by Jasmine Walt
The teller slides the receipt across to me, and I fight to get my mind back on the day-to-day tasks that keep my life running smoothly. I've got better shit to do than pretend a weird dream means anything.
11
Reza
I wake up alone. Damnit. She's already gone for the day, and I haven't yet been able to talk to her. Her smell lingers on my skin, whatever form I wear.
Maybe it's for the better. If I were to appear before her now, no doubt she'd get the wrong idea and try to call the police. She'd never listen. Maybe I need to insinuate myself into her life as someone she'll listen to a different way.
There's a handful of men's clothes in her closet, remnants of Evan's; they smell like him. I throw on a pair of jeans and a shirt and step onto her porch. I can still feel the protective barrier, though it's weak. Hopefully, she won't notice that I'm barefoot and have none of the other trappings of her society, like a wallet or phone.
A little, beat-up car parks across the street, and she steps out, the sun dappling reddish tones into her hair subtly. She looks up at me, surprised to see someone so close to home.
I take a gamble. “Hi, miss? We spoke last night. You told me to come by today—”
“About the dog?” she asks, taking a stab of her own. She bites her lip, recognizing that she was drunk enough that she might have given her address to a stranger. Or at least, she can't rule it out. She doesn't look happy with that realization. “He's yours?” she finally continues, her face falling.
“Yeah. One of the boards in my fence was rotten. You've seen him?”
“One? I'd have thought he'd have to knock out three or something. C'mon inside then,” she says, hurrying to open the door. I think it's as much an excuse to look away and hide her emotion as a real desire to not leave me waiting.
But something else pricks in her eyes under her uncertainty: recognition. Shit.
“Do I know you?”
Just say it. Just open your mouth and say “Yes. You've been providing me a place to stay for a few days, and I believe you might be hurt for your kindness. You see, that dog is a demon who can take several animal forms, but who is predominantly a man. And there's a demonic war brewing, and other demons hunting him…”
Like she'd ever believe that. I open and shut my mouth but can't quite find a place to start. Especially not once she leads me into her front room, where the stripper pole gleams bright.
“No? I know it was a stupid idea. Guess you've just got one of those faces. I'm sorry—I'm blanking on your name.”
“Reza.” Her eyes trace my face, taking in my odd-colored eyes and birthmarks. One of her eyebrows cocks slightly, and a half smile pulls at the corner of her mouth.
“I'm Alisa. And yeah. I found the beastie. What the hell happened? His shoulder was all torn up.”
“Maybe it happened when he was digging out of the fence?”
She shrugs. “What's his name?”
I can't think of how to answer that. I need to ease her in, but questions like that will just become awkward down the road.
She shrugs. “Never mind. It's not really any of my business. I've just been calling him Ballad or The Big Guy.” Every time she says it, the words roll off like a compliment. Hearing her name me with that affection warms me clear through.
“Where is he?” she asks, bemused. “I'm so sorry. I must have left the back door open. The yard's fenced, but it's a decorative one, not a privacy or security fence. He must've wiggled out.” Her eyebrows knit together—maybe she perceives that she's let the dog down by allowing him to escape. “Is he usually that fidgety? Does he usually take off like that?”
I shrug and give her the most winning grin I can. “He's a rambler, I guess.”
Her brows lower further. “Have you thought about having him fixed?”
That again. “If I can't handle him with his manhood intact, I don't deserve to be the one handling him, do I?”
She bites her lip, plainly taking offense. “I don't know much about dogs, Reza, but I've heard that it calms them down. And if he's running like this, it's probably boredom. My yard's not huge, but he also hasn't spent a lot of time outside since he hasn't been feeling well.” She hesitates, steeling her courage. “What's your excuse?” she finishes tartly.
“Easy, sugar. Not side-eying the care you've taken of him.” I glance at the toys. “You seem like a good samaritan.”
She rubs her temples as though her head aches. Her instincts warning her of something? I automatically reach out to sweep her hair back gently and take over massaging her face. It might not be an appropriate social grace, but it's gratifying that she lets me. “Are you okay? Has everything been okay over here? Anything…weird…going on?” I brace myself for the bit that's gonna sound strange. “Anyone weird?”
She rolls her eyes. “No more than normal. I just—I live hecticly. And with what I do, I spend a lot of time watching my back. It's just me being stressed. Happens this time every year.”
“Why's that? What do you do?”
She ignores both questions. “So you're from Mulberry neighborhood? I'm assuming that, based on where I found the Big Guy.”
I shrug, not knowing how to answer. She takes it for unfriendliness. Her eyes flick to the clock. “I'm sorry, really, but I've got to get ready for work. I have your number to call you when he turns up. Or do you want me to help you look for him now? I've got a half hour or so, if I skip showering…”
Her fingers are sketching a shape on the arm of her couch—that same protective pattern. I take her hand, and automatically, she keeps sketching it on my palm. Her eyes widen and her shoulders pull back; I might be on the edge of getting slapped. I can't make myself care, though, not with her magic roaring through me. It feels like being doused in hot water after spending the night outside during the winter. My skin goes to pins and needles with the power. She finishes the design and prepares to start again, but I enfold her fingers in mine. Her hand feels so small, so fragile. I've got to find a way to make her see.
Her eyes dart to mine, intrigued but frightened. She's still biting her damn lip. And that erodes the last of my inhibitions. I direct her face up, just enough to ease my mouth over hers. She gasps into my mouth, and her fingers tremble in mine. I kiss her slowly, tenderly, needing to know she feels as safe as I can make her. “Thanks for taking care of”—I start but have to correct myself halfway through—“him.”
She blinks and pulls back, her lips flushed and parted and her breath coming fast. It arouses every predatory instinct I have. I'm not the only one feeling that raw magnetism. If she only knew I'd seen her work that pole, heard her breathless moans as she stroked her clit in fast circles…
I lose myself in the moment, only to come crashing back to earth. She stands, plainly intending to show me to the door. “My pleasure, Reza. And thanks for not being a dick about the pole.”
She smiles, and I smile back, and in that moment, giddy with the force of her influence, I'm hers. The collar in my pocket isn't a shackle, but a bridge.
12
Alisa
I show the handsome stranger out. He seems the type to want to stay as long as he can. Perhaps he's just antisocial and bad at taking hints. Perhaps he saw the pole and figured I'd be a pushover and he'd have my legs wrapped around his waist in another five minutes. Or perhaps he's just lonely, and I'm the first friendly person he's spoken to in fuck knows how long. Not really my business to ask. But I can't miss work, and no matter how I might play it off, I am anxious about Ballad's disappearance.
Sure, some of it might be embarrassment—Reza is, well, unorthodox-looking, not conventionally handsome, but he makes up for that in this raw…power. Or masculinity. He walks with an easy confidence and machismo, smiles with undeniable charisma… I'd guess he's a genetic chimera from his disparately-colored eyes and the distinctive birthmarks, but to see him in action, you'd never believe any woman could turn him down. He doesn't carry himself like a man who surely must have been picked on for his strange appea
rance.
Everyone says people look like their pets, right? He looks like Ballad, I think to myself then snort. Maybe that's how they found each other. He looked at the litter of puppies, picked up that one, and said “I like the cut of his jib”, while stroking the edge of one of those mirror-image birthmarks.
A flight of giggles overtakes me. What the hell is wrong with me?
More importantly, why the hell did I let him kiss me?
See, I've been around the block a few times. I may not be a stripper or a whore, but in most people's eyes, I'm basically there. A sugar baby, a gold digger, a slutty dancer, maybe even a homewrecker—fairly few of my benefactors actually volunteer their living situation, and I never felt it was my place to ask, or that they would answer honestly. Most men, the more they learn about me, the less they want to. Either they cut their losses and run, or they become hypersexual. After all, if my whole existence is defined by my sexual availability, surely that means I'm available for them, too.
The nice boy you go on several dates with and only kiss a few times suddenly tells you all the things he wants to do to your ass, mid-date. The grad student who previously complimented your ability to keep up with him intellectually and enjoyed your spirited debates suddenly decides you're an “airhead” and not smart enough to do something with yourself. He makes mean-spirited jokes and then tries to get you to blow him in his car when he takes you home. The shy boy opens his mouth more and more to voice a steady stream of deprecating comments about how you should take the whole check, since money just falls into your lap without you even having to work for it. The laid-back man who complained about all the other women who wanted something serious turns the flirtation on overdrive, post-revelation, convinces you that because it's casual, you two are on the same page, and then—whether or not you come to an agreement to sleep with each other—never calls you again.
I still keep myself in the running, because I don't want all my interactions to be transactions. But I also don't hold my breath. And I've learned to pay attention to the red flags. I've got my whole life to find someone who wants to see all of me, and I'm in no rush to put myself in a bad situation.
My black mood costs me dearly. I do end up skipping the shower and driving around looking for Ballad. But I can't find him. Eventually, I run home for my work bag and throw on makeup as quickly as I can manage it. I may not need to buy Ballad's food for much longer, but I've still gotta bring in some money. I'm not gonna call out of a shift because some stranger rattled me.
I always knew his owner coming back was a possibility. I shouldn't be this attached to the dog. But as I go through the motions of prancing around and pushing other people's party moods higher, all I can do is hope he'll be there on the back step when I get home.
13
Reza
Her mark glows on my hand to my enhanced sight. Unwittingly, she gave me the best gift she could: the opportunity to get away. Before it fades, I could go to Eren undetected.
But most certainly the story of how I got there would circulate—no way the other guests in the Well would fail to notice her sigil, and they're a hotbed of gossip on an uneventful day. They would inadvertently cue the Reapers in on how they can find her. The Reapers take losing their quarry personally and tend to hold tight to grudges.
If I go back now, I'll drag scrutiny and hellfire onto her. Maybe even get her killed.
I need to persuade her to come with me. I need her here, where I can protect her.
I can't risk something happening to her. My conscience couldn't bear it.
I pace on her doorstep well into the night. One of her neighbors gives me the stink-eye. The moment his back is turned, I drop back into the canine form. No one else notices I'm not staked outside.
The hunger is just getting bad when Alisa pulls into the parking spot in front of her house. She looks exhausted, and instinctively, I put my paws on her shoulder to sniff her face. Has she been drinking again? She nearly buckles under my weight and picks up my paws to put them back on the ground. “Couldn't stay away, could you?” She ruffles my ears and heaves a sigh of relief. “Someone was here today looking for you, big guy. Can you smell him on me?”
She smiles, and there's something a little wistful and hungry in it. The strange attraction I felt face-to-face with her…she felt it, too.
She hooks her fingers in my collar as she gropes in her purse for her keys. But I'm pressing forward, almost pulling her off her feet. We can go, now. Together. She can be safe. If I can just get her to the gate.
She tugs hard on my collar, killing my momentum. The key's in her hand, and the door's open. She strains to haul me inside, and because I don't have it in me to truly fight, lest I hurt her, she manages to get me over the threshold. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” she asks, a little out of breath and more than a little confused.
I could change, try to convince her. But if I did, she probably wouldn't believe me. I'll come back tomorrow as myself and try talking to her again, when she's not in shock at me appearing, naked, in her home as she would be if I showed her the transformation now.
She wraps her arms around me, planting her ass on her front room's floor. She buries her face in my neck, and it takes a moment for me to realize she's crying. Tormented by indecision, I freeze. Finally, she lets me go. “Now that you're back, I'll give Reza a call in the morning. Tell him he can pick you up.”
Her fingers are digging into her forearm; she doesn't like that idea in the least. Because she disliked me—human me—or because she doesn't want to let me go? It's touching. But she seems too worn-down to deal with it, sweeping imperiously toward her bedroom, leaving her work bag on the floor.
I follow her to bed, wishing I could truly offer her comfort. I never meant to hurt her, never meant to endanger her. She drapes an arm over me and murmurs, “You're going home.”
I never thought I'd be less happy to hear those words.
The moment she's fallen asleep, I let myself fall into my true form and put my hands over hers. She feels so small, so fragile against my back. Unable to bear it, I roll toward her and rest her head on my shoulder. She burrows into me with cute, little nuzzles. She fits in my arms like she belongs there.
I don't know what the hell I should do. I've already said fuck self-preservation; the mark she left me is far too weak for me to attempt the journey now. Maybe I should stay here with her, as Ballad. Take my true shape to tell her she can keep the dog; he'll probably be happier with her.
And then never reveal that shape to her again. Let the demons' wars continue without me. Find a way to pass a message to Eren so he knows I'm safe, but trust him to figure things out himself; he's always been the far more resourceful, though less book-smart, brother.
It's the coward's way out, and I doubt it even would satisfy me. No. What would satisfy me is tasting Alisa's lips again, being able to touch her skin with actual fingers and know she's watching me and letting me.
I'm allowing my feelings for her to get in the way. Better to let the protectiveness carry the day. I'll get her—and myself—to safety. Only then can I consider the position I've put us in. Only then can I try to make her see the big picture and pray that she accepts me as I am—Eren, too. And the Well. That place isn't for the easily frightened.
I don't want to see her innocence and optimism tarnished. I don't want to see her suffer for what was supposed to be a kind deed.
I don't know that we're friends. I don't think I know who she is. I don't think there's anything to my fascination with her other than lust inspired by our close confines and entirely too much intimacy I haven't earned with her. I don't dare address the attraction, lest I have to tell myself how shallow it truly is.
14
Alisa
I can't find Reza's number in my phone, which seems a little weird. How could I not have it? How did he find me in the first place, if he didn't call the number on the flier? I guess he'll drop by to check in or something. Or find me at work, since I appar
ently had him meet me there the first time. It makes no sense that I don't have his number.
Yeah. Definitely not drinking that much again. Too many weird pieces to pick up afterward. What the fuck was I thinking? I go through the morning's motions on autopilot, letting Ballad out while I get dressed to run errands, then throwing a cup of tea in the microwave.
At least, until I go to let Ballad in and find him gone. “Shit. What the fuck, big guy?”
I wince as a knock sounds on the door. Please let it be a neighbor coming to tell me he wrecked their tulips. “Coming,” I yell.
Reza's on the doorstep.
“I swear to hell, I was looking for your phone number. You must be cursed or something, because the beast was just here—”
He cuts me off with a kiss. It steals my breath, and if I was a little less stressed, it'd melt my panties, too. “Whoa, whoa, dude.” I plant my hands on his chest to force him back. “We've gotta talk about your boundary issues. The dog's better trained than you are.”
He grins lopsidedly. “Listen, Alisa… I know how this is gonna sound, but you're in danger. I need you to come with me.”
I laugh. “He's not really your dog, is he?”
“He's—” He struggles for words.
“You're just fucking with me. You saw a drunk girl and decided to mess with her. You're not here for your dog. So why the fuck are you?”
“Please, just hear me out. I'm in danger. And you're in danger, too, so long as the dog's around.”
“Excuse me? You're fucking insane. Lord, why do I always find the crazy ones? Get the hell away from me.”
“Lis, please, just listen. The dog isn't what you think. And they're gonna come looking. You've gotta run. Go into hiding.”