by Ramy Vance
↔
“EGYA AND I ARE FRIENDS,” I said.
My words were coming out jumbled and slurred, like slushy ice pouring out of a machine.
The girl in the bathroom nodded. “That’s because you’re drunk,” she said, and from her slushy machine-style slurring, I could tell she was drunk, too.
“You’re right,” I said. “I’m getting over a boy. Hence this dress.”
“You look gorgeous, by the way,” said the stranger whom I’d just met in the toilet of the club. And even though we’d just met, I knew we’d be friends forever.
If I remembered any of this tomorrow, that was.
“Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”
“Who?”
“Audrey Hepburn.”
“Like I said, who?”
“You know, Miss …” then I realized I was talking to some nineteen-year-old mortal who’d probably never even heard of Audrey Hepburn, let alone any movie she had starred in. “Never mind.”
“Whatever. So you and Iggy are just friends?”
“Eg-ya,” I said. “And yes, friends. But tonight he’s acting all weird. You know, in that way that guys get when they’re interested in making whoopie.”
“Making what?”
“Whoopie.”
The drunk girl gave me a blank look.
I sighed. “Ella Fitzgerald?”
“Ella who?”
“Never mind.” Remember her tomorrow or not, we weren’t destined to be friends, as I could never break bread with someone who didn’t know Ella. “The point is, we’re just friends. And now that I’m single, he’s all ‘opening doors’ and being polite. No more stupid jokes. No more irritating snickering.”
“And that’s a bad thing?” She turned to the mirror to reapply her lipstick.
“Yeah. I like the snickering.”
“You just said it was irritating.”
“I know, but it’s what makes him him.”
She turned, pointing the lipstick at me like a lecture stick. “Are you talking about that tall, dark and handsome man you were dancing with out there? The guy with the dark-gray blazer?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s hot. Great dresser, too.”
“Yeah,” I repeated. And it was true. When Egya returned to our dorm twenty minutes after running off, he wasn’t wearing that ridiculous 70s suit anymore, having traded it for something a lot more elegant and modern. A beautiful wool blazer and pristine khakis, black shoes with a hint of red in them and no more gold chain.
He looked amazing. As in, stutteringly so.
“What’s the problem?” the not-going-to-be-my-friend-tomorrow girl asked. “Super-hot guy. Looks like he’d be a tornado in bed, too. Go for it.”
“But we’re friends. And my boyfriend …”
“Ex.”
“Ex-boyfriend. We just broke up, and besides … Egya is my …”
“Friend,” she echoed. “You know what friends are? The lovers you wish you had if you’d just get out of your own head.”
Inexpertly wise. “And what if it ruins our friendship?”
“Better that than die wondering.” She pursed her lips against a sheet of toilet paper. “How do I look?”
“Like Brigitte Bardot.”
“Are you foreign or something? You keep referring to people I don’t know.”
“I guess so,” I said. “But not from another country. Just another era.” Did I really just say that out loud?
She narrowed her eyes before popping her lipstick back into her purse and heading for the door. “You’re weird,” she said, turning to look at me from the exit. “If super-hot guy likes you despite that, then go for it, because most guys would go running.”
I shrugged. “I think he actually likes my kind of weird.”
“Marry him, girl. Marry him.”
↔
I STEPPED out of the bathroom and back into the thumping bass of 50 Cent’s “It’s Your Birthday.” Walking over to our table, I saw Deirdre on the dance floor, flailing her arms and legs about like a toddler being instructed to do so by a clown at … well, a birthday.
Fae dancing.
It’s less about rhythm and more about movement. The more of it, the better.
The dance floor was filled mostly with humans—who gave Deirdre a wide berth—and a few Others who did their own version of dancing. Two pixies were Irish stepdancing completely out of sync with 50 Cent’s song, a gnome hopped up and down in place and a leshy stood perfectly still—the tree creature’s version of tearing up the dance floor, I guess.
There was also the biggest centaur I’d ever seen stepping back in forth in place like he was doing a horse’s version of the Running Man. Seriously—the half-man, half-horse was huge.
And who wasn’t on the dance floor? Egya. He was at our table with a fresh drink in hand. “Another vodka and soda?” I asked, knowing the ploy. Get me super drunk and, wham, bam, making-whoopie slam.
Arrgh, even I get annoyed at my kind of weird.
“Actually, it’s water,” he said. “You’ve had quite a bit tonight.”
So he wasn’t trying to get me drunk; he was being a nice guy. The jerk was making this harder for me.
“Egya,” I started, taking a deep breath. Best to get this out in the open now. “What are you—?”
“When the gods left, the hardest thing for me was losing my sense of smell.”
“Excuse me?”
“My sense of smell. That I couldn’t become a hyena anymore was one thing, but I also lost certain abilities I’d had when I was in my human form. Smell, hearing, taste. It was smell that struck me the hardest. Things were just dull when your nose was no longer a thousand times more sensitive than that of a human’s. It was kind of like suddenly becoming blind.”
“I get it,” I said. “I lost my senses, too. My sense of smell also dulled. I doubt I had your kind of nose, but I could always rely on it to forewarn me of what was coming. As a vampire, I’d take a deep breath before entering a room and the smells that greeted me told me exactly who or what was on the other side of that door before I opened it.”
“And food. Human noses don’t tell you anything about what you’re about to eat.”
“Yeah, no kidding. As a human, all blood smells like this coppery, metallic substance. But as a vampire, everyone’s blood smelled different. I knew how old you were, where you were from, your blood type, if you had any diseases just by one sniff.”
“And what about butts …”
“What?”
He snickered. “Because hyenas are like dogs. Dogs sniff butts …”
Here was the old Egya I knew. I laughed. “Vamps weren’t into butts.”
“Everyone’s into butts.” He took a deep breath. “When the gods left and I lost my sense of smell, I felt like a part of me had been ripped away. I fell into a deep depression.”
“But you’re always so chipper.”
“Chipper? I’m from Ghana, and even I know people in Canada don’t use the word ‘chipper’ anymore.”
“Hey, it’s making a comeback.”
“Sure it is … Anyway, I wasn’t chipper. I was just trying to find a way to be human again. I was doing everything I could just to survive. After a couple years, I got used to things, but that cloud of loss never fully left me.” He took another deep breath. “But now my sense of smell is back.”
“How?”
“I’m never fully human anymore,” he said. “Some things don’t completely leave me no matter what form I’m in. I can smell and see just like I used to. Well, not quite as well I used to,” he corrected, “but damn close. The cloud no longer follows me, and without it dampening my soul, I can see—smell—a path that I did not believe was for me. I’m finally free.” He took a step closer to me, grabbing my hand as he did.
“Free to do what?” I asked, my breath quickening.
He took one final deep breath like he was psyching himself up to kiss me. And I honestly didn’t kno
w how I’d react. He leaned in close, but before our lips met, his eyes darted behind me. “Duck.”
“What?”
In answer, he fell backward, pulling me to the ground with him.
PISSING CONTESTS AREN’T JUST FOR BOYS
A beer bottle came flying past me and smashed on the wall near where we stood. Oh great, I thought, a bar fight. But instead of hearing the usual posturing of boys playing the tough guys, I heard snorts and braying as heavy feet stomped on the linoleum flooring.
Another inner-species fight? Humans picking on some Others or some shit like that. The problem with most of these fights was that Others never fought back, and for good reason. No matter the circumstances, they tended to be the ones that went to jail.
And once in jail, there were enough horror stories about them not understanding human laws and getting terribly long jail terms for simply defending themselves.
It was common practice for an Other to simply take their lumps and leave. Better than getting a three-year sentence for pushing a stupid, testosterone-filled kid back.
That was just one of the injustices of the GoneGod World—but at least it was an injustice I could do something about. I was human. At least, I was now. I could get involved. I could smash some aggro boy in the face, and when the cops came, they’d take one look at my five-foot-nothing, dainty frame and not believe them when they pointed their blood-covered hands at me.
Besides, they weren’t the only ones filled with alcohol-fueled rage.
Oh, hell no. Here I come to save the day.
“Girl, you’re drunk,” Egya said.
Shit, did I think that out loud? Never mind. I gave Egya one of my it’s-about-to-get-real smiles and turned, expecting to see the gaggle of boys pushing some poor Other.
But instead, I saw the massive centaur grabbing two of the pixies as he menacingly advanced on the poor, quivering gnome. Up close, I noticed that he wore a blue, pin-striped shirt from Abercrombie and Fitch. He had style. In fact, he had my boyfriend’s style. He wore a similar Abercrombie and Fitch shirt to the one I had bought Justin for his birthday.
Oh great, I’m so not over him that I’m noticing his shirt in a fight. I could just hear Egya’s voice in my head saying, “Girl—you need to get your head straight.”
Both the leshy and Deirdre were standing up for the gnome, hands out as they shielded the gnome from the centaur.
A minotaur got up from the bar and muttered something in ancient Greek. Even though I couldn’t understand what the bullheaded creature was saying, I knew from his gestures he was pleading with the centaur to calm down.
The minotaur was massive—they all are—and generally speaking, a minotaur and centaur would be evenly matched in both size and strength. But this centaur was something else, towering over the minotaur by three feet.
I ran into the fray and put up my arms. “Dude. What are you doing? You’re attacking an Other. Why?”
“The foolish creature stood under me.”
“So?”
“Centaurs do not like anything standing under them. It is an insult to their kind,” the minotaur said in a very heavy Greek accent.
“I didn’t stand under you,” the gnome said. “I was jumping up and down in place. You stood over me!”
“That’s true, that’s true,” cried out one of the pixies. “Everyone knows gnomes can’t dance. They just hop. In place. Like a bouncing ball.”
“A boring bouncing ball,” said the other pixie.
“My brother,” the minotaur said, “it was a simple misunderstanding. Please, let us not bring more trouble on ourselves. This GoneGod World is already full—”
Before the minotaur could finish his last words, the centaur threw one of the pixies into his chest, which bounced off like, well … a bouncing ball. Then he threw the second pixie at the leshy and charged.
Oh goodie, I get to fight a horse.
↔
HOW DO YOU FIGHT A CENTAUR? The same way you fight any boy when the goal is to get him down as quickly as possible: kick him in the balls. Not an easy feat when dealing with a huge, powerful creature.
Still, he had a huge undercarriage that housed huge … well … boy parts. I waited for him to rear up, and rolled under him. As I did, I noted that both Deirdre and the leshy were trying to grab his arm as Egya jumped on his back. We were going for the old overpower-and-encumber move. Awesome. Now all I needed to do was strike with one well-placed fist and he should go down.
Once the centaur was on his side, we could hold him until he either calmed down or the authorities showed up with horse-sized handcuffs (you’d be surprised what the police carry on them these days).
But when I was under, I didn’t see the expected white fur typical of the underbelly of a horse. Instead, there were green, half-moon shells all over him. They looked like fish scales or … “Dragon scales,” I muttered. This guy was wearing the Other equivalent of a jock strap.
I should have rolled away as soon as I realized my plan wouldn’t work. But I was too drunk and slow. A heavy, hooved foot cracked the floor inches away from my pretty head.
Shit, I wasn’t noticing the kinds of things I should have been when fighting a creature like this. Things like the fact that both Deirdre and the leshy weren’t really able to hold him down. Things like the fact that Egya was parallel to me, also lying on the floor, which meant he’d been thrown off.
I was alone, and all this guy needed to do was keep stomping until he caught a piece of moi.
I tried to roll away, but every move I made was met with a denying hoof that forced me back under. It was only a matter of time. I needed rescuing, and it was only appropriate that the club started playing the dance version of “Waiting for a Hero” when someone tackled the centaur with such force that he fell over onto his side. This guy was fast.
The centaur tried to get back up, but my savior landed one well-aimed fist on the horse man’s face and he was out. Not only was this guy fast, he was strong, too.
I got up, expecting my savior to be some kind of super-powered Other. You know, the Superman equivalent of an elf or a drow.
But when he turned, instead of being greeted by pointy ears or the over-sized black eyes, I was met with a chiseled jaw that would have made Captain America green with envy and the lush black hair of an Adonis.
“Hey Kat. Surprised?”
“Ahh, Justin?”
↔
“AHH, Justin, how did you get so … you know … so?” I fumbled to find the words.
“Like I said, I’ve been training.”
Justin offered me a hand, helping me to my feet. As he did, three other boys—human boys—went for the centaur, making sure he was down. They cuffed the creature with huge ankle bracelets, and one of them put a leash around the still-downed centaur’s head.
All of them, including Justin, wore the same army-green shirts and cargo pants with an emblem of three circles interlaced. The only difference was that with the World Army’s logo, there was a dove carrying an olive branch.
Memnock Securities did not pretend to hold such values.
Still, they shared the same basic logo, and I found it odd that the two organizations—one private, one not—had the such similar emblems.
“What’s going on?”
“I’m part of, um, campus security. We patrol the area and deal with upstarts like this guy.”
The centaur was coming round. I braced myself for another fight—some kicking, something. But as soon as the centaur realized what was happening—and who was doing it to him—he just stood up and, hanging his head low, let the boy-soldiers lead him out.
The centaur knew these guys. Had faced them before. And unlike when getting into a fight with a super-powerful leshy, changeling, minotaur, two pixies and a couple humans, he knew he was outmatched.
What the hell was going on?
Justin must have sensed the wheels turning in my head, because he shot me one of those smiles he used when he did something impressive
and knew it (usually the smile he gave post … ahhh, whoopie, the cheeky bastard). “We got a rep going. Training is intense, but we’re making a difference. Anyway, I got to get this guy to processing, so …”
“So … you got to go,” I said with a wee bit too much yearning in my voice.
Justin started to walk away, but stopped and came back over to me. “You know, things ended badly, and I’m sorry. I said things I shouldn’t have. Getting over you was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”
“And you just took down the biggest centaur I’ve ever seen, so doing hard things is kind of your thing.”
He chuckled. It was good to hear him laugh. “Yeah, maybe. But I just want you to know, I’m not angry. Not anymore. Going through all the shit I went through with you showed me my purpose. I know who I want to be now.”
“A soldier?”
“A man who will make a difference. Other and humans—we’ll eventually figure out a way to live together. But not any time soon. We’re going to fumble our way through this, and while we do there will be lots of these kinds of encounters. The world needs people like us”—he gestured at the two of us—“to help smooth things over. So thank you, Kat. Really, thank you.”
“Thank you?”
“Breaking my heart made me stronger.” He stuck out a hand in a good, sportsmanlike fashion—like we’d just finished a rigorous game of tennis or something.
I looked at it with genuine confusion. “And you want to shake hands?”
“Humph, yeah. Not quite what I meant, but I wasn’t sure what else to do.” He tucked away his hand before he eyes lit up with an idea. “Tell you what? Why don’t we have a drink.”
“I don’t know—”
“Not like that,” he said. “O3—we’re having a party tomorrow. It’s a small thing, really. Just a few friends. Why don’t you, Deirdre and Egya come along?” He nodded at my two friends who were hovering just far enough to give us our privacy, but not too far that they couldn’t hear what we were saying. “During that party, I’ll come up to you like we’re old friends who haven’t seen each other in a while and we’ll catch up. Casual-like and friendly.”