by Davis, Jarod
“You just jumped.” Timothy had his eyes on the tendril. He wasn’t focused on it, but it continued to hover on the air. That meant he didn’t have to concentrate to keep it in existence.
“Yes. Yes, I can. Is that strange?”
“You don’t get out much, do you?”
“I’m young,” she said.
“You’re not like a thousand, like the others?”
“No!” she screeched, “No I’m not that old. Why would you think that?”
“Aren’t all demons supposed to be—well, old?”
“That sounds like prejudice.”
Timothy reminded her, “I don’t have a whole lot to go on.”
“Do I look like I’m a thousand?”
“No, but you don’t look like a squirrel either, and you’ve done that too.”
“Huh, good point.” Isis paused, one finger to her lower lip, “How old do I look?”
“I don’t know, twenty?”
“That’s what I was going for!” she clapped, her palms together.
“But you’re not?”
“Nope. I’m eighteen.”
“Eighteen years, right?” he asked to be sure.
“Months.”
“That’s not—possible?”
“Of course it is. I formed eighteen months ago.”
“Formed?”
“Erzu didn’t tell you about all of that?” she asked, “Shame on him. He should have told you. I’ll remind him next time.”
“We had a lot to cover, I guess.”
Isis sounded like a teacher at a science fair, “We form whenever a human has intensely selfish emotion. All of that energy, and we’re created. If it lasts long enough, we become strong enough to hold on. Sometimes we break away and form a new body if we’re really powerful. Sometimes we take the body.”
“That’s how you’re born?”
“Yup. So have you practiced attacking?” Isis asked with a nod at the tendril. Through their conversation, the tentacle curved up, ready to attack.
“No. You kind of interrupted me.”
“Well, try it on me then.”
“You want me to attack you?”
“Uh huh. You won’t hurt me. I promise.”
Timothy thought of the tendrils. He didn’t know how to make them attack, not exactly. He’d moved the pen. This time he tried something similar. He imagined the tendrils striking her, a spear shooting for her shoulder. And it obeyed. He was getting better at control.
The tendril flew and might have hurt her except Isis ducked and twisted around. “Good job,” she said, clapping the flats of her hands like an excited seal. “Now block me.” As she said it, her hands glowed and shifted into talons. “My turn!” She still wore the same thin arms, the same bony wrists, but now they connected to sharpened fingers of something deadly.
Before he could ask what she meant or demand she stop, Isis danced for him, a streak of jumping and spinning motion. She was fast, faster than Timothy ever would have guessed. Like a baseball was flying for his skull, he threw up his forearms to protect his face.
He felt a thud, a slash, and a burning somewhere in his mind. But then he heard giggling, opened his eyes, and dropped his arms. In front of him floated a disk of shadow. A gouge cut down the shield, but when Timothy looked at his arms, he didn’t see any new holes or cuts. Yet a dull pain throbbed at the back of his mind anyway. The pain had to come from some place, but he didn’t know where. The pain came from his shield, Timothy realized, suddenly afraid.
“Impressive again! You’re really good at this!”
“Thanks. What is this? I thought I just did those tentacle things?” He reached out and touched the disk.
“Nope. You’re shadow. You can do anything you can do with shadow,” she said. Timothy decided not to remind her that shadows weren’t supposed to be solid. They shouldn’t have blocked anything. “Now fix it,” she said with a nod at the wounded disk.
“Okay,” he said, blinking back onrushing fatigue. His arms dragged, his body wearing out a lot faster than he’d expected.
Timothy looked into the disk, letting his eyes glaze out of focus. The edges began to melt. Seconds ticked by and he tried to fix it, tried to fill in the rip. At first nothing happened, and he heard Isis skipping back and forth, bubbling impatience. After a few seconds, he could ignore her and he didn’t hear her pink sandals scrape against the ground. Instead he didn’t think about anything and he could feel the motion, momentum of the disk’s edges pushing back together.
When he reopened his eyes the shield floated, solid and healed.
“Well done! You’re so good at this!”
“Thanks,” but he sounded weak. He tried to stand and his legs shivered beneath him.
“Are you okay?” Isis asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. Her fingertips were cold, cold enough to bleed through his coat, his shirt. He shivered against her touch. “You look pale.”
“Tired.”
“You shouldn’t be. Did you eat before you came out here?”
“No.”
“Big mistake.”
“What? Why?”
“Doing that stuff takes a lot of energy. You should go get yourself a hamburger or something before you pass out.” She chopped down with one hand, severing the tendril of shadow. It dispersed, broken like fog versus wind. “And have a good night.” She shifted, that same burst of light. A cat took her place and scurried off, scampering through bushes, back to the street.
Timothy felt empty with the kind of hunger that made everything dull and stiff. He was okay to drive. He hoped he was okay to drive. Back in his car, he pressed through intersections, back down Fair Oaks to the closest sandwich shop. Generic and corporate, it was cheap and almost healthy. He went inside, his arms wrapped over his chest as he tried to think about anything but food. He ordered, watched the sandwich guy put his food together, and then paid, shaking with impatience the whole time.
Timothy took tray and paper cup, got something to drink without bothering with ice and fell into a chair. Tearing open the sandwich, he already had it half way to his mouth. The first big bite tasted great. The second big bite tasted like the best ever. In all of three minutes the sandwich was gone. He finished his drink and sat there, stuffed and happy.
“Timothy?” spiked a voice from behind him. He sprang up, back straight, because Jenny’s question sparked like a jolt of electricity.
“Hi,” he said and turned around.
“How’s it going?” Jenny stood there like an angel with a plastic tray, fast food sandwich, bag of chips, and soda. She was normal, a college girl getting lunch, except for everything Timothy felt and knew about her.
“I’m good. I’m good,” he stuttered, hoping there weren’t any stray streaks of mustard on his lips. “Do you want to sit down?” The question fell out of his mouth and that was the easy part. Then he had to wait the two seconds for her answer.
One.
They’d have lunch, and they’d eat together, and he’d learn more about her.
Two.
No, she was there to have lunch with her boyfriend. She’d smile and say she’d love to but didn’t have the time. Then she’d go to the other side of the restaurant and he’d sit there, the loner shoveling down too much food.
“You don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” Timothy said, more honest then than at any other moment, “Have a seat.”
“Sure,” Jenny said, sliding her tray onto the table. “So are you in a rush or just really hungry?” She took a sip of soda, her eyes still on him.
“Hungry,” he said. “Or at least I was.” The wrapper for his foot long sandwich was gone, and the chips’ bag was half empty. “What about you? Are you off for some big plans tonight?”
“No,” she said, “Not really. We were going to go out, but Terrance had to cancel.”
“Your boyfriend?” he asked, faking a note of carelessness.
“Yup.”
“How’s it going?” Timothy l
owered his voice to show he was serious.
“Okay, I guess. We haven’t really had a chance to talk. I keep chickening out.”
“You’ll get to it.”
“I feel stupid,” Jenny said as she unwrapped her sandwich without tearing the paper.
“Why?”
“Because it’s just a conversation. I need to talk to him and start learning more about him, you know, the way you said. And I really think you’re right. This’ll be better. We both really care about each other. But then I haven’t done it.”
“You’re both probably busy.”
“I guess. But I think a good relationship is where both people make time for each other. Or is that dumb?” she sounded curious.
“I don’t know.”
“Have you ever been in that kind of situation? Where you’re scared of talking to someone?”
Timothy decided not to remind her of five days ago, in the laundry room, saying hi and running away like a worm from a mob of angry chickens. Instead he said, “I’ve been there.”
“What happened?”
“It was a girl. Thankfully, I learned to talk to her.”
“That’s sweet.” They ate for several seconds.
“Can I ask you something kind of personal?” he promised himself he could use this information, that he needed it because it could help protect her. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know how. She nodded. “What do you believe? I mean, with death and everything?”
“Wow.”
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want.” Obvious, he still felt the compulsion to say it. “I mean, I know it’s kind of personal.” She told him she’d answer whatever he’d like. “Do you believe in heaven?” It was a risk, like maybe she could see through the questions. All of these dots could form a picture for her.
She could realize he was a demon.
She could think he was insane.
And Timothy didn’t know which was worse, but he looked at her and the hunger to know her pulled at him. It felt too good, too good to hear her voice and hear her answers, to listen to her view of the universe because it seemed like nothing could be really wrong through her eyes. “Yes,” she answered, “I do.”
“Do you believe in angels?”
“That one I’m not so sure about,” Jenny said with a shrug.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t trust Hallmark.”
“And you think they made up angels?”
“I think,” she said, careful with each word. “That it’s a nice idea. And I want to believe it, but then I’m not sure that makes it true. Like I’ve never seen one. I’ve never even met someone who’s seen one.”
“But there are people out there who swear by them.”
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Jenny answered, her eyes on him. Her concentration was on him too, Timothy realized. She enjoyed this, he thought. It scared Timothy a little. She sounded like an explorer while he felt lost. “Mass murderers think they’re doing the right thing. They swear by killing people. Fervent belief doesn’t prove anything.”
“But the people who believe in angels usually aren’t insane.”
“How do you tell the difference?” that was the sharp question, the one which someone like Jeremiah would have loved. “I know it sounds dumb because we always want to use common sense, but seriously, how do you tell the difference? You have two people. One says she believes in angels. The other says she wants to drink the blood of the innocent.”
“Shouldn’t it be obvious?”
“Not if you are really honest. What proof do you have that one is insane aside from the fact you know you want to agree with the nice person?” Jenny shook her head. “That’s not evidence; it’s just believing what you already expected in the first place.”
“So no angels?”
“I don’t know. Call me an angelic agnostic.”
“What about really good people?”
“I believe in those.”
“You could call them angels,” Timothy said.
“But then you’re playing with the language. I could rename sandwiches babies, so now I’m a horrible monster. But then I’m just someone who likes a little extra lettuce on her baby.”
“Definitely gross.”
“A little,” Jenny said, her smile spread across her face as little ripples of joy or excitement fluttered through his chest and palms.
Timothy had these conversations with Jeremiah, never with someone he wanted to date. Ignoring what that might have meant, “I do.”
“Why?”
“Personal experiences.”
“You’ve seen an angel?”
“Something like that. And I believe in demons too.”
“I don’t.”
“Same reasons?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t believe in demons because I don’t believe in hell.”
“But you believe in heaven?”
“I’m Christian.”
“You don’t sound like it.”
“Meh,” Jenny said with a quick wave of her hand. “Lots of different kinds of Christian, but I believe in God who loves me. And I believe in heaven.”
“But not hell.”
“No, no hell, no demons, no devil.”
“Why not?”
“That would mean someone would have to be miserable for eternity. That’s not the universe I want to live in. Everyone deserves a happy ending. It sucks because it’s hard to think that a murderer doesn’t deserve punishment, but we’re only here for a little while, and we all screw up.” She raised one hand to an anticipated objection that Timothy didn’t even have time to think up, “And I know it’s not proof, but until I get some, I’m going to believe what makes me feel best. I can’t trust Hallmark, but I can trust my instincts, and my instincts tell me I should do my best, be happy, and enjoy it.”
“What?”
“Life,” she said. Timothy nodded with a drag of soda while he considered her thoughts, but that didn’t stop her. “You look like there’s something you want to say,” Jenny said, her chin on a palm.
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure you’re not lying?”
“Yes,” he said.
“I think you’re lying.”
“Why would you say that?”
“A woman’s intuition.”
“Right?”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I’m not lying.”
“Unless you are.”
“True.”
“I can tell.”
“I hope not.”
“Do you have plans tonight?” she asked just before a sip of her Diet Coke.
That almost choked him. Then there was the honest answer. He didn’t have any plans if she wanted to do something. He’d cancel shuttle flights, put off the Second Coming, and reschedule his three wishes that genie owed him. But Jeremiah would’ve been proud because Timothy managed, “No, not really.”
“I’m going out tonight with some people. Maybe you could come?”
“Sure.”
“It’ll be me and Terrance, then Jessica and I think she should really get out because she just broke up with someone, but I don’t think she wants to be a third wheel.” That was honest, but Timothy needed a lot of willpower to keep from flinching. Instead he smiled and nodded and said he’d be happy to help. Somewhere he imagined Jeremiah laugh at that exact moment without any idea why.
“You’re a girl,” Jeremiah mocked, flicking through different channels he wasn’t watching even as he scanned his laptop. Running through data, Jeremiah could mock his roommate and search for something to grab his fascination.
“You’re a jerk,” Timothy called back. His dresser was messier than usual, every drawer only half-shut, unfolded clothes spilled out as he’d already rummaged through his entire assortment of pants and shirts at least three times.
“It’s not a date,” Jeremiah reminded him, his voice almost a shou
t from their living room. “You don’t need to be pretty.”
“You’re still a jerk,” Timothy called back.
“Her boyfriend’s going to be there.”
“And another girl.”
“Then it’s a double date!” That time Timothy ignored Jeremiah. He had a couple options on his bed, and he almost wanted to laugh because he’d never been like this before. Job interviews were easy. First days of jobs and classes were simple too. But not going on a date with Jenny and things got tough. “It’s a double date, and you’re with the wrong girl!”
“Shut up.”
“Truth stings, I know. But you need to accept it.”
“You think I shouldn’t go?”
“Oh no,” Jeremiah said. “You should definitely go, but go and know what you’re about to face. You have to brace yourself, man.”
“What’s that exactly?”
“A happy girlfriend with her happy boyfriend. Then you need to figure out their weakness and what you can do to accelerate the rate of their romantic decay.”
“I won’t hurt her.”
“Is it really hurting her if there’s a better guy waiting for her?”
“I wouldn’t be better if I tried to break them up.” Timothy said, scanning the different combinations and nothing looked good. That probably had something to do with the fact that he didn’t know what he’d be. Formal, informal, office casual, fun Friday, it all felt wrong. “She deserves to be happy,” he shouted back.
“Sounds like a conundrum then. You have to be a jerk to be the good guy who gets the girl in the end. You remember that saying about nice guys and where they finish, right?”
An exasperated sigh didn’t make Timothy feel better, so he put on a shirt and some pants. He combed and gelled his hair, then went back to the living room, ready to leave. It didn’t matter, so it didn’t matter what he wore. He was a guy. It wasn’t supposed to matter, and it was scary that a girl could do this to him. It didn’t even matter that she had the soul of an angel.
Timothy got through the living room, his hand almost to the door when Jeremiah said, “Go back. Wear shorts and randomly pick a t-shirt. Right now you look like you’re ten and going off on your first pretend-date.”