by Aja James
Until one day, the ducks decided to pack up and swim to another pond to make their new home. The cuckoo couldn’t follow, because it didn’t have webbed feet for swimming. So it stayed behind and watched them go.
Good riddance, the ducks thought. It didn’t belong anyway.
The cuckoo, now old enough to fly, flitted from tree to tree and landed in an eagle’s nest. Because its size was small compared to the newly hatched eaglets, mama and papa eagles didn’t see it as a threat. They did, however, cock their heads at the funny looking bird and debated whether to feed it to their hungry brood. But no, the cuckoo was all feathers, no meat. The eagle babies deserved only the juiciest morsels. So, the eagles allowed the cuckoo to take shelter in their nest high up in the mountains, letting it clean up the scraps that the eaglets left behind.
Until one day, the eagles decided to fly to another mountaintop farther south. One by one, they spread their majestic wings, dove off the jagged cliffs, and soared through cloudless skies. The cuckoo couldn’t follow, because its tiny wings flailed and faltered when the wind blew strong. So it tumbled and crashed head over feet into the forest below, its wings broken beyond repair.
Good riddance, the eagles thought. It didn’t belong anyway.
The cuckoo, now a grown bird that couldn’t fly, waddled haplessly through the darkened woods, where things with many eyes and even more legs crawled around it, waiting to pounce. That was when it met a giant spider twice its size. The cuckoo thought, this is it, this is the end. But no, it was saved by a rattlesnake, who gobbled up the spider in one big gulp. The cuckoo looked into the slitted eyes of the snake and thought, now this is it, this is the end.
But the snake peered down at the ugly cuckoo who couldn’t fly with an assessing glint in its hypnotic, golden eyes.
“If you do what I say, I will protect you from the monsters that lurk in the night,” the snake said to the frightened little cuckoo.
The cuckoo considered its options: be eaten whole by the poisonous reptile or do what it says and be safe. So the cuckoo chose the only option that made any sense, practical little freak that it was, and followed the rattle snake into the woods. And they lived happily ever after.
The end.
See! I can weave a happy fairytale like the best of them.
Take that, Disney!
It’s a wonder I’m not a gazillionaire with all the stupendous ideas I have. Creativity and talent galore. If I weren’t so busy plotting mass destruction, I’d definitely make it big as a serial entrepreneur and showman. Maybe even a politician (but that would just be for the shits and giggles of wielding unearned, bloated power. Everyone knows public “servants” get paid peanuts). Maybe even the President!
President Creature of the Known World. Premier Creature of the Entire Universe.
Those titles have a nice ring to them, don’t you think? Wonder if Benjamin would be impressed if he could claim that his dear-old papa (*cough* sperm donor) was someone so high up and revered in society.
Better than what I’ve really got.
Which is nothing. Not a penny to my name, since I have no name. Mr. Creature, you can call me. It, if you want to get personal.
All the wealth I create, I amass for the Mistress. The properties I acquire are in her name. The humans I employ are paid through her corporations and organizations. The information I gather feed her databanks. Everything belongs to her.
Including me.
You see, when you make a deal with the devil, when the devil is inside of you, fused into your very soul, free will is just a figure of speech. There is no freedom, and there sure as hell won’t be any will. I learned all this the hard way.
In the beginning, I stretched the strength and distance of my invisible leash. I broke her rules just to see how far I could push. Not very far, it turns out. In fact, she was always happy to witness my little rebellions, because it meant that she got to teach me a lesson. And if there’s anything Medusa absolutely loves to do, it’s teaching poor, miserable sods lessons.
Take the General, Tal-Telal, for example.
He was her prisoner for thousands of years. I never met him until a couple years ago; she’s always kept her “beautiful monster” apart from her other treasures. I didn’t see him, but sometimes, I heard him. He’s not a whiner like me when tortured, I’ll give him that. I can’t stand the sight of blood, especially my own. And the General has bled enough to fill an ocean.
But every so often, I hear a furious groan or a fuck-you snarl. It’s like he wants the Mistress to do her worst. Like he’s taunting her even though she (literally) has him by the balls. Finally, the General was liberated a while ago from his prison tower in Japan. And then he was saved again by his One True Love, Ishtar Anshar, former Dark Princess from the Akkadian Empire that the Dark Ones ruled.
Ah, their story is truly the stuff of fairytales. I really can’t compete with that one. Star-crossed, epic, undying, sacrificing, torturous love.
Somebody hand me a Kleenex so I can blow my nose…
Oh, the tragedy of it! The poignancy and drama! And they lived happily ever after too.
Or so they think.
Medusa would never let either of them go. The General is her plaything, and Ishtar is her dear, twin sister. Fraternal, anyway. They don’t look alike except for the dark hair. The Mistress never relinquishes what she claims as hers. Any freedom they believe they have now is merely illusion. As long as the serpent lives, they will never be safe.
No one is.
Why am I the only person to appreciate this? Why is everyone else so stupid? And why am I getting angry and frustrated that people can’t see the truth? What do I care that humans, immortals, and any other living thing on earth are but clueless, unsuspecting lambs led to Medusa’s slaughterhouse?
Whatever. Not my problem.
I have my own more immediate concerns. Like an escape to plan and execute, now that I am no longer constrained by tentacle-like hair and my door is strangely unlocked.
It must be a trap, was my first, second and third thought. But then, I realize that I’m already trapped. I’ve been confined to this chamber for devil knows how long. If the Pure Ones suddenly allow me the freedom to wander about their secret headquarters, who am I to refuse the invitation?
So I hike up my pajama pants (this silk set is the bomb! So smooth and airy against my skin, like I’m wearing nothing at all. Need to get a pair for my hidey holes stat) and head out on a walkabout.
The theme song from Mission Impossible is playing in the back of my head as I slyly slither from my chamber.
DUN DUN, dun dun, DUN DUN, dun dun, DUN DUN, dun dun, DUN DUN, dun dun, beedoododo, beedoodoo…
I slink along the halls with my back against the wall. James Bond has nothing on this cool cat, let me tell you!
Hmm. That’s kind of mixing metaphors… but whatevs.
It doesn’t take me long, however, to notice little eye-like camera lenses blinking through the halogen lights lining every nook and cranny of every hall and doorway. Smile, you’re on candid camera!
I stare directly into one of the blinkers and bare all my teeth.
Pure fuckers. Ruining my time to shine with their surveillance technology.
Having realized the futility of going all stealth mode, I more sedately perambulate down the halls, head held high, shoulders back. If my jailers wanted to drag me back to my room, they can come get me at any time. Until they do, I’m going to explore their base to my heart’s content.
The first door I decide to open actually opened by itself. (I worried rather uselessly that I’d open the wrong door, catch some Mated couple doing the nasty or something equally disgusting, so I walked by several doors without trying the latch).
It’s the Pure Ones’ martial arts training hall, given all the ancient and modern weapons pegged to every wall, and the three pairs of sweat-dripping warriors wielding them. Six pairs of eyeballs lock on mine as I stand there at t
he threshold looking like a jacked up Renfield.
No one says a word. No one throws a dagger, a sword, or any kind of sharp object at me either, so at least there’s that.
“Don’t mind me,” I say with a congenial smile, “just passing through. Carry on.”
Two pairs of fighters do indeed continue their grueling match, completely putting me out of mind. But the last pair break apart, one of them standing still, staring at me, the other walking away to grab a towel. Then, heads toward me.
“You lost, bookworm?”
I blink uncomprehendingly. Is someone speaking to me? Directly to me?
“Are you deaf? Hey, talking to you.”
I look down, waaay down. Because the female (I eye her tiny grape-like boobs and ascertain that it is indeed a “she”, though barely) is five feet on her best day, and I’m six foot six.
Well, not right this moment, I’m not. I’m in my Binu form, so I’m more like six foot two. Still fourteen inches taller than this midget.
I give the “female” (and I use the term loosely) my best haughty Ducal look. (Don’t tell, but my guilty pleasure is historical romance. I inhale those things like chocolate bonbons. On the rare occasions that I indulge in food, anyway. Dessert is always top priority.)
“You know, it’s prejudicial to judge someone by their appearance,” I lecture with aristocratic hauteur. “Just because I’m pale and thin and wear glasses doesn’t mean I’m a ‘bookworm.’ Why, if I labeled you simply based on how you look, I might call you Krillin—”
“Who?”
I roll my eyes.
“Come on! Dragon Ball Z. Krillin is the bald martial artist who’s Goku’s best bud. Always in a bad mood. Shitty attitude. And bald. You’re a ringer.”
I see smoke coming out of her ears as she opens her mouth to speak. So I hastily cut her off.
“Move along, little human,” I say witheringly. “I am no more lost than you are found.”
Her elvish face scrunches unattractively. I assume she’s attempting to give me a ferocious midget scowl.
“Weirdo,” she mutters, shouldering past me on her way out of the training hall.
“You have no idea, my sweet,” I call to her back.
Whereupon she raises one fist with middle finger extended, her shitkickers echoing angrily down the hall.
Hmm. But she does have a juicy little ass on her. And a very trim waist. I might be as generous as to call her figure hourglass if not for the deplorable lack of tits. And the buzzed head and strange, munchkin features.
“You shouldn’t stir Liv up,” a male voice said, “she has a hard shell, but she means well.”
I turn to the speaker and almost stumble a step back. It’s the other half of Liv’s pair—none other than the legendary, mythical General himself, Tal-Telal.
“Liv?” I ask reflexively (I tend to ramble when I’m nervous), “what kind of name is that? But I suppose it’s better than ‘Die.’”
The General’s lips quirk slightly in one corner.
Hey! He stole my look. My lips quirk in just the same way. I call it my squirk. As in, Sexy Quirk.
What? I know how to be sexy. I just don’t like sex. Or at least the sex that involves more than one person. Mindless zombies don’t count. They’re almost as good as masturbation. But I digress…
“Liv is derived from the Old Norse term ‘hlíf’, which means shelter or protection. In these modern times, I suppose it’s synonymous with life,” the General answers seriously. “This is what Liv herself explained to me, as her parents and grandparents emigrated from Sweden.”
“Huh,” I mutter, slightly nonplussed by this unexpected tête-à-tête, and with the General of all people! “At least it isn’t short for Olivia.”
He pierces me with those eerie turquoise eyes. The male is blinder than a bat, but for some reason, he always seems to look right into me.
“You don’t like the name Olivia?”
I shrug. Then belatedly realize he can’t see, and reply, “I’ve had some less than satisfying encounters with an Olivia, you might say.”
“Don’t say that in Benjamin’s hearing,” he advises. “Olivia is his mother’s name.”
I know. Why do you think I don’t like the name? Not because she gave birth to the most wonderful child in the universe, but the process of begetting said child was a singular performance I’d just as soon never repeat.
I hate sex.
I shuffle from foot to foot, wondering whether I’m supposed to continue this strange, though not unnatural, conversation.
“Is she one of the fighters here? Liv?” I ask, since I haven’t thought of a better topic to move on to.
The General nods.
It’s hard for me to refer to him by any other name but “the General,” even in my own mind. At most, I might use the full name—Tal-Telal. Tal by itself seems too personal. Too close. I might care about someone I called Tal, as much as a thing like me could care, anyway. Because he’d be real to me. The General is just a legend. Not flesh and blood. Someone who endured undiluted agony for over four millennia. Who is still suffering the consequences, even if they are no longer physical.
I should know. I’ve been there. I’m still there.
It would be so easy to feel a connection to him, this living, breathing, flesh and blood male who suffered more than anyone I’ve ever known in the history of the world. So I cut that shit right out. Empathy is for losers.
I can’t afford to lose.
“Yes,” he replies to my question, “she is one of the human Chevaliers we train in the war against immortal, and sometimes human, threats.”
“Are you supposed to tell me this top secret stuff?” I needle.
He tilts his head elegantly to one side.
I don’t know why I ever thought the male less than resplendently magnificent. Yes, he has more scars than skin. Yes, he’s blind and stripped of his Gift.
But he’s the fucking Tal-Telal!
Lack of empathy doesn’t mean I can’t admire. That’s what people do with legends. He practically oozes confidence, strength, leadership, determination, and pure sexual maleness out of every pore. If I were an unrelated female between the age of sixteen and six hundred, I’d do him. And I don’t even like sex!
“You’re here at our base. You know who we are. And even if you look like Ere or Binu, or whoever else you pretend to be, you are who you are. You’re one of us. So…how does that expression go? ‘The cat’s out of the cage.’”
“Out of the bag,” I correct him blithely, even as my heart beat so fast at his words “you’re one of us” it would have rammed out of my chest if not for the barricade of my sternum. “Though out of the cage makes more sense. And the alliteration is a nice touch.”
The male squirks at me. Holy shit! He even squirks better than I do.
I’m entirely certain there’s something wrong with me for finding him unbearably sexy. Hero worship. That’s what this is. I have a severe case of hero worship. Way to go, me! Perving on the enemy…
“Would you like to come inside and practice a few rounds of combat maneuvers…Binu?”
I blink alertly at his chosen moniker for me. He can’t see which form I’m in. How does he know I’m Binu today? Never mind that it is in fact the disguise I’m wearing. He almost said it like the actual meaning of the word itself.
The ancient Akkadian word for “son.”
Chapter Eleven: To Stay or Not to Stay
*THE CREATURE*
“I’m not a fighter,” I reply and just barely manage to hide my grimace. “I’m a thinker.”
For some strange reason, I want Tal-Telal to approve of me. Warrior badass that he is, he certainly won’t want to share time with wusses who can’t fight. Just like his daughter Inanna.
Now, how is it that I know this about her?
I really haven’t encountered the Angel of Death, as she used to be known when she was still part of Jade
Cicada’s vampire hive (now ruled by the first Dark King in the history of the race—Alend Ramses), much at all. I know of her, of course. I’ve done thorough research on all of the Mistress’s enemies like a good little minion. I don’t know her. And yet, there are people I feel a strange connection to even though I’m almost certain our paths have never crossed.
I know there was a past before I became the Creature. I know that he comes out once in a while, especially in the presence of Sophia. I know that he is a part of me. He keeps his memories from me, but I know enough about him that I can use him for my purposes.
Like the trip to the Middle East with the Pure Ones recently.
I orchestrated the whole thing, using that part of me to get close to my enemies. I just didn’t predict the possibility of getting captured. Although, now that I’m here, walking around freely within the Pure Ones’ base, maybe getting captured is exactly what I wanted. I’m so brilliant sometimes, I surprise even myself.
But back to my “other self.”
Yes, there are uncontrollables like not knowing what he says, thinks or does when he takes over my body, but he fulfills his purpose very well. I am the master at playing people. Like chess pieces on a board. Just because a persona is a part of me, inhabits the same body, doesn’t mean I can’t still wield it like any other piece.
That is the role of Ere.
I believe he’s the part of me that contains the memories Before Creature (or B.C. as I like to abbreviate it). I wonder what they are. If I had access to his memories, I’d be able to use him so much more effectively. But they’re locked up tight. So tight, I wonder if Ere himself can access them. There are whispers though…
I know things, even though I can’t put them into words. I feel things that don’t fit my current self. Like knowing that Inanna isn’t interested in anyone who can’t fight. It might not describe her now, but it described her at some point in her youth, I’m certain of it. And knowing that I’ve known Sophia Before Creature. I know that she meant something to me. I just don’t have the memories.