by eden Hudson
Mikal laughed. Would you rather I be a man? I use this form because I prefer it, but I can change if I choose to. It would be easier for you to hate me if I were male. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To hate me? That’s why you came back here.
No, it’s not, I said.
Mikal liked hearing me deny something she knew I wanted. It made her happy and that made me happy, but in a way that felt like getting pistol-whipped and seeing the world spin underneath you. She was right. I did want to hate her—I needed to hate her—but that wasn’t why I wanted to relive the day of Mom’s funeral.
Do you know what would really make me happy? Mikal asked.
You want me to explain why I’m here, I said.
The tar-covered wings stroking my brain sizzled with her approval, but I was either too far gone to hear the answering screams or—hopefully—dead. I should’ve tried to fight her, but I was so damn tired.
Just make me, I said.
You know that’s not how this game ends, Colter.
I watched the cows push each other around while they ate, and listened to a man who had been a preacher his whole adult life telling his sons that victory wasn’t in the word, but in the actions. He talked about swords and war and death and the final battle and every struggle leading up to it.
This was the first time in my life that everything was absolutely clear, I said.
Desty
I had never needed to go into the Council Building back in Hannibal, so I wasn’t sure what to expect from the Halo Witches’ Council. Maybe tree stump chairs and people wearing long robes and moon charms—not desk phones, computers, and corporate casual. There was even a water cooler in the corner.
“Hey, Jax,” the receptionist said. “I didn’t know you were coming in today.”
“Hey, Celeste,” Jax said. He pointed at the woman in the peach shirt in the far corner of the office. “We’re actually just here to see Bailey.”
“Come on back,” Bailey said without looking up from the papers in front of her. She had one finger on a thick piece of vellum and the other running across symbols written in blue ink in a notebook. When we stopped in front of her desk, Bailey pushed down on both fingers like she was clicking a mouse with each one. She looked up at us and pushed her reading glasses back on her head. “I didn’t expect to see you today, Jax. Who’s your friend?”
“This is Desty,” Jax said. “Her twin sister is Kathan’s familiar and now he wants Desty to become joint-familiar.”
“So he can become a commander,” Bailey said.
“Yeah, and since you’re translating that Nephilim thing, I figured you could help us out.”
Bailey leaned back in her ergonomic desk chair.
“What exactly do you need help with?” she asked.
Jax looked at me.
“Really, I’d just like to know more about the whole thing,” I said. “Is it true that if he’s a commander there isn’t any brain corrosion to his familiars?”
“The problem with the way humans translate texts is that our brains are structured to look for patterns that create words and sentences,” Bailey said. “Even calling it a ‘text’ can be misleading. When you’re dealing with another race, you might find something completely different like a history recorded completely in colors or feelings.”
“Well, what you gave me is a whole bunch of words that read like sentences, so you must know what this Nephilim thing’s recorded in,” Jax said.
Bailey nodded.
“Therein lies the rub, Ajax,” she said. “Feelings or colors would be easier. The Nephilim account was recorded in… The closest way I can describe it is intentions or maybe unborn hopes.”
Jax closed his eyes and his lids flickered as he read.
“You got, ‘To rise to the level of commander it would appear that an alpha of certain strength must be able to impose his essence on two of the same nature and body at the same time’ from unborn hopes or maybe intentions?” He opened his eyes. “You’re badass, Bailey.”
“I am the best,” she agreed. She looked at me. “Jax can give you anything he’s uploaded to that brain of his, but I’m afraid I’ve only gotten what amounts to about a page of translation done so far. It’s slow going and lately I’ve been focusing on more important matters.”
Jax raised his eyebrows at her. “You’re going to sit there and tell me there’s something more important than—and you know I quote—‘a force able to grow and command the most powerful army ever to march the earth?’”
“Holy crap,” I mumbled.
“I’m telling you there are more things in heaven and earth than you or I have ever dreamed of,” Bailey said. “And I’m going to go ahead and assume that covers abstractions like ‘order of importance.’ For you, anyway.”
“Touché,” Jax said. “Thanks anyhow.”
“No problem.” Bailey scooted her chair back up to her desk and put her reading glasses on. She leaned over her papers again. For a second the spots where she’d last had her fingers glowed nitrogen-headlight blue. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”
“Could you show me how to translate it?” I asked.
“How?” Bailey asked, giving me a look that very clearly said to grow up. “Magic?”
Jax shook his head at me, hard, but I didn’t take the hint.
“I mean,” I said, “This is the Witches’ Council, right?”
***
“Don’t be embarrassed,” Jax said in the car on the way back to the house. “I made the same mistake when I started working for them. They’re all pretty touchy about the magic/witchcraft distinction—especially with some of the morons that get born with the ability to do magic. Witchcraft takes more finesse.”
I pressed the back of my hands to my cheeks. If I could follow Jax’s advice and not care that I’d just been lectured like a child in front of a roomful of people, my face wouldn’t burn so bad.
“I wish your car had air conditioning,” I said.
“I’m getting it fixed when I get rich.” He slowed down by the bakery and looked over at me. “What would make you feel better? We could stop by Tiffani’s for a cookie or something.”
I shook my head.
“She creeps me out,” I said.
“She’s gay,” Jax said. “Maybe you’re homophobic.”
“I don’t think that’s it.”
“Vampophobic? You racist.”
I rolled my eyes and tried not to laugh. As we turned off the square, we drove by a sign for Rowdy’s Bar—featuring Live Music Thurs-Mon Night!
“Tell me a story about you,” I asked Jax. “That would make me feel better.”
“I will, but only if I can tell it in terms of ‘once upon a time’ and also you have to answer a question when I’m done,” he said.
“Sounds fair,” I said. I liked Jax. He seemed like the kind of person I could’ve been friends with in high school if I hadn’t stayed hidden in Tempie’s shadow.
“Once upon a time, a beautiful goddess fell in love with a warrior,” Jax said. “She loved him because he was different from all the other… I can’t think of a medieval equivalent to hicks. Serfs?”
I shrugged. “I’m willing to accept that.”
“She loved the warrior because he could see through her mystical forces and he realized she was a goddess.” Jax nodded like he was agreeing with himself. “The warrior’s best friend was a hick-serf who also loved the goddess, but to him she was just another hot girl. For a while—like most of junior high until tenth grade—the warrior and the hick-serf couldn’t be friends. Then, in the middle of January, the hick-serf showed up on the goddess and the warrior’s co-habited castle step with possible frost bite and definite sleep-deprivation. It turns out the hick-serf had been kicked out by his brother and he’d been living in the snow for the past week, but he couldn’t sleep because…dragons and stuff…kept picking fights with him whenever he shut his eyes. The beautiful and amazing goddess made the hick-serf and the
warrior work out their differences so that they could all live together because she loved them both, even though she only loved the hick-serf like a brother. And the hick-serf realized he didn’t love the goddess like the warrior did, anyway. So the three of them lived happily ever after and eventually the warrior will ask the goddess to marry him when he’s worthy.”
I grinned. I’m such a sucker for happy endings. And for finding out there wasn’t anything between hot guys I really liked and their coed housemates.
“That was a great story,” I said. “So, how will the warrior know when he’s worthy?”
“When he’s got enough money for a big, flashy engagement ring and a few other minor details so he can take care of the goddess the way she deserves to be taken care of.” Jax pulled into the driveway by their house—castle—and parked beside Tough’s big, jacked-up Ford. Jax saw me look at the truck and then the house. “Hold your horses, lady. You still have to answer my question.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
“Why didn’t you just ask me to tell you a story about Tough?”
I looked down at where my thumb was tracing the door handle.
“Here I thought I was being subtle,” I said.
“About as subtle as my codenames.” He shut the car off, but didn’t get out.
“I read once that you can learn more about a person by the people they’re friends with,” I said. I looked over at Jax. “Why did his brother kick him out?”
“Tough said it was because Colt couldn’t handle reality.” Jax shrugged. “Their family was pretty screwed up, though. Their dad turned them into his military-holy-commandos when Tough was eight, so you can imagine. His sister was the only one he really liked out of the whole bunch.”
“He had a sister?”
“Sissy. She was such a badass—she could even keep Ryder in line. Ryder was Tough and Colt’s older brother. That guy was nuts.” Jax shrugged. “Well, none of them was all right in the head, but Ryder wasn’t OCD-crazy like Colt was, he was beat-your-ass crazy. And Mikal killed Sissy like three months after the war ended, so Ryder ended up raising Colt and Tough for…I’m pretty sure it was four years before Mikal killed him, too. Even before the whole warrior-goddess-hick triangle, I never went over there while Ryder was around. That cabin was a warzone. I think sometimes Tough pulled crap on purpose just to send Ryder flying off the handle.” Jax shook his head. “I don’t know. Just makes me glad I was an only child.”
“It’s not always like that, though,” I said. “With siblings, I mean.”
Jax smiled. “You do realize you’re the girl whose sister punched her in the face, right?”
“For all I know that was Kathan’s idea.”
“For all you know denial is just a baseless psychological theory in Egypt.”
I laughed.
“Anyway, let’s get out of this car,” Jax said. “Fat boy like me can’t take this kind of weather without some werewolf massacre.”
Inside, a guitar was rasping along a thirsty, sunbaked melody that made the afternoon heat seem even worse.
“Jeez,” Jax said, glancing toward the ceiling. “If you’re headed up, tell him we know it’s a million and ten degrees. He doesn’t have to hot box us. Better yet—tell him to play something cold.”
The best I could do was half a laugh because Jax was right. I swear just listening was making me sweat harder.
“Do you think I’ll be disturbing him?” I asked.
Jax leaned over the television to turn on his game console.
“No one’s talented enough to play guitar and jack off at the same time,” he said.
“I meant if Tough’s practicing, I don’t want to bother him.”
Jax sat down on the couch and picked up his controller.
“Did you see Tough play last night?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Then you know he’s the last guy in the world who needs to practice,” Jax said. “He ain’t up there playing so he’ll get better at it.” He stared down at the buttons on his controller. “For real, there are people who sell their souls at crossroads to sound like Tough does. And the craziest part is, he can’t even start to play as good as he sang.”
I looked toward the stairs, feeling like I shouldn’t be asking. “Why can’t Tough talk?”
Jax pushed a button and a Resume screen came up. For almost a whole minute, he sat there staring at the options.
Finally, he said, “You’re bound to hear it around town sooner or later. Just don’t say it was me who told you. And don’t mention it to Harper. She thinks it’s her fault.”
“I don’t think we’ll be on speaking terms anytime soon,” I said. “No offense.”
“I know how she is,” Jax said. “But it wasn’t her fault, okay? This fucktard Jason was mouthing off at the bar one night because Tough sort of worked for him. Harper heard him and she got up in Jason’s face like—well, you know.”
I nodded. Like Redneck Revenge Barbie.
“She told Jason he wasn’t shit and at least Tough could’ve been someone if he could leave Halo. See, Tough ran away once to see if he could make it in Nashville. He would’ve gotten signed if his parents were alive, but the only people he ever told that to were me and Harper.” Jax rubbed his hand across his mouth. “She didn’t mean to say anything, but she let it slip how close Tough got. So, about a month and a half ago, Jason stole Tough’s voice and ran off to be on that stupid Country Idol show.”
“How did—”
“Magic. Actual magic, not witchcraft. In addition to being a fucktard, Jason was a mage. And now he’s Jason Gudehaus, country music sensation.”
A flicker—pre-SoCo—of the night before came back to me.
“A fallen angel at the Dark Mansion said Tough tried to kill a man and his wife in Nashville,” I said. “A mage and a vampire.”
Jax’s blond-brown eyebrows jumped.
“He tried to kill them?” He shook his head. “Nah, that’s probably propaganda bullshit. I mean…it’d have to be.”
For a few minutes the only noise in the house was the action music from Jax’s game clashing with the dry-bones sound of the guitar upstairs. As if it couldn’t take the heat anymore, the fridge kicked on.
“I didn’t mean to say that Tough would,” I said. “That’s just what—”
“You don’t understand,” Jax said. He cleared his throat, then stood up. “I need a beer—energy drink—something.”
I felt like I should follow him into the kitchen, but my feet wouldn’t move. Jax came back with a can of Red Hot.
“You can’t blame Tough if he did try to mess Jason up,” he said. “Really. He doesn’t have anything. Nothing. His parents are dead, sure—all of ours are—but Sissy and Ryder and Colt are gone, too. And Tough can’t leave Halo, ever. Not even for a day like the rest of us. He’s essentially a POW. And people are shitty. They act like they’re better than him sometimes—like bleeding for a vamp or raising cattle for a werewolf to hunt is so different from what he did.” Jax grimaced down at his Red Hot as if it had left a bad taste in his mouth. “Music was like… You saw. When Tough’s playing, he’s a rock star, and he sure as hell doesn’t live here.”
I looked up the stairs again, listening to the last dirty, sweaty growl of the guitar fade away.
Jax thought I didn’t understand, but I did. My dad thought he needed a girlfriend five years older than me and a vintage Charger to feel alive, so he left us. Mom stopped wanting to eat and talk and be awake. She couldn’t hold down a job and Tempie wouldn’t get one, so I did. And over the last two years of school, I’d felt Tempie pulling away until just her body was there. When Tempie finally physically left, Mom locked herself in the bathroom and downed a bottle of pills. It had been just one thing after another until things were so out of control that I couldn’t take it anymore. I’d done the only thing I could—chase Tempie down and try to make life livable again. Tough had done the same thing—tried to make his life livable again. That had to be why i
t felt like we knew each other so well.
I turned and jogged up the stairs.
I was in the hall when Tough started another song—the one he’d played the other night at the bar, but with a double-shot of bitterness today. Hearing it made me smile. It felt great to know that someone else was as angry, churning, life’s-not-fair ticked off as I was. I wanted to run into Tough’s room and kiss him on the mouth, but the sight of him stopped me in the doorway.
He was lying on the bed in just his jeans, hair damp like he’d taken a shower, banging on a beat-up acoustic guitar decorated with faded, old-school tattoo art. His lips moved along with the words and he rocked his head to the rhythm. An ancient mp3 player in a blue and black skin lay beside him.
Tough had the earbuds in and his eyes closed. It felt as if I’d walked in on him doing something really intimate. The shields were down, and I didn’t want them to go back up because of me, so I stayed still and listened.
Tough
Rowdy used to let me use the back room at the bar to record stuff I wrote. What I got done before the whole thing with Jason—sixteen songs—is on my old mp3 player under “Trash.” I’d been listening to “Trash” on repeat since I got back from the Matchmaker’s. With it turned up all the way, I could play and pretend to sing along and tune out the rest of the world, almost like I used to.
Then the song I wrote for Harper back when I was still pretty sure I loved her came on. This time, I didn’t play along, just thought back. I’d had it in my head that I could make her see how right we were together and how wrong her and Jax were, but I couldn’t. For a while I had been sure it was killing me, her not wanting me. Listening to “Harper’s Song” now just made me laugh. I was a really stupid teenager.
I raised my head up to spin the dial to the next song and stopped. Desty was standing in the doorway, watching me. I hit pause and took out an earbud.
“Must’ve been a funny song,” she said, trying not to look embarrassed that I caught her.
I nodded. I stood Mom’s acoustic up against the nightstand, scooted over and patted the bed beside me. Desty came over and laid down on her side with her boots hanging off the edge.