The Waif's Tale

by C. L. Stegall

  "Nice," she said.

  "We are who we are. Why not revel in it?"

  "You sure seem to," she said. "Good for you." I grinned a little and waited. Almost as an afterthought, she added, "I'm Rae."

  "Nice to meet you Rae. Like I said, I'm Paris."

  "Paris, huh? Well, you're sure not from around here. That much I can tell."

  "Is my accent showing again? I thought I'd nailed that bitch down."

  "A little. What is that? British?" Her question was innocent and at least she was talking to me. Now, if I could just keep her distracted from her own thoughts.

  "Yes. This is my first time in America."

  "How're you liking it so far?" she asked.

  "Oh, it's tasty, indeed," I replied, to see her raise an eyebrow. "How about you? You enjoying Orlando?" A look of suspicion clouded her face.

  "How do you know I'm not from here?"

  "Wild guess. Most of these fuckers look pretty ripe. You look like you've barely blossomed."

  "You talk weird."

  "Good observation."

  "No. I mean you look, what, sixteen, seventeen? You've got the makeup to add some age—I do it enough to see it on others— but you don't talk like a teenager."

  "What are teenagers supposed to talk like?" I asked, actually interested in her answer. This one was even sharper than I'd thought.

  "I don't know. Not like you, though." She crossed her legs, setting the book she was reading aside to look at me with a more intense stare. I didn't need to slip into her thoughts to know that she was growing wary of me. Then I noticed the scars. There were two of them on each wrist, lengthwise, not horizontal. This kid had meant business. I glanced pointedly at them, allowing my eyes to linger and then back up into her eyes, just as she realized what I was observing. Quickly covering the scars with her sleeves, she began to move away.

  "I tried that once," I lied. She hesitated, her eyes taking me in as if I were a faded photo. Again, she was weighing my sincerity. "In a different way, though. Not that it worked. Obviously. It was more an experiment than any true attempt to shuffle off this mortal coil."

  "Who the fuck are you?" she asked, sitting back down and locking eyes with me. Brave girl. I was starting to like this one.

  "Maybe later in our conversation, I might divulge that. For now, though, I'm curious. What did you see? Did you get close enough to see anything?"

  "What are you talking about?" She leaned in toward me and I knew that I had her undivided attention. Now, we were getting somewhere.

  "Death, girl. How close did you get?" I nodded toward her wrists. "You weren't messing around. So... How close did you get?" I had made her more than uncomfortable. I saw, though, that she needed someone to talk to. Since I was just some stranger with no skin in the game, she decided to play a little longer.

  "Close enough to know it wasn't what I wanted after all."

  "That close, huh? What'd you see? The old bright light bullshit, or something of consequence?"

  "Blackness," she said, turning her gaze out toward some distant, unseen spot in the night sky.

  "That's it? Blackness?" I leaned back and ran my blood-red fingertips through my matching hair. "Well, that sucks."

  "Death is the end. There is nothing after. I know that, now."

  "Nope. I can't believe that," I replied with a smile. I was more comfortable smiling these days, since I had filed my canines down to an acceptable length upon arriving in Daytona. They would grow back in a few days, so I would need to keep up the practice if I were to completely blend in for the time being. My smile, it seemed, perturbed Rae.

  "Why not?" she asked.

  "I've seen far too much to accept that this is all there is. I know far too much to place my faith in some all-powerful dude who supposedly has a plan for each and every one of us. If that's the case, he's running a shit game. I can tell you that for nothing." I let a little of my frustration leak into my tone and Rae eased back into her seat, sliding another inch away. Her actions only made me smile more. "What's the matter kid?" I asked. "You didn't think you'd seen all there is to see, did you? Just because you tried to off yourself and got freaked out by the consequences, don't for one second think that you've experienced even a fraction of what real life has to show you.

  "Real life is not the blindered world you've known," I continued, finding myself on my soapbox, trying desperately not to sound as passionate about it as I was. "It isn't all love and roses, it isn't all death and disease; it isn't reality television or political aspiration. Real life is not knowing what's coming, not knowing if you'll make it through and having the fucking guts to move forward anyway. Life is secrets. Life is loss. Real life is understanding that you don't understand shit and becoming okay with that. Even once you're there, you'll never feel complete. The only thing that keeps a person going, in real life, is not hope. It's curiosity."

  "Curiosity?" Rae interrupted. It was enough to break my train of thought and I wanted to thank her for that. The guy in the Nirvana t-shirt had shifted in his seat and was staring at me. His lust for me had turned to focus more on what I might say next.

  "Yes," I said, my eyes darting from his to Rae's and back again. "Curiosity at what comes next. We don't want to let go of the familiar, but we long for some greater knowledge denied us. Wondering what tomorrow may hold is the true driver for survival in this world. We don't want to miss anything. I kind of think it's arrogance in its basest form. Still, I also think it's in our makeup, our DNA, to want tomorrow more than any release from the excess of misery that today might hold."

  "That's fucking depressing," the guy said.

  "Is it?" I asked, smiling. "I think it's fucking wonderful." I reached up and tugged on the cord that signaled my stop was coming up.

  "You are so weird." Rae's statement held the tone of admiration within it and, although I wasn't certain it was appropriate, I smiled.

  "Thanks," I replied. I made my way to the front of the bus, not looking back at my audience. Once it stopped, I exited without a second glance and danced out into the fading night. I had to prepare my room for sleep. Hopefully, these people understood the principle of the Do Not Disturb sign.

  CHAPTER 11

  1887, The Citadel, Age 10

  T he first year at The School was all about the history and physiology of Valensi, along with what I presumed to be normal classes in English, mathematics and literature. The reading class quickly became my favorite.

  Late in the first year, they began introducing us to martial arts. It was their diehard philosophy that no matter how inherently strong a Valensi was there would always be the need to be able to protect oneself. For whatever reason, I believed there was some unspoken purpose to that philosophy, though it would be many decades before I would learn what it was.

  Amongst the students, there was little knowledge in any form of self-protection other than the better part of valor: running the hell away. Some were better equipped than others to accept their new fate and roll with it. In the first year, out of twenty-eight students, we had lost six. Poor little Russell had been one and I was sad to see him go. Unfortunately, Salem was still with us. It seemed he and I had a wealth of learning potential in martial arts, as did London. We took to it like fish to water.

  London, in particular, was fast, limber and fluid in her movements and that gave her an edge. Salem, on the other hand, was mostly poise and power. I ended up being a mixture of the two: fluid and poised in my style. I did not have the sheer physical prowess of Salem, though. As an eleven-year-old boy to my girly ten, he easily had twenty pounds on me and he was not the least bit shy about using his physical advantage.

  I had learned over the past year that I'd have to adapt quickly and without fail if I were to survive. I had come to the decision early on that my main goal in all of it, that new life being presented to me, was simply to survive. At all costs, I would survive. When it came to our training, I left nothing on the table. I gave it my all and fought with every ounce of
strength and energy I could muster, drawing on the pains of my past for the angst I needed to help me fight better. Sometimes I managed to best London, but I rarely ever one-upped Salem and he never let me forget it.

  "You know the moves but you're too weak. You're just a girl," he mocked one day during a sparring match, "a bratty, know-it-all girl."

  We had been training as much as six hours a day for over three months. My own strength had tripled, yet I still wasn't any match for his size and power. "It doesn't seem fair," I huffed, winded from the exertion, "that a girl my size is up against a boy your size."

  "That's life, Paris," said our instructor, Asaro, as he watched us, making suggestions here and there for overall improvements and better movements and parries. "You will often face someone bigger and stronger than yourself. It is how you overcome that is important. Focus your strength when you strike," he demanded. "Your hands and feet are your weapons, so much more than flesh and bone. Think of them as points of power and let your mind guide that power to each contact with your enemy."

  "What if I can't get a strike in?" I asked, narrowly missing a jab by Salem, who stuck his tongue out at me.

  "Sometimes you must open your mind to the possibilities. Think around your opponent. If he comes at you on the left, slip below, flow to the right. Find that elusive opening. Learn their movements, their weakness and then you can attack the chink in their armor."

  I took a quick step back and shook my arms and legs, trying to regain my focus and wash off the failure I was experiencing. For some reason, a tune began playing in my head. It was flowing and mesmerizing, like the music I'd heard coming from Eastern Europe and Italy in the last dozen years, though also more eloquent. I let the tune build as I stepped back into the bout with Salem. Allowing the melody to influence my movements, I began a kind of dance, intertmixed with the measured movements of the battle.

  At first, Salem smiled and almost laughed out loud at my posture and grace but then he realized, after a few missed strikes, that I had something going on that he wasn't familiar with.

  "Nice," Asaro stated. "Grace. I like it. Use it."

  The other students had been chanting and cheering and yelling out jibes as the two of us sparred; however, there were now only the sounds of our breathing and our footfalls upon the thinly padded floor. I took a blow to the shoulder, though Salem had been aiming for my face. Even in the face of the glancing blow, I let myself flow with the momentum of the hit. I turned and focused my energy into my left hand. As I came around, my concentration was on laying that hand on Salem. The backhanded punch hit him square in the jaw, sending him spinning with its force and surprising everyone in the room – Salem and myself included.

  "Well done!" Asaro exclaimed.

  "Indeed," stated a voice I was unfamiliar with. Whoever it was, at the sound of that voice, Asaro commanded us to break.

  Salem and I stepped back to our separate corners of the padded floor and waited. Salem glared at me, rubbing at his chin. It was by far the best strike I'd ever landed on him – or on anyone, for that matter. I turned from Salem to Asaro, who was shaking hands with two men who looked as dangerous as our instructor himself. I had noticed it in Asaro's eyes the first day of classes, the moment I'd met him face to face. The men carried the same deep darkness within their eyes.

  "Class," the instructor said with a bit of flourish, "I would like to introduce you to Elijah and Garrett, two of our finest Protectors."

  We had learned about the Protectors of the Valensi in our earliest classes. They were the most highly skilled in the ways of stealth and battle. As I understood it, they were assassins who kept the secrets of the Valensi safe from the human world. The two who'd just walked into our classroom looked as if they had been at it a while. The taller one, Elijah, seemed bored. His hair was just slightly graying at the temples, but it did nothing to soften his hard-edged appearance. He kept his hands behind his back, glancing at the other man in unhidden annoyance. Garrett, the younger of the two, smiled at me wide enough to display his extended canines; then again, in the Citadel, such displays were commonplace. We were told that to blend in with the human population, most Valensi kept their canines filed down. The Protectors, on the other hand, didn't even bother to shorten their fangs.

  "That was a most impressive move, little one," Garrett stated.

  Even though I knew it was a compliment, the tone peeved me a little and I spoke before thinking. "Don't call me that," I said.

  His eyebrow lifted in askance and Elijah turned his full attention to me.

  I saw something in the elder Protector's eyes that scared the shit out of me, so I added, "Please."

  Garrett laughed out loud, Elijah smirked and Asaro looked interested. I fully expected a punishment of some sort and prepared myself. Instead, Garrett strolled over to me and went down on one knee to look me in the eyes. "What's your name?"

  "Paris."

  "You've got some fire in you, eh?" He threw a brief look behind him at the other two Valensi, then turned back to me, winking where they couldn't see. "Keep your tongue and your wits about you, Miss Paris. Perhaps you have what it takes to graduate. Allow me to impart this one piece of valuable advice to you. If you do happen to graduate, you can work on your moderation in combat. Until then, never hold back and never give in to your own weakness. Your one goal must simply be survival. Understood?"

  I nodded once.

  As soon as he was sure I did understand, he stood and walked over to rejoin Elijah and Asaro, who led them to the door. It was the kindest, most informative warning I'd been given to date in that place. Perhaps there's hope for me yet, I ventured. If I can manage to keep my mouth shut, that is. I waited until Asaro returned, bowed my head and apologized for my impertinence.

  "I'll say this for you, young Paris," Asaro stated with a shake of his head. "You just managed to boss around one of the finest killers I've ever known. The fact that you are still alive says much about your potential. Don't be so foolish as to think you'll survive another such outburst, young lady. Understood?"

  I did not need to answer, for we were all well aware of what I'd done. I felt the weight of it on my mind in the following minutes of sparring, when Salem knocked me out cold.

  CHAPTER 12

  PRESENT

  I awoke early and ordered room service. The dinner menu was limited and expensive. So I had a burger and fries and washed it down with a cola. I never drank cola much at the Citadel, tending to stick to water or vodka. I had a penchant for Screwdrivers and with my ridiculous metabolism I could drink all day and rarely feel a buzz. Cairo, on the other hand, would try desperately to get drunk. Hell, he even succeeded sometimes. I never had that kind of determination, I guess.

  The thought of Cairo brought back a few unwanted memories. Those days were behind me now. There would be no going back. The Hierarchy would make damned certain of that. As I drained the last of my cola I wondered who they would send for me. They wouldn't skimp, that's for sure. The magistrate would want someone special. If there were one person in the Valensi who knew exactly what I was capable of, it would be him. My former mentor would assign only his best killer to come after his best student. I just hoped it wouldn't be Garrett.

  I shook the thoughts from my head and, glancing at the remains of the nine-dollar hamburger, decided I needed to replenish my funds. I had garnered quite a stash from Robert, post-demise. It seemed to me that someone who carried that much cash on them was one of three things: a financial paranoid, a rich man, or a criminal. My money—or, Robert's, as the case may be—was on the latter. but, that money was running out quickly. Time for a new plan.

  Exiting the elevator toward the lobby, I saw the manager, Liam, standing by the front desk. I figured I might as well kill two birds with one stone. I dallied a minute before catching his eye. With a smile and a nod toward the elevator, I sank my hook into the perv with no resistance at all. I stepped into the lift and headed back to my room. It wasn't three minutes later that there was a k
nock on my door.

  "Hello, Liam," I said, my smile promising lies of many colors. "I can call you Liam, can't I?"

  "Of course, Miss Paris," he replied, entering at my behest.

  "Paris. Just Paris."

  "Okay. Paris." He waited with the patience of Job, standing there, his eyes roaming about the room. It was just past dusk and my curtains were pulled tight with clothespins I'd purchased prior to returning early this morning. His lifted eyebrows conveyed his curiosity.

  "I like my privacy," I said, gliding over to the bed, keeping eye contact. "No one else needs to know my business. You understand that, don't you, Liam?"

  "Of course," he replied, nodding once in a gentlemanly manner. I almost laughed out loud at his false chivalry.

  "I'm glad you came. I've been meaning to get you somewhere private. To talk." I let his mind provide the fodder for the persuasion I needed.

  "I am at your service, Paris."

  "Excellent," I said. "So, strip." I watched as shock flashed across his face for a mere moment before his eyes narrowed and his mouth opened to speak. He stopped himself and began again.

  "Whatever do you mean? Exactly." Liam's concern was glaring at me from behind his false calm demeanor. Within him raged a torrent of desire and it was beginning to make me horny.

  "I mean, take off all of your clothes. I would like to see you naked. Now." The last word carried the air of authority and command that I had spent a century cultivating. It caught him unaware and I loved it. Liam was not an unattractive man. He was tall, a little over six feet and thin but toned. It was obvious that he took care of himself, unlike so many other of his ilk I had encountered over the years. Even within the Citadel—or, perhaps, especially—there were those with the most unsavory of desires. However, with our stamina and healing abilities, very little was off-limits in the want department. Liam would not be a problem.

  "You want me—"

  "Yes. Now," I said, cutting him off. "Let's go, sweetheart. I don't have all night. And, neither do you."