by Davis, Jarod
He spun back up, right in front of Timothy, and thrust his dagger at Timothy’s heart. The steel blurred in the dark. One of the tendrils came down to deflect the blow. Timothy’s second tentacle aimed for the demon’s face, a quick stab that would end this. He didn’t want to be a killer, didn’t want to take a life, but this was a demon determined to eat him. Timothy didn’t know how this demon found him, but it didn’t matter.
The demon slashed out. At first Timothy thought he would aim for his throat. Instead the demon grabbed one of the tendrils with his free hand. They were made of shadow; that shouldn’t have been possible. But it happened. Timothy felt the tension, that jerk of motion and pain as one of the tendrils was trapped in Darkor’s grasp.
Timothy jerked the tentacle back, pulling with a free wrist. When that didn’t work, he stepped forward and punched. Darkor blocked that jab and grabbed Timothy’s wrist; first Timothy hoped that meant the demon would have to drop his knife, but he managed to hold the handle between two fingers. Then Timothy hoped that with the demon holding one of his wrists and a tendril that Darkor couldn’t do anything else. After all, he only had two arms. “You can’t win,” Timothy brought his free shadow tendril around, ready to stab into the demon’s back.
“That’s where you’re wrong again,” the demon hissed, right before he slammed his forehead into Timothy’s face.
The burst of motion and force knocked everything blurry again. It took Timothy a second to realize he was still on his feet. Then he needed another second to remember which way was down, and by the time he looked back to the demon, Darkor charged Timothy again.
Timothy threw up another shield. The knife sliced through that barrier of darkness like it wasn’t even there. It would’ve slammed into Timothy if he hadn’t stumbled back, away from the blade’s sharpened tip.
“You know the irony of this?” asked the demon. “You’re stronger than me.”
“Right,” Timothy growled, too focused on keeping that shield in place. He could feel it begin to break, crumbling beneath edge, force, and ferocity.
The shield would break, so Timothy jumped back and let it fall, but he threw one hand back, a wild shot of tendril. It rushed across the distance, and Timothy felt it stab something. When he glanced back, he saw the demon take another hit, this time to his shoulder. The crack of fractured bone sounded across the air.
“It’ll all heal,” Darkor said as he grabbed the tendril lodged in his shoulder. One motion and he ripped it free.
Ten or eleven yards away from the demon, Timothy knew he was too drained, too bruised. He wouldn’t get away. He had to fight, and there were another few feet between them now. “As a demon, you’d know that if you were to survive. It’s a shame. There’s something fascinating about watching yourself heal.”
Darkor let himself take those shoulder hits. They didn’t mean anything.
There had to be somewhere else. Timothy had to find a weak spot.
Everything had a weakness.
Pulling back both tendrils, Timothy stared at his opponent, searching for somewhere, some spot he needed to hit. The torso wouldn’t work. The arms and legs might slow him down, but this demon was only barely hurt and Timothy knew it was only adrenaline that kept him standing. Last option, Darkor’s head.
With the tendrils free of the demon’s body, the wounds started to close. Darkor’s shirt was torn over his stomach, but the stab wound had almost vanished. And his shoulder still looked raw, but that was knitting itself shut too. Timothy saw his enemy heal by the second. He didn’t know if he saw it through streetlight or with some demon’s sixth sense. But every moment was on the demon’s side.
That’s why Timothy ran forward this time.
He kicked out, awkward and untrained, but it got the demon to retreat a step. When Timothy landed on both feet, he swung with both fists. The demon blocked both hits. His hands were back up with two punches. One ended with Darkor’s fist, the other his knife. Timothy managed to dodge one. He avoided the knife, keeping its point from digging a new hole in his stomach. But he couldn’t keep away from Darkor’s fist. It crashed into his torso. A burst of pain shot through Timothy; the world went white as all of that air exploded from his lungs. But he was close. He’d gotten close. That was almost good enough.
Empty, Timothy stumbled to one knee, knowing he was about to die. He wouldn’t be able to stop Darkor. He couldn’t keep this demon from making that swipe across Timothy’s throat.
But that didn’t stop him.
He got too close to stop.
Maybe that’d be his contribution, Timothy guessed. He’d die right there killing a demon. He didn’t want Jenny to find him. That’s what he thought as the tendrils looped over the other demon’s body, twisting in the air and harpooning back down, right into the demon’s neck.
Resistance, Timothy felt it somewhere at the edge of awareness, like elevator music. His eyes closed, but he still expected the beating. Fists were supposed to slam into him, a steady hail of knuckles that would break every bone until he passed out.
Silence covered everything. Timothy didn’t sense anything but the stillness and gnawing ache from his bruises.
When Timothy looked up, he saw Darkor staring back at him, his hands at the twin spikes jammed into the two sides of his neck. “You,” he coughed. Silent, Timothy hoped the demon would just collapse and die. Motionless, in pain, he watched and his hopes shriveled.
Darkor grabbed the tendrils and ripped them out. There wasn’t any blood, just torn flesh, shiny in the lamplight. In seconds, Timothy could see the red outlines of demonic energy, powers that would sew this broken neck back together. But there was damage, so much damage. He’d need time to put himself back together. That’s why Darkor turned and hobbled off. Nothing spectacular like flight or teleportation, the demon limped around the corner.
Timothy couldn’t get up, couldn’t chase him or finish him off.
Timothy let his head fall to the concrete for a few minutes.
Everything hurt. He didn’t know a body could ache like that. Nothing sharp, just aches blossoming through every finger, hand, arm, every patch of skin. It took him minutes before he could breathe again. That’s when he forced himself to sit up.
Four
It felt like a long time. Timothy couldn’t be sure. It felt like seconds between heartbeats and minutes between each pull of air. He couldn’t be certain. Pain slowed time down and made it hard to think as Timothy pushed himself back to his feet.
Medical attention, he should find a doctor or something. Images of emergency rooms flashed, doctors and nurses and technicians, but they’d ask what happened and he’d have to lie. Then he didn’t know what would happen. Nothing broken, Timothy hoped. He didn’t hear any cracks. He got to his feet and started back to his apartment. If he was dead tomorrow, then he’d know he should have gone to the emergency room.
In that moment Timothy absolutely hated how his apartment complex didn’t have elevators. He really hoped that was illegal. Empty regret didn’t help him as he took one step, groaned a little, two steps, and groaned some more. He didn’t know how long it took him, but every step and he got more confident that he’d be able to get back. He wouldn’t pass out.
He hoped he wouldn’t black out.
One more floor to go.
He’d rest. On the landing, he leaned down, fell onto the concrete steps. He must have groaned, but he didn’t hear it.
“Is someone there?” called a girl’s voice. Damn it, she was still out there. Maybe she came out to stargaze at the haze of light pollution, or maybe Jenny wanted some air. Timothy held his breath and didn’t answer because every modern college girl would make sure not to go into darkened landings looking for random sounds. It turned out Jenny wasn’t that cautious, because she stepped into the light.
“Oh my God, Timothy!” he heard her gasp. “What happened?”
“I’m fine,” he choked out. Talking hurt more than thinking.
“No you’re not. Y
ou look like you went through a blender.”
“I’m okay,” he said again.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Getting up.”
One palm braced against the wall, he felt his legs hold his weight. He turned to the stairs. There were a lot of them, more than he remembered. Where did all of those steps come from?
“Come with me.”
“What?”
“You’re coming with me,” Jenny said, grabbing his arm. He flinched, “Oh, sorry! Sorry!”
“I’m okay,” he said again.
“And you’re coming with me,” Jenny insisted. This time she was slow and careful when she took his bicep and tugged him back toward her apartment.
“Don’t you have to be in bed or something?” Timothy asked.
“Shut up.”
“I’m really okay.”
“You need to sit down. Do you want me to call an ambulance? What happened to you?”
“I’m fine.”
“That doesn’t answer either question.”
“No, I don’t need any help. And I got in a fight.”
“A fight.”
“Yeah. There was a disagreement.”
“You call this a disagreement? What about?”
“Food.”
“You fought over food?” Jenny sounded like she couldn’t decide between disbelief and anger. When they got to her apartment, she opened the door for him and helped him inside. If he were honest, he’d admit he let her drag him there because the attention felt better than any painkiller.
“Something like that,” he said with a hiss of air as he sat down.
“Do you want something to eat, maybe drink? We have beer, milk, water, soda.”
“More than we’ve got.”
“You don’t have drinks?”
“We’re not good with groceries.”
“Boys,” Jenny said with some extra exasperation. “Probably why you don’t have the sense to go see a doctor.” She came back with an icepack, but instead of giving it to him, she kneeled in front of him and touched it to his forehead.
He flinched, pulling back from the sting. “C’mon,” Jenny said with a teasing smile, “You can take it.” Exhaling the pain, Timothy blinked when she touched that ice against the bruises again. “Is ice even good for something like this?”
Timothy felt his brows tighten, “You don’t know?”
“I’m not much of a nurse,” she said. “It hurts, doesn’t it?” This time she was quiet, and he knew he’d hurt her feelings if he lied.
“A little.”
“You’re such a liar,” but there wasn’t any anger there.
“Mind if I just sit here for a while?”
“Stay as long as you want,” she sat on the opposite chair. Leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, Jenny looked like someone with a question. She licked her lips and asked, “Can you talk? You won’t break anything, right?”
“Shoot,” he said, leaning his head back, eyes pointed at the ceiling. A distraction from the hiss of bruised skin would be nice. Maybe she knew.
“What’d you think?”
“Of what?”
“Me and Terrance.”
“Evasive,” Timothy said before he realized that might be a mean answer. Maybe he couldn’t help what he thought about the douche bag boyfriend, but he could control what he said.
“He wouldn’t answer my questions.”
“No,” Timothy agreed, “he wouldn’t.”
“What’s that mean?”
“He’s in Witness Protection?”
“Very funny. I’m serious. What’s it mean when I don’t know anything about my own boyfriend?” This bugged her, something female Timothy couldn’t completely understand. Then again, his understanding didn’t matter. It bothered her, so he had to try to help her the same way he had to breathe or blink.
“I think it means you should talk to him when you’re alone.”
For a little while, she didn’t answer and he didn’t have any more advice. Timothy concentrated on not clenching every time he touched his melting ice pack to a hot patch of raw skin. Everything still hurt, but the cold made it numb. A few minutes and he would be able to face the twenty steps up to the next floor. Sitting there, Timothy got pulled away from thoughts about his pummeled body and back to Jenny because she didn’t say anything. He watched her as she stared down, watching a chunk of carpet.
“Are you okay?” Timothy asked and almost flinched because that was one of the lamest questions he’d ever asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Whose turn is it to lie now?”
“No, really, I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound it.”
“I’m just—thinking.”
“About?”
“Terrance,” she said. He could’ve guessed, but the concern on her face stung just a little more than it should have. They weren’t dating, Timothy reminded himself. They were barely friends. Sitting with her could feel great, and leaving could be like ripping of a band-aid, but those feelings didn’t mean anything. The universe wouldn’t care. “Something occurred to me and I think it scares me.”
“What?”
“I’m not sure I really love him.”
“What makes you say that?” Timothy could feel himself getting sucked into a conversation where it would be his job as friend to remind her of what made Terrance such a great boyfriend. Timothy could’ve been taller, richer, smarter, more mature, funnier, and more sensitive, so defending another guy who already had his girl felt the same as a punch to the face. In fact, Timothy half-wished he could pretend Terrance was a giant jerk and leave it alone.
But that’s not what Jenny wanted to hear. It wasn’t what she needed to hear either. She wanted a friend, someone who’d tell her the truth. He exhaled and swore he’d do the right thing. He wouldn’t be Jeremiah and sabotage her relationship or attack the jerk with the Super Bowl-winning-luck to be with her.
“I think about us. And—it feels—hazy. There’s something wrong?”
“Hazy? Like how?” Timothy could be a good friend and help her talk through her feelings.
“Like I’m just not sure what I feel.” Jenny fell back into her chair, her fingertips at her temples. “No, that’s not right,” she said, her eyes pinched shut. “It’s like I think about why I should love him and nothing comes up. That doesn’t make sense, does it?”
“Not really.”
“How do you tell if you’re in love?”
Timothy couldn’t answer at first. He needed a few seconds but didn’t have a good answer. Forced to say something, he guessed, “Um, you just know it?”
“And if it doesn’t make sense? What if you wake up thinking about someone, what if he treats you really nice, and you feel comfortable and safe around him, but that’s it. Shouldn’t there be more? Shouldn’t our likes and dislikes come in there somewhere? Shouldn’t I have to know something about him?”
“I guess.”
“You’re really not good at this, are you?” The tension disappeared against her smile. Still, Timothy knew that was fake. She was freaked out, scared her relationship wasn’t real.
“You’re asking a hard question,” Timothy said. “I mean, how do you prove any emotion? How do you know you’re scared or happy? It’s just something you know.”
“But you can usually find a cause, right? You’re scared because it’s dark, or there’s a guy with a knife. You’re happy because you found a diamond or cured cancer. I’m supposed to be in love, and I don’t know why.”
Timothy thought of drugs and ignored the idea because it was impossible. “Are you willing to accept the human heart is mysterious sometimes, and there are things you just can’t control or understand?”
Jenny tilted her head, “No. That’s kind of dumb.”
“Yeah. It is.”
“Have you ever been in love?” she asked, her tone serious.
He swallowed. They had talked their way back into d
angerous questions. “Yes.”
“How’d you tell? How do you know when you’re in love?”
A bunch of obvious and easy answers popped into his head. Timothy had a thousand different ways to repeat what he’d already said about hearts and knowing without thinking. But that’s not what she wanted and needed to hear, and he couldn’t lie to her about something so important, “I guess there was the obvious stuff. Like I wanted to spend time with her. I’d think she was beautiful. Not just hot, but really beautiful. Seeing her made me happy and nervous and excited in ways no one else could. And I’d think about her all the time.”
“I get those feelings about Terrance.”
“And there was something else too.” Timothy stopped, taking seconds to make sure this is what he should tell her. “I got curious.” Talking in the past tense was a lie.
“Curious?”
“Yeah. I guess this is one of those things you could say makes me a freak.” He didn’t even hear himself talking about the present, talking about the girl sitting four feet away. “I get curious about her. Like I want to know everything about her.”
Timothy stopped and let himself drift through the thousand trivial details he wished he knew. “I want to know the obvious stuff like where she went to school, if she wants kids, but then there’s everything else too. I want to know her favorite color, her favorite drink. I want to hear about what she thinks about when she wakes up. I want to know what makes her happy, what makes her sad and angry. I want to know all of her favorites, why they’re her favorites, what she does when it rains, and what she wants. There’s just everything, and I don’t get bored with any of that. That, for me anyway, that’s love.”
“That’s sweet,” Jenny said. And Timothy thought he heard something else there too. If he had the luck to win every lottery, that extra sound in her voice would’ve been desire. “Thank you,” Jenny whispered. “Thank you for being honest.”
Timothy showed a smile. It was small and nervous. “I just told the truth. The truth that made me sound like a stalker.”