosis.”

  “It’s only nature,” Lucille said again. “Forget that stuff about rationality; forget your ideas of relationships. This is your animal instinct. Embrace it.”