by R. J. Blain
The biology professors didn’t have an eye for the details like the morticians demanded.
The chemistry labs would be the ones to kill me—or finish driving me insane. The variety of chemicals hammered at my witchcraft, and it exhausted me trying to make sense of so many sensations at one time.
Alcohol burned, heating the inside of my head. Salt made me itch. Pure sodium made my skin crawl and cramped my muscles. Oils, especially mineral varieties, soothed, while petroleum made me dizzy. Refined gasoline reminded me of the start of an anxiety attack, the kind I’d suffered from shortly after being shot.
Every substance felt a little different, and every time I stepped into the lab, I wanted to retreat to the bathroom and throw up last week’s lunch. Two weeks into my classes, I was down five pounds and longed for the end of the semester. I had no idea how I’d get through all the labs my degrees required.
If I followed the path my father wanted for me, I’d be skeletal by the end of the year. Even if I followed mine, it’d end the same way.
I needed the knowledge to do the job I wanted and the one my father wanted for me.
As the last to arrive and the first to leave, my reputation among my fellow students tanked, resulting in me having the back-corner station no one else wanted with the unlucky classmate unable to secure someone else as their partner.
Today’s lab landed me with Amalie Corsel, something I didn’t mind. She hated everyone in equal measure. Thanks to my strengthening witchcraft, I understood why. Beneath her scowls, which turned her pretty face hard, unwelcoming, and almost ugly, roiling fear lurked. Thumping her books onto the metal table, she shot a glare my way. “This is the last free spot.”
Of course. Three days a week for two weeks, those same words opened every conversation. I forced a smile, because for some reason, it comforted people when the only darker-skinned man in the room seemed friendly enough.
I figured after surviving being tossed to the sharks and dealing with my overprotective father’s tender, loving care, I’d earned calling myself a man despite still counting as a kid to most. “Dustin Walker.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re the cop kid who got grabbed here a while back. Huh. I thought you’d gotten killed—or dropped from college.”
“I was interning at the morgue until my arm finished healing. This is my first semester in classes; the internship at the morgue counted as credits. The department heads felt the experience would give me a good start while I healed.”
“You interned at the morgue? But why? I thought you were going into law school. That’s what the rumors say.”
Rumors. No matter where I went, I couldn’t avoid them. I sighed. “I’m studying law alongside Forensic Sciences, and the powers that be determined I would enjoy working with dead bodies. For the record, I really don’t.”
“Then why do it? Isn’t it just a waste of money if you hate it?”
I’d conducted that argument with myself too many times to count, but I’d found an answer that made the price bearable. “I want to help victims get justice. I want to find the truth. That makes it worth it to me.” I really wanted to be a lawyer, but once my father charted a course, that was that. He wanted me in the force more than he wanted his next breath. The subtle lie made everyone but me happy, but it wasn’t truly a lie.
I did want to help victims. I did want to find justice. I needed to find the truth.
I just wanted those things in a different way from my father.
One of us would lose, and I wasn’t sure which one of us. Probably me.
Amalie relaxed, and she sorted her books, dumping the ones she wouldn’t need for the lab onto the floor before shoving them out of the way. “That’s a good reason. Why hide back here like you’re a dunce, then?”
The so-called dunce would make the Dean’s list or face his father’s wrath, but I couldn’t tell her that, which left me with more partial truths. “The smells in here do not do my stomach any favors, so I like the back near the window, the ventilation vents, and the door. No other reason.”
Except the chemical storage closets, which were closer to the front of the class. Distance helped somewhat.
“Yet you worked in the morgue. Isn’t that worse?”
No, it wasn’t. Not by a long shot. Alas, I couldn’t tell her that, either. “It’s different.”
“I guess it is. You any good at this shit?”
I glanced at the lab plan, which involved experimenting with chemicals until the mixtures turned the appropriate colors. Exact measurements mattered, and a single wrong droplet would lead to failure. Once again, I’d be forced to tell a partial truth. I could, if I wanted, do the experiment with my damned eyes closed, thanks to my pesky witchcraft. “I’m decent at it.”
“There is a god, and today, he finally shows he might not hate me for a change. My last partner was too interested in experimenting with the limp noodle in his pants to care about what he did in class.” Relief radiated from her, so intense I relaxed as a consequence of exposure to her emotions.
Not good.
Until I could control what I sensed, when I sensed it, and where I sensed it from, I’d keep spinning my wheels unable to make any progress at all. If anything, the damned chemistry courses might help me figure out the trick to it.
At least I could make a joke off her complaint. “Now that’s a real waste of—”
An alarm blared in the hallway, and every muscle in my body tensed. While shrill, it wasn’t the blare of the fire alarm; it came from the college-wide communication system.
Of the potential causes for such an alarm, one possibility worried me the most: an active shooter on campus.
There’d been an unfortunate number of those lately, and not a day went by without my parents wondering if my school would be next.
I checked my watch. At five till ten in the morning, Professor Oaklaney should’ve already arrived, which served to worry me even more. Far too often, failing students, unhappy the professors didn’t curve their grade and give them the scores they felt entitled to, took their anger out on their teachers. Others hunted their fellow students.
It never ended well.
“What’s going on?” Amalie’s voice trembled.
The truth often hurt the most, but I saw no need in giving her false promises. “False alarm, drill, or an active shooter come to mind.”
She sucked in a breath. “But we don’t do drills. There’s never been a problem before. Not here. It couldn’t really be an active shooter, could it?”
“I don’t know, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.” I strode to the room’s sole door and locked it. Since some idiot had designed the door to open out into the hallway versus into the room, I couldn’t jam the knob to make it harder for someone to gain entry, so I grabbed a few chairs, placed them in front of the door, and loaded them with chemistry books. The obstruction would buy a little time, although it wouldn’t do much in the grand scheme.
As I expected nobody in the room would have any sensible idea what to do during an active shooter situation, I said, “I’d avoid the windows and keep low if I were you. Don’t make it easy for a half-baked asshat with a firearm to kill you.”
Everyone in the room, even Amalie, stared at me as I though I’d lost my mind. The alarm continued to blare.
“Unless you want to get shot. Then, by all means, do whatever you want.” I dragged my stool to the corner and sat. Until I learned what was going on, I’d stay out of line of sight of the windows while having a good look at the door, which fortunately didn’t have windows, meant to buffer sounds from the hallway during classes. “It’s not a fire alarm. We heard that several times last week, for some reason.”
The reason, Matthew Sawsauer, laughed along with the rest of our class. Then, he asked, “What do you know about this?”
“Know? I know nothing. Give me a few minutes, and I might be able to figure out what’s going on. My dad’s a cop. Silence your phones and keep out of sight of the windows.
Don’t draw attention to us. Until we know what’s going on, it’s better to lay low.”
“Well, aren’t you an honest one, Walker?”
I pulled out my phone, shook my head, silenced the device, and sent a text to Dad asking if he knew anything about what was going on at the college. It took him less than a minute to reply, and he confirmed my fears.
An active shooter was on campus. Specifically, he was in the building with the chemistry labs, and while his first choice of weapon wasn’t a gun, instead opting to use a machete, the police had reason to believe he might be in possession of a firearm. Even better, the police already had an ID on the shooter: a chemistry student with a grudge. He’d hit one classroom already, and he was on the loose with a backpack and a machete. Dad didn’t know anything else, and said he’d keep me in the loop.
I replied that I’d locked the door to the chemistry lab and put chairs loaded with textbooks in front of it to slow down anyone entering.
Then, because I was the master of dick moves and wanted my father to suffer for making me go to college for Forensic Sciences, I turned off my phone. Triggering the built-in alarm would send extra cavalry over, and if Mom didn’t already know about the situation, she did now.
The pack’s Second was also on the notify list, which meant the entire pack would know something was up within the next twenty minutes.
“Well?” Sawsauer demanded.
“Confirmed active shooter, armed with a machete, possibly a firearm, and carrying a backpack of unknown contents. He’s in our building,” I reported, pocketing my phone. “He already hit one classroom. No known numbers of deaths or injuries, although I doubt I’d be told anyway until it’s over.”
The stunned silence stretched on for so long I snorted my disgust. “My father’s a cop—and I’ve spent the past few months working in the morgue. As such, I know a lot of cops. I texted one and asked.”
Sawsauer blanched. “It’s a real active shooter?”
“It’s a chemistry student with a grudge and weapons.”
Judging from the sighs, grunts, and head shaking, my fellow students understood a little too well what might make someone snap and go on a rampage.
The sad truth sank in.
While young, we were all adults facing the world. Some of us for the first time.
The world was often a cold, uncaring place, something I’d experienced for myself, sitting in the back corner while being judged for discomfort only another witch could understand.
It didn’t matter. One day, I might convince myself I didn’t care.
Their judgment changed nothing.
First, I’d survive. Then, I’d go back to life while pretending nothing had happened, finishing my work, scoring at the top of the class to keep Dad off my back, and hoping I wasn’t wasting my time pursuing a career others wanted for me. I understood the why of it.
If I applied myself, assuming I could control my wayward witchcraft, I could do what others couldn’t. Dad was right in many ways.
If I truly wanted justice for victims, I’d do what my magic made me good at, and I’d live with my regrets quietly.
Assuming, of course, that a crazed chemist on a rampage didn’t kill me first. I wasn’t going to hold my breath.
I’d developed a serious case of cursed to go along with my unfortunately strong case of witchcraft.
Fear and hate so often drove people, and I watched with interest as my classmates worked their way towards accepting what they couldn’t change. Some conquered their flight or fight instinct with admirable speeds.
Others didn’t, and their terror undermined the efforts of the courageous, feeding the generalized fear in the room.
Not even I was immune to it. In a way, I was more susceptible than they were.
I remembered what it was like to be shot. My arm still ached as a lingering reminder I’d survived once.
One thrived on the thrill, and I kept a close and wary eye on Matthew Sawsauer. He focused too much of his attention on the three women in our class, and of them, Amalie held too much of his interest for my comfort.
Some men snapped, and others copied the crimes of others for the hit, like death was a drug for their consumption. Few preyed on the weak because they were weak, and I hated those the most.
All my life, I’d grown up around men and women who became beasts, predators capable of slaughter. No matter how violent they became, no matter how many died, I preferred the monsters I understood.
Fenerec lived trapped within the circle of life, struggling to survive in a world unprepared for the truth of their existence. They hunted, they killed, they mated, they died, and they brought new members into the pack to replace those lost.
Some died in the line of duty, as the predators adapted to their hidden secret lives by pretending humans were a part of a large pack in need of protection. It didn’t stop a werewolf from snapping, but the pack that lived to serve, lived longer.
When a wolf went wild, their end came on swift, silent paws.
I envied the Fenerec. They could act, aware it would take more than a mere bullet to stop them.
I could only wait, a solitary scavenger in need of an opportunity to make a difference. Perhaps I was a witch, but until I learned how to use my magic intentionally, I could do nothing against a man with even—or only—a machete.
“How long is this going to take? I’d be done and out by now,” Sawsauer grumbled. “Aren’t there security guards in this place?”
“Matt!” At first glance, I pegged Sawsauer’s friend as a jock, the kind I avoided; resentment wafted off him, almost as sickening as the relentless presence of so many chemical samples in the room. “Chill, man. We’ve just got to wait it out. We’re cool, even the chicks.”
Sawsauer grunted but otherwise remained quiet. It hadn’t been until the jock spoke up I realized what they were talking about. Front to back, except for me, we were as white bread American as it got. I confused people, because I was a mix with enough of Mom’s Italian to trick people into believing I might be the outdoors type with a darker tan.
Some clued in my father was a black man, but when they figured out he was Chief Walker, most shut up. The cops, who didn’t like Dad leading a force of predominantly white men, learned the truth the hard way.
Dad was a force of nature who took shit from exactly no one, and Mom loved reminding him she ruled the roost. As I took after my mother in more ways than not, I yanked his tail for fun and hid behind Mom when I pulled too hard, which happened at least once a day.
Maybe color wasn’t the primary factor in the jock’s statement. Wealth mattered, too. As often as not, I overdressed when I came to classes, taking a page out of Dad’s book. For him, he was always on call for the pack and work, and appearances mattered. My father fought a daily battle against prejudices. I did, too.
We fought our battles in different ways. I didn’t give a flying fuck what people thought about my odd looks. Dad enjoyed crushing misconceptions under a Good Samaritan guise. Whenever he won ground, he came home with a smug smile. When I didn’t visit my parents often enough for their needy liking, he brought his smug smile to my apartment, snatched me, and carted me home for a while.
I liked my life, and I refused to lose it to an ignorant asshat who had no idea he lived among monsters and their offspring.
Only a fool would consider my parents to be safe, human beings. However much I loved them, however much they worked hard to change the world for the better, beneath the surface, monsters lurked, waiting for a chance to come out to play.
I prayed I never saw the day they lost their humanity altogether and became only monsters.
My father loved my mother more than anything else, and it was only a matter of time before his wolf demanded she become a Fenerec, too—and that would be when the Inquisition rose up and put them down.
Nobody wanted a witch wolf around, especially not one as volatile as my mother would surely become.
Sometimes, I truly hated hum
ans, hated being human, and wanted nothing more than to be a little more like my mother, a fire-breathing dragon in disguise. I couldn’t be like my father, which was what my heart truly desired.
From the very first time I’d seen my father as a wolf, I had wanted to walk in his footsteps and howl to the moon. At night, I dreamed of ghostly wolves, waiting for the day one of them joined me for the rest of my life. Reality wasn’t so kind.
Instead of a wolf, I’d have to settle with becoming a sea serpent.
How disappointing.
The incessant alarm was enough to make anyone snap, and Sawsauer paced like a caged animal. “What is taking so long? How could this take so long?”
“Negotiating takes time, and if the police want to take a suspect in alive, it’d be time-consuming and dangerous, especially when hostages are involved,” I replied, stretching my legs so I wouldn’t be tempted to pace, too. “They’re counting all of the classrooms in here as hostages, and their goal is to prevent anyone else from being killed.”
“And what would you know about it, Walker?” he snarled.
“Well, let’s see, braindead. One, my dad is a cop. Not only is he a cop, he’s the Chief of Police, probably here bailing your ass out so you don’t get chopped into chunks by a crazy chemist with a machete. Second, I’ve been at a bank during a heist involving a hostage situation. Have you? Three, I’ve been working at the morgue for months, and you better believe some of those body bags held the corpses of impatient idiots who thought they could play hero and outrun a bullet. A machete is a giant blade meant to cut through wood. It can make a mess out of bone and organ. A knife can kill. A machete is a knife on steroids with enough heft to cause lethal damage easily. If you want to discover first-hand what it’s like to suffer a comminuted basal fracture, be my guest.”
The braindead dipshit gaped. “What?”