Transitions

by Jesikah Sundin

  The wind created by their movements rushed around Rain and she grinned, enjoying the feel of her hair swishing in tempo to the music. Laughter bubbled from her chest, much the same as it did from Oaklee’s. Round and round they swung, their dresses fanning around their legs, the world gloriously spinning about in a haze of happiness.

  The beat suddenly slowed and Rain lifted her hand and joined the forming carole dance. Fingertips touched in a star as they—the dancers—rotated together in the center. Through the tangle of limbs, a pair of hazel eyes caught hers and Rain’s breath fluttered. The circle widened and the dancers took hold of each other’s hands and continued to step in motion around the center of the dance floor.

  Skylar held fast to Gale-Anne’s hand. He did not dance often, but Rain was glad he indulged his littlest sister. Their glances touched once more and Rain smiled. He was so very handsome, especially in candlelight. Her heart refused to remain calm.

  The tempo changed and the Celtic drums carried her away. She and Oaklee skipped across the floor and continued to reel until the last beat. Her chest heaved for breath when the song ended. Oaklee clapped in appreciation before threading her arm with Rain’s and leading them off the dance floor.

  “Shall we sample more wassail?” Oaklee asked her.

  “Indeed, Your Highness.” Rain smiled. “Mayhap we should stand by the kitchens and request drinks until we fall into our beds.”

  Oaklee’s eyes darted next to Rain just as Rain felt a tug on her dress sleeve.

  “Lady Rain,” Gale said excitedly. “Thank you ever so much for my new doll.”

  “You are most welcome.” Rain smiled in reply. “Did Lake apologize to you like a proper gentleman?”

  “Lake? A gentleman?” Gale-Anne started giggling and turned to her brother, humor fading into a lopsided smile. “My Lord, may I join Laurel and Corona?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  No sooner had Skylar finished when Gale-Anne gamboled to the other end of the room.

  The Hall thundered with activity. But, it all felt distant, removed as Rain took in Skylar’s stately presence. He wore a light-colored tunic, edged in tablet-woven trim in a darker shade. The material draped across his broad shoulders and chest, the sleeves ending just past his elbows. A dark leather belt was knotted loosely around his waist and hung down to mid-thigh. Light brown hair, somewhat rumpled from dancing, fell over his forehead and drew attention to his eyes, which appeared golden in the candlelight.

  Rain’s breath quickened when his gaze locked with hers. Oaklee studied her, then Skylar, then her again. It was almost comical, except Rain felt self-conscious. Flushed from the dancing, she lifted her hands to her cheeks. His forehead wrinkled with worry and Rain bit back a smile.

  “Lady Rain, may I escort you and Her Highness to chairs?”

  Oaklee, her face perfectly serious, replied, “Lady Rain is definitely in need of a chair, My Lord. I fear she might faint at any moment.” The mischievous twinkle in her friend’s eye nearly made Rain laugh aloud. Oaklee angled toward her and asked, her lips twitching, “Is this not so, My lady?”

  “Yes, I do suddenly feel quite lightheaded.”

  Skylar blinked back the concern tightening his features as he offered his arm. Delicately, Rain placed her hand upon his forearm and allowed him to lead her toward the head table. They remained silent and her mind began to wander where it should not. She stole a glimpse over her shoulder at Oaklee, who smothered a smile behind her hand. Her friend could be such an imp.

  “Please excuse me, My Lady,” Oaklee said. “I shall fetch us more wassail.” With a curtsy and a secretive smile, she kissed Rain’s cheek then wended through the milling crowd and disappeared.

  Now she and Skylar were alone. Though not considered improper in a public setting such as this. The entire community chaperoned their interaction, unlike their clandestine moment in the woods and their private conversation by his doorstep. Stalwart friend and refined gentleman, Skylar was the furthest thing from a rascally goat. Oblivious to his own charms, the Son of Wind never failed to make her feel like a woman grown in his company.

  Rain’s fingers tingled where they touched Skylar’s arm and her heart faltered a beat. And then another. She was positively breathless.

  “Thank you, Sky,” she managed to say through all the heady sensations. “You are kind to concern yourself with my welfare.”

  “’Tis no trouble at all, I assure you,” he whispered back in reply. “I am quite selfish, really.”

  Was that humor? She began to laugh when he smiled. Not a ghost of a smile as delivered in past exchanges. No, his entire face had transformed as his gaze lingered on her face. Dear Lord. He was the most dashing man her eyes had ever beheld.

  Perhaps it was all the dancing, or possibly the wassail. But his smile was the last image she saw as the world happily dimmed away to the speed of her fluttering heart.

  MACK

  ***

  Doubt thou the stars are fire,

  Doubt that the sun doth move,

  Doubt truth to be a liar,

  But never doubt I love.

  ––William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act 2, Scene 2, 1603 *

  I love people who make me laugh. I honestly think it's the thing I like most, to laugh. It cures a multitude of ills. It's probably the most important thing in a person.

  ––Audrey Hepburn, Hollywood actress, 20th century *

  Rare as is true love, true friendship is rarer.

  ––Jean de La Fontaine, poet, 17th century *

  ***

  Malibu, California

  Saturday, April 3, 2055

  Year one of Project Phase Two

  Smack!

  A stinging heat spread across Mack’s bare ass. “Woman! Trying to sleep,” he slurred into his pillow. Damn. Something had withered and died in his mouth. A nasty aftertaste coated his tongue and he almost grimaced. Almost. That would take too much energy. Sleep...

  “Get up,” a female voice commanded nearby. One that was deeper, older, and—

  Mack squinted open his eyes and finally grimaced. The light, it hurt. So did the face staring at him with expectancy. “Shit. Kris, what in the hell are you doing here?”

  “It’s my house.”

  He looked at the blurry shadow of his mom who was sporting enormously styled victory rolls in a rockabilly hairdo. That was weird. Had he died and woken up a hundred years in the past? He had to be drunk dreaming. The alcohol still swished around in his brain and filled his eyeballs.

  Wait.

  The girl.

  Did that really happen? God he hoped so. Fuzzy brained, he turned his head to the other side of the bed. Empty.

  “She’s gone. Left hours ago.” A pause. “Cute thing.”

  “Good.” Mack rolled his head the other direction and closed his eyes. He hated awkward hook-up goodbyes. “Go away,” he said into his pillow. “Mack no chatty. Mack sleepy.”

  His mom walked past him and he slid one eye open just enough to ensure she wasn’t going to smack his ass again.

  “Last chance. Get up.”

  He groaned. “It’s Saturday, woman!”

  “You’re the minister for my wedding today. Remember?”

  Mack heard the words but they dissolved into his beclouded thoughts. The alcohol, however, had no problem commandeering his tongue. “Preacher man ... I already went to church last night, desu. The altar was—” A screeching noise scratched the air in a high whine and he covered his ears. “Oh god,” he cried out. Then light—bright, painful, all-consuming light—poured in from the window. He threw his hands to his eyes and hissed. Like the hiss of incinerating ashes. “What is this bright, orange orb in the sky that mocks me with its warmth?”

  His mom laughed and he cracked his eyes into a glare. The sun glinted off her light purple hair and the strand of pearls around her neck. For a moment, she looked wholesome and sweet. He knew better.

  “I warned you.”

  “No, you said ‘last c
hance.’ Not the same as ‘be prepared for your retinas to burn from looking into the fires of hell.’” Mack pushed up to a sitting position and sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m up. Shit. Make it stop.”

  “Hey, he’s finally up,” a woman commented from the doorway.

  Mack cupped his eyes to block the sunlight and peered in the direction of the newcomer. “Hello hot-step-mommy-number-four-to-be.” At least, that’s what he had thought. Wasn’t sure if that’s what stumbled out of his mouth.

  “Yeah, and still drunk.” His mom grabbed his hair and gently yanked his head up with an irritated look. But the corner of her mouth hitched up. An infinitesimal smile. Enough that he knew she was humored. “Shower. I’ll make you coffee. We leave in one hour.” She ruffled his hair, then patted his cheek.

  He stood up and stretched. Lana, hot-step-mommy-number-four-to-be, smothered a laugh from the doorway. Yeah, he was naked. The male form was freaking hilarious. If he had more energy, he’d make a joke. But it hurt. Everything. Hurt. Still, he forced himself to strut by Lana and wink before disappearing into the bathroom.

  “I’ll leave your clothes out on the bed,” his mom hollered to him through the bathroom door.

  “I can see you now, fabric origami master, folding clothes into a swan,” he said, turning toward the mirror. His eyes widened. Lipstick marks flecked his entire body––in two different shades––and he grinned. It happened. All of it. Nice. Now he knew why Lana was laughing.

  Two hours, eight minutes, and forty-one seconds later, wearing khaki shorts and a vintage Hawaiian shirt plastered with floating pin-up girls in awkward positions, he stood before fifty spectators, bleary-eyed and cotton-mouthed. Coffee didn’t help. Nothing helped. Not even Lynden’s accusatory arched eyebrow from the second row. Damn that eyebrow. Damn this whole planet! Especially the sun. He scrunched up his face to block the ultraviolet laser beams.

  That giant ball of plasma was clearly an assassin hired to kill him. Only the wind was his ally. The cool breeze comforted the pounding heat in his head. He wanted to coo with the feel of his feet sinking into the sand. He liked sandy beaches. Broad Beach was especially nice and granular this day.

  Kris, his biological mother, was on marriage number six. She had married her high school sweetheart before marrying his dad. Then, after that, she filed through women as if flipping through the pages of her fashion magazine. He couldn’t blame her. He had the same problem with girls.

  Except, unlike her, he didn’t see the purpose in marriage. It was a patriarchal throwback for breeding purposes. Required DNA recording for permanent biological stats removed the need to prove lineage through clan names and family clusters. A person could beget anyone today and the parentage was recorded while the fetus still swam around in utero. So why marry at all? The march to the altar led to divorce court anyway. Be free little birds. Go play. Have fun. No more mating for life.

  His mom didn’t care. She enjoyed flaunting her marriage status among the Elite. And those status-update hoarders now sat in the sand, staring at him to begin. So he did.

  “Kristin McCleary Ferguson and Lana Huynh are two badass, crazy bitches.”

  His mom gave him the what-in-the-hell-are-you-doing look. The answer: surviving. He needed alcohol stat. Anything. His head was about to explode. She released a fake laugh to placate the spectators then cleared her throat.

  “Mackenzie,” she grit through a clenched smile.

  “Two badass, crazy bitches in love,” he drawled for emphasis, and her gaze softened as she focused on Lana instead of him. A photography drone hovered nearby. A hoard of human photographers moved around like ninjas in the sand. The clicks of shutters ricocheted through Mack’s head. It might as well have been automatic rifles as far as he was concerned. He soldiered on. “They began as friends...”

  Somehow he finished the ceremony. And only because he loved his mom. He liked seeing her happy. Lana Ferguson was officially his hot-step-mommy-number-four. He had given hugs, kissed cheeks, clapped for the new “Partners for Life.” But now it was time to marinate his hangover with something hard and stiff. He smirked.

  God he wished Fillion were here. He’d listen to his bad jokes and innuendos with aloof amusement. But he’d laugh on the inside. Like internally belly laugh as he analyzed every frickin’ word on warp speed. That’s all Mack needed to feel complete. Girls come and go, but making his best friend laugh subvocally?––Priceless.

  Fillion.

  Mack took a mental pause. Since November, Fillion had been sitting in the King County Youth Remand Center in Seattle awaiting trial on charges of employee sabotage. No bail hearing since he was a minor when charges were pressed. No house arrest since his parents were the prosecuting party. Lame. All of it. The worst part? The only visitors allowed were parents or legal guardians and siblings under the age of eight.

  Both Mack and Lynden wrote letters and sent care packages. Despite Mack’s requests, Fillion refused to collect call him and didn’t write back. If that sonofabitch thought he was protecting Mack again... Mack closed the lid to that thought. His head was already pounding. Still, the rant formed.

  Many times he had been tempted to follow Hanley’s slime trail across the Net. Wanting to dig up something. Anything his friend could use to declare a mistrial. Or to make Hanley squirm until he dropped the charges. Trial-related info, not the dirt the collaborative hack already dug up. But Mack knew he was being watched.

  The day after the zombie apocalypse attack on N.E.T.’s servers, Mack’s own system was hit with a nasty spyware virus. It had drilled through all his security barriers effortlessly, which told Mack one thing—it was personal. A hack-back. He thought about hacking back the hack-back. But, in the midst of his fury, his gut screamed a loud warning. Getting him to hack back was the end goal. The temptation. That’s when it hit him. Though he had cleaned up his system, his public profile was still infected. Probably his alter egos, too.

  Since then, he’d been too paranoid to do anything, even incognito on the Deep Web, especially within the underground’s Darknet. After all, the undercover cop who arrested Fillion was from the underground. A honeypot was out there waiting for him on the Darknet. He was sure of it. So Mack continued the illusion that he was a good boy, biding his time until the trial was over. That meant no unsanctioned visits to the underground. No hacking except what he was legally hired to do. Basically, it was the End of Days.

  With a bored sigh, he faced the reception. Rainbow spotted him and moved through the crowd like a feline walking a fence line—graceful, sensual, and focused—all the while ignoring the stares and whispers. The Elite of Elites was among them, the Eco-Princess. Disinterest masked her features until she reached him.

  “Well, that ceremony was all kinds of awkward,” Lynden said, cozying up next to him at the bar. “Kinda like your preppy get-up. What’s going on with that shirt?”

  His thoughts cooled with the distraction. “It’s a vintage 1950’s theme. You know, nuclear family and stuff.” He shrugged. “It’s the up and coming trend says fashionista expert bio-mommy.” He looked at her and deadpanned, “I think I look hella sexy with a pompadour. Don’t ruin it for me.”

  She looked at his hair, dubious. “Remind me never to hire you to officiate a wedding.”

  Mack grunted in agreement and signaled the bartender. “Whiskey. Stout. Three shots of vodka. A pot of coffee. In that order.”

  “Hangover?” the bartender asked. Mack just stared, unblinking, and the bartender patted him on the shoulder.

  “What happened to you after I left the club?” Her gaze floated over his outfit and hair again. He waited for her eyes to settle on his, then he bit his tongue in a silly, flirtatious grin. She pulled a look of disgust with a sound to match.

  “Hairball much?”

  The look of disgust morphed into irritation. “I don’t want to know.”

  “Two words.”

  “Eww!” She covered her ears. “Mackenzie, stop.”

  He pul
led a hand away from the nearest ear and leaned in close, trying not to laugh. “Akai kuchibeni.”

  “Her?!”

  “Damn she was sekushī. Both—”

  Kris hip-bumped him mid-sentence, Lana’s hand in hers. His whiskey sloshed with the unexpected jerk. He quickly picked up the glass tumbler to counterbalance the movement and launched into a monologue of swear words.

  Drink now safe in hand, he turned to his mom with a mock glare and received a mouthful of tulle. He playfully batted away the stiff white lace from his face, pretending to spit it out of his mouth. She pressed her cherry red lips together in annoyed amusement. Both she and Lana had dressed in retro cocktail dresses, the sides of their hair clipped back with giant, glittery flowers.

  For the span of a nanosecond, Kris gawked at Lynden in surprise before kissing her on the cheek. “Look at how beautiful you’ve become! I should put you in my magazine. New York would love you.” She turned to Lana, who was a former model of hers, now photographer. “With that tall, lanky build, I’d say black-and-white Jazz Age boudoir shot.”

  “Definitely. Those eyes. Magnetic.” Lana took Lynden’s chin in her hand and turned her head. “Nice cheekbones, too. And god, the neck of a gazelle.”

  Lynden emotionally retreated somewhere inside her head. But Mack didn’t miss the pain she concealed. The whole world called her the ugly duckling of the Nichols family, which was insane. She was gorgeous in an otherworldly, girl-next-door kind of way. His mommies meant well, but any feature with Lynden would invite commentary and ridicule.

  “I have nice cheekbones, too,” Mack volunteered. “I have nice cheeks period.” He waggled his eyebrows and hot-step-mommy-number-four snickered. But not bio-mommy. She looked like she was on the verge of rolling her eyes with the memory of this morning.

  “My parents wanted me to convey their congratulatory wishes.” Lynden flipped her hair and leaned back against the bar. “They sent a gift, too. Sorry they couldn’t make it.”