by Ramy Vance
“I only speak the truth.” She looked at me with genuine confusion.
“So you do.” I looked around, seeking to change the subject. Enough about Justin. That would play out in time. “So, what are you studying here, anyway?”
“Biology.” A flicker of worry crossed her face, her eyes darting toward the door. Weed-induced paranoia, maybe? “I’m working on a project to map the Other genome.”
“You say it like there’s only one. Aren’t all Others different?”
“We are. But like humans of different nationalities and ethnicities, there seems to be one common strain. At least amongst the seventy-two species I’ve studied so far.”
“Wow, so the gods … what? Shared the same template when making you guys?”
“Not just us … humans, too. The same four building blocks exist in all life. The only difference is that Others don’t just have two strands of DNA. We have three.”
“What else?” I said, genuinely fascinated.
“Excuse me?”
“You said there are differences. Three strands of DNA is only one difference. What are the others?”
“Oh, yes.” She took another pull on the joint before handing it back. “Other DNA does not instruct decay like human DNA does. And, well, we cannot …” She paused as genuine frustration washed over her. “We cannot reproduce. It seems the gods truly stripped us of our immortality when they left. We are slowly dying, and we can’t have babies to keep our species going. Soon we will all die, and this world will be returned to the humans.”
Her words hung heavy in the air. She was right. In time, every Other in the world would be dead, and with no new life coming through.
“Bastards,” I said.
“Filhos da puta,” she spat in agreement. “But I am working on a way. I just received funding from the World Army and—”
“World Army?” I said, handing her back the joint. “They’re the same guys that turned Justin into G.I. Joe.”
“G.I. Joe?”
“A soldier,” I corrected, not wanting to go into the finer points of 1980s cartoons. “So the World Army is also into genetics.” Government conspiracies and paranoia flooded me … then again, it might have just been the weed.
Isabella must have sensed where I was going with this, and for a moment, I expected her to dismiss me. Instead, she looked around and leaned in close. “Yes. My research is about life. And they fund me well, but yes. It is troublesome.” She leaned back quickly. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
Well, that was intriguing, to say the least. “Said what? ‘Troublesome?’ ”
Her eyes darted toward me, and I’d expected her to look all stoned and easygoing, but she didn’t. Not one bit.
I saw worry. Anxiety. Fear.
And it occurred to me that, only two nights ago, she’d been involved in a hell of a fight with those birds in the forest. And now everything was strangely hunky dory and back to normal.
There’s a lot more going on with her than she’s letting on.
Two of Justin’s frat buddies walked by, and Isabella shook her head. “Perhaps that’s a conversation for another time. When we’re not …” She held up the joint, offering it back to me for another toke.
Is that what people say these days? Toke? The last time I smoked a joint was in the 70s. That word worked back then.
Isabella laughed, and the anxiety left her face. “I think it’s just smoke now. But then again, what do I know? I spent the majority of the last five centuries swimming in the Amazon.”
“Five hundred years? You’re an old lady.”
“I am,” she said. “But I figure once we get past two-fifty, we’re all old.”
I knew this was just an illusion caused by the marijuana, but still, I hadn’t felt this feeling since being a vampire, when my brain really could process everything faster than a human’s.
This wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
“You know, you’re right,” I said. “Two-fifty should just be the new old. And we should be rewarded for reaching that age. I mean, humans get to retire at sixty-five. They get senior citizen discounts and preferred seats and all kinds of benefits.”
“Yeah,” she said, taking the joint. “They reward themselves for being old, but here we are—actually, really, totally old, and what do we get? Weird looks and ire.”
“Ire,” I repeated. “Good word.” I burst out into laughter.
Isabella, taking a cue from me, also burst out into laughter as she handed the joint back to me. “English is my second—actually, fourth language. And of all the tongues I speak, English is the most cumbersome. So many words with double meanings, or that sound the same but aren’t. Take the word ‘two,’ for example. You have ‘two,’ ‘to,’ and ‘too.’ ”
She said all three words in the same way without giving me any indication as to which ‘two’ she meant. Not that it mattered—I got her point.
“Not like my native tongue,” she went on. “Now that was a language. Simple, with no double meanings. You always knew what was meant. Always.”
“Really? Say something in encantadoian.”
“Like what?”
“How about ‘don’t touch my car.’ ”
“We didn’t have cars, but I’ll try.” She lifted her jaw and started making some noises that sounded exactly like a dolphin chirping. “Ee eeeE EeEe eee car.”
As soon as she said ‘car,’ the two of us fell into a laughter so hard that our knees literally went weak as we fell to our knees. I swear to the GoneGods, I thought my spleen was going to explode as I desperately gasped for air.
“That is friggin’ hilarious,” I said. “I can’t wait to tell Egya.”
“Tell Egya what?”
We both turned to see Justin standing there with a bemused smile on his face.
↔
“TELL EGYA WHAT?” Justin repeated, trying to pull off a casual look that said, I want in on the fun. Everything about his posture, however, screamed, My ex and current girlfriend are bonding. This is a nightmare.
Being six feet and change, he towered over us. And given that we were both wearing low-cut shirts, he had to work extra hard to maintain eye contact.
I knew it.
Isabella knew it.
But I wasn’t entirely sure he knew it, because end of the day, he was a twenty-year-old boy with raging hormones, entangled with two girls older than his great-grandmother.
Relishing his discomfort, I didn’t say anything. That was my motivation for silence. Isabella was also quiet, but why? I wasn’t sure.
“Ahh, so … it’s good to see you guys getting along?” he said. I knew it was meant to be a statement, but it came off as more of a question.
“Oh yeah,” I said, giggling. “More than getting along.” I put a hand on Isabella’s neck, and much to my surprise, she leaned into it.
“Ahh, so how’s it going?” he stammered, clearly unsure what to say.
“Pretty good,” I said. “I can see why you like her.”
“Um, yeah. She’s good.”
“Good?” The devil in me was stirring. “What does that mean? Good like how? A good person, or good in … you know.”
“I, ah, just meant that she’s cool. You know. Fun to hang out with.” He looked at Isabella with eyes that pleaded for help.
Her silence offered none.
“So, ahh, I thought that maybe we could, you know, talk or something—”
“How’s your friend?” I asked.
“My what?”
“Your friend. The one with the blue eyes. He looked like he was freaking out. Hopped up on some designer drug or something?”
“Oh, you mean Rory. Yeah, he’ll be fine. He just can’t handle his booze. You know. Freshman.”
I didn’t know which word to take issue with. That he was lying to me about booze, or that he assumed freshmen couldn’t handle themselves. I was a freshman.
Man, weed makes me mean.
Or maybe it just makes me more me.
Either way, I had come to this party to make peace with Justin. That and show him how OK I was without him.
But now I just wanted to go for the jugular.
The thing about ex-boyfriends and getting back at them: it wasn’t the jugular where you wanted to hit them.
“So, Isabella and I were talking,” I said, pulling her in closer, “about the future.” I put a second, suggestive hand just under her breasts.
Isabella was leaning in close. She was playing along. I felt oddly conflicted; I liked that she was helping me mess with Justin, but I also didn’t like it.
Part of me knew Justin and I were over … and that he should move on. Even better if he went with a girl like Isabella. Sweet, kind, funny, pretty. But here she was, helping me hit the boy while he was down.
Justin’s eyes widened with the possibility of his wildest fantasies coming true.
I took a step toward him. Isabella came with me without any hint of protest. Then, leaning in close to Isabella, I made like I was going to kiss her. That would get him going.
Because, at the end of the day, he was a boy with porn-filled fantasies, and I just knew one of those fantasies was getting it on with two incredibly hot creatures of the night.
Given we were both older than most buildings in this country, and he’d witnessed how differently we thought about things, he was probably thinking that this ménage-a-Other was going to happen. And just when he was sure it was a done deal, I’d walk away, leaving him blue in the face and his … ahem, you know.
Only thing was, as soon as our lips were close, she leaned in and kissed me. So much for my plan.
“What? What are you doing?”
Isabella looked at me, confused. “I thought you liked me.”
“No … Yes … Not in that way?”
“But all the possibilities?”
I gave her a concerned look.
She tilted her head. “It’s just that when my lovers were confronted by their past lovers, things often ended with the three of us making peace with the language of the flesh.”
“Making peace? Language? Flesh?” Holy shit, she was going along with it because she was a seductress shapeshifter who was apparently also into threesomes.
Shit, shit … shit.
“Ahh,” I said, embarrassed, “I was just trying to get him, you know …”
“Blue-balled,” Justin offered, an amused smile on his face. “It worked. Then again …” He took a step forward.
“Ewww, no,” I said, giving him a shove. “Look, this was a mistake. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so … so cheap in my attempts at getting back at you. I’m sorry.” I looked at Isabella. “I really am. I … I got to go.”
And with that, I made my way outside, where I prayed that some well-meaning bus would leap onto the curb and put me out of my misery.
BLUE BALLS AND BLUE EYES
“I am never leaving my room again,” I said.
“But milady, you told me that your greatest desire was for life to return to normal.” Deirdre pulled at my duvet. “Normal means going to class.”
“I lied. I don’t want things to go to normal. I just want to sit here and do nothing. That’s not true. I just want to sit here and wait for death to take me.”
“Are you still embarrassed over your welcomed advances? You should be honored that an encantado would be interested in you. In all the realms, their sexual prowess is legendary.”
“Deirdre.”
“Yes, milady.”
“Not helping.”
“I’m sorry, milady. Perhaps this will help.” She yanked the duvet off me, and given that I was holding onto it for dear life, she also yanked me out of bed. “Progress, milady. Now I have picked an outfit for you to wear to your classes.”
She held up a grass-green blouse with brown trousers that oddly went together. Progress, indeed.
“I’m going to have to leave my room, aren’t I?”
“Yes, milady.”
“But I might see him. Or her. Or both of them together.”
“You might.”
“What will I do if that happens?”
“What you always do, milady.”
“And what is that?”
“Face your demons with indomitable courage.”
↔
DEIRDRE GOT ME DRESSED, and the two of us skipped breakfast before making our way down to campus for class. We had missed about five weeks in the semester, which normally would have meant that the semester was over. But we pleaded with the student admin, and eventually they agreed as long as we didn’t miss any more classes or assignments.
I made it into my first class with two minutes to spare.
So far, so good.
I quickly scanned the room. No Isabella. Made sense; she was a biology major studying grad-level stuff. No Justin—thank the GoneGods for small miracles.
One class down, three to go.
The rest of the day was much of the same. Me nervously fidgeting into class and breathing a sigh of relief when I didn’t see either of them. Day one, done. Only about gazillion more until I graduated.
Except day one wasn’t done, because I still needed to get home. An endeavor that immediately presented itself with danger as I saw Justin standing on the steps of the Arts Building with two new buddies I’d never met before. Probably World Army cadets.
Luckily for me, he didn’t see me. If I scuttled past and made a sharp left at the bottom of the stairs, I just might be able to make it past him without being noticed.
I hurried along, not too fast to draw attention to myself, but fast enough that it looked like I was late for my next class. As soon as my foot touched the bottom step, I breathed a sigh of relief … too soon.
“Hey man,” I heard one of them say. “Chill.”
There was a grunt before a second voice exclaimed with a wee bit of panic in it, “Justin, let go. Please.”
Another grunt, and what sounded like scuffling. Don’t turn around, don’t turn around, I muttered to myself, just before not taking my advice.
I turned to see the two cadets trying to hold Justin back as he clawed at the smaller of two. “Dude—what’s gotten into you,” the second guy said. “Let him go.”
Justin didn’t say anything. Instead, he lifted the kid up and threw him down the stairs in answer. Justin’s eyes met mine, but they were devoid of recognition. They were also the same tinge of blue the other kid had at the party.
Turning around, Justin punched the other guy square in the chest, sending him flying back with such force that he flew over the stone banister.
Another grunt as Justin hit his own head three times before rubbing his eyes. A student who just happened to be sitting on the stairs stood up and tried to run up the stairs. He got three steps before Justin grabbed him and pushed him down hard. The kid landed with a sickening crunch.
“Shit,” I said as Justin clawed at a second innocent bystander, and taking my The History of Others textbook, I threw it at him.
It was a thick tome, and smacked him squarely on the back of his head. Normally hitting a human like that would knock him over, maybe even knock him out. But Justin took it like it was a spitball, turning to see who was being so annoying.
When our eyes locked, he growled just before charging at me.
↔
NORMALLY FIGHTING with Justin involved some passive-aggressive snips and maybe a few swear words. But this time, he was trying to hurt me.
And not just hurt me—end me.
He attacked with a berserker rage, as wild swings and kicks came flying my way. Normally these random attacks would be easy to deflect and dodge; after all, I’d studied both aikido and boxing. And winning a fight against a trained opponent needed strategy. He had none.
But there was something more to Justin’s attacks. They weren’t just him taking random shots. There was a rhythm to his attacks. Fast, powerful and methodical.
He wasn’t just taking pot shots at me. He was trying to take me down in a
style of attack I hadn’t seen since my time in the UnSeelie Court, where I had a drow mentor train me in something he called chaos fighting.
The idea was pretty simple: present yourself as chaotic. Wear your opponent down. And just when your opponent thinks they got you, you switch it up.
Of course, I realized it too late.
I ducked under a huge, overextended swing where he exposed his chest. A well-placed punch should knock the wind out of him. But before I cocked back my fist, he brought in his overextended arm and bear-hugged me into him.
I usually liked being this close to Justin, but right now he was squeezing the air out of me. I tried to headbutt him, but given the position he had me in, all I managed to do was ineffectually strike my forehead against his chest. Still, I could resist. Eventually I’d find a way out of his grasp.
He hoisted me up and brought down his own forehead, and I felt my nose explode with blood. The blow was powerful and disorienting. I stopped squirming long enough for him to lower me and resume his powerful embrace.
Justin squeezed. I could feel the last of my air failing me. I looked up at him. His lips snarled as spittles of drool ran down his cheek. His eyes burned with rage housed in an impossible blue … And by blue, I don’t mean in that romantic way. The whites of his eyes were also blue. Just like a drow’s eyes.
Our eyes locked as I tried to push against him, and for a brief second he loosened his grip and said, “Kat?”
Whatever spell he was under had wavered, and I wasn’t about to waste the opportunity.
I pushed as hard as I could, managing to get some distance between us.
“Kat?” he repeated, the blue in his eyes dissipating like wisps of smoke. “What’s going on? Why do you look so scuffed up? Why are you bleeding?” The last question was laced with true concern.
What do you say to someone who just tried to kill you? I just stared at him, using the sleeve of my far-too-expensive Burberry blouse to mop up the blood. He took a step forward, and unsure if he was going to attack again, I went into a defensive stance.