Marked by the Demigod

by Alessa Winters

  AIMES (9:36 AM): Weird bad. Like something is sitting on my chest and is almost weird to breathe. No fever tho.

  KATYA (9:36 AM): Shit.

  KATYA (9:37 AM): Coming over.

  Aimes leans back against the pillows, and the pillows are wonderful and everything she wants in the world.

  AIMES (9:40 AM): I don't wanna get out of bed.

  KATYA (9:41 AM): It's okay, I can pick locks.

  And that's not comforting, but Aimes just sets her phone down and drifts off for a few seconds. The weight presses her right down into her bed and closes her eyes for her without any effort on her own, dragging her back down.

  After what is probably a few minutes, there's a scraping at her front door knob. The mortified part of Aimes tells her she should get up so her neighbors don't see, but all she succeeds in doing is grabbing her bathrobe and shrugging it on over her clothes.

  A worrying amount of time later, the door clicks open with only a muffled curse from Katya and...

  A flurry of movement, of fabric, and the undeniable sound of a gun ratcheting and the safety clicking off.

  "What the hell?" Katya snaps from the other room, her voice sharp and high. "What the hell?"

  Aimes blinks up at her ceiling and strongly considers letting Katya deal with whatever it is, before climbing to her feet. "Katya?"

  "Here." She snaps out from the other room. "What the hell?"

  Holding onto the wall so the weight doesn't drop her down, Aimes shuffles to her door-frame.

  Sitting on her couch like he owns it, is Jake. He also looks like shit, his long hair disheveled and his face pale and gray. He doesn't glance at her, just at Katya, who's in impeccable weaver stance with her side pistol trained at his face.

  Aimes leans against the door-frame, blinking through the feeling of moving through Jello. "Oh." And she slides down the door-frame until she's sitting on the ground.

  "Aimes, is this your 'Jake'?" She holds the gun steady, the white of her eyes visible on all sides.

  Jake just looks bored, leaning his head against one hand.

  "Uh." Aimes starts. "Uh yeah."

  "Jesus Christ." Katya spits out, eyes narrowing. "Iakov," she says, her voice bitter.

  He nods. "Katya. Long time no see." His voice is...different. Warm, like something was missing and...with a heavy accent.

  "I thought you didn't come over to the States." The conversation is casual, but her tone is anything but.

  He shrugs, and pain seems to bleed directly to the pressure in the back of Aimes's rib cage. "Not on any passports you track."

  Katya stalks over to Aimes, the gun never wavering. "Can you stand up?"

  For the first time, Jake's eyes snap over to Aimes. It's like a chord is struck, like the moment one first hears a note of a favorite song, and it's hard to breathe again. "Um. Um, yeah, I think."

  Careful, Katya fits the pistol back into the side holster, leaving it unclasped, and grips Aimes around her elbows, hauling her up and guiding her to the ratty armchair. Jake watches, eyes sharp and hooded. "Okay, you okay?" She asks, feeling her forehead, maternal. "Hard to breathe?"

  Aimes nods.

  Katya spins and faces Jake. "Someone shoot you?" She asks, matter of fact, the government practice slamming over her face like a mask. "Bronze or Silver bullet?"

  He shrugs, and the pain echoes back. "Bronze."

  "Jesus Christ, this was not what I was expecting on my Thursday." Katya mutters, before abruptly crossing to the kitchen and pouring a glass of water. "Aimes, his name is Iakov Khovanski, not Jake." Her voice is weary.

  He nods. "Jake is a nice Westernization." His accent is thick, and Aimes just stares.

  "You got shot?" She blurts out, shrinking back into her ratty armchair. "Like, shot shot?"

  He sits up straighter for a second, flicks open his jacket. A stark white bandage, with an obvious large bloodstain, wraps around his torso. "They were...unhappy I didn't die."

  "Aimes," Katya starts, her voice low, as if he wasn't just feet away, "Aimes, he's dangerous." She brings the glass of water to Aimes, her motions quick, decisive. It's only the months of knowing her that Aimes can see the near panic bleed through each movement.

  Jake - Iakov - waves his hand, and settles back into the couch, dismissive. "Not right now I'm not," he grumbles.

  Katya ignores him. "Remember how I told you he can't die because of you?" At her nod, she continues. "This is what happens when someone tries to kill him."

  "Tries," he repeats. "And would've succeeded, may I add."

  Katya briefly closes her eyes, then stands up straight. "I need to report this," she pulls out her cell phone and --

  --And with a wave of his hand, the phone crumples in Katya's hand, glass crunching to dust. "Nope." He pops the 'p' sound.

  Aimes jumps back then winces at the weight. Iakov winces with her.

  "No one should know I'm here, not in your little government...thing." He rasps, pressing a hand into where the wound is, which is...right where the weight sits behind Aimes's rib cage. He locks eyes with her again. "I have...vested interest that no one finds out who she is."

  Katya stares at him, then deliberately sets the ruined phone on the dining room table.

  Faced with the reason her life's been such a clusterfuck lately, her mouth is dry. Like all the things she wanted to say withered and died in the face of his gaze. "Why didn't you call me?" She blurts out, sudden, after the moment stretches on far too long.

  He blinks, like that was the last thing he thought he'd hear. "What?"

  "I gave you my number," she whispers, cause talking is fucking hard. "You could've texted something."

  Confusion briefly flits across his face before he molds it back. "Didn't think you'd figure out what happened," he says, soft, and his voice flows over her, soothing despite the bullshit. "I wasn't exactly expecting you to meet up with Little Miss Government Oversight here." He nods at Katya without breaking his gaze.

  "For fucks sake, she lives in one of the biggest centers of not-normal beings in the nation, someone was gonna find her." Katya snaps. "Aimes, drink the water, you'll feel better."

  Out of the lack of anything else to do, Aimes sips, and a briefly tender look crosses Iakov's face. "One could hope, though," he says, leaning back with a suppressed grimace of pain. "If I let you go, Katya, will you leave me out of the report?"

  "No," she says, immediate.

  "Can you leave out my name, at least?" He complains, voice almost petulant. "There are people in your department who want me dead, and so they'll want her gone."

  It all feels so clinical, and Aimes curls up her knees to her chest on the ratty armchair, a bubble of panic in her throat.

  Katya narrows her eyes. "Who."

  Iakov finally breaks the eye contact with Aimes to stare at Katya. "People," he says, deliberate. "I will go into it...later." He gestures at Aimes, at her curled up position and what was probably obvious distress on her face. "Can we, can we recover a bit?"

  Recovering a bit sounds nice, and Aimes nods.

  Katya doesn't sigh, but her shoulders slump fractionally, and she sits at the dinner table as if the strings are cut off. "Aimes, do you have food in here?" She asks, her voice soft.

  "Trixie has my groceries, we were shopping when..."Aimes gestures at Iakov, who smiles, impish.

  "Fuck." Katya scrubs her face again, "Fuck it, I'm ordering take out."

  One incredibly awkward meal of Chow Mein later, Aimes feels a bit more human and a lot sleepy.

  Iakov and Katya hiss at each other in a whispered other language, Russian or something, and she just can't give a damn. The cause of all the bullshit is in front of her, and they won't even speak a language she knows.

  She closes her eyes, letting the rough syllables wash over her, lethargy slipping around her and into her bones. She didn't even know how he got into her apartment, or why he decided to camp out on her couch and --

  One of her cats meows, loud, and the language stops abru
ptly. Katya with an incredulous face and her...Jake...raising an eyebrow as the small cat strides up and butts his head into Aimes's hand in a rare show of affection.

  Jake - Iakov - leans back on the couch, lines of weariness across his face. "You didn't strike me as someone with pets," he says, his voice dipping into the accent. Still, he dangles his hand down and scritches the small cat’s back.

  "My friend takes care of them when I'm gone." And then, "who are you?"

  He raises the other eyebrow, setting his bowl aside and leaning forward, a spasm of pain crossing his frame. For a second it's like nothing else in the world exists and it's just the two of them, staring at each other.

  It's a long moment, before he sighs, giving Katya a side-eyed glance and breaking the moment so quickly it's dizzying. "It's better if you don't know."

  "Bullshit." Aimes snaps, and she's so incredibly, deeply, bone tired. "That's...no. I don't work that way."

  "Aimes..." Katya murmurs, soft.

  "I don't, I don't want to just be kept --"

  "I'll tell you more when you rest." Iakov interrupts.

  Aimes clutches the bathrobe to her closer, but the weariness seeps in, far stronger than before. "You were the one that was shot."

  "Yes. That's why I'm here. I thought I would...leave before you woke." He sighs, leaning his head back, the long lines of his throat moving.

  A sudden, vicious stab at that thought, and he raises an eyebrow, as if he can tell. "Please don't." And her voice even sounds weak to her.

  His face softens, almost, but the expression disappears so quickly she might as well have imagined it. "I have a lot to discuss with Katya here," he says, voice laden with sarcasm. "You could sleep for a few days before she's done with me."

  Katya's shoulders tighten at that, as if she wants to spring away at his words. "Go ahead and gets some rest, I'll stay here."

  Hours later, so long that the light outside turns dim and gray through her window, her bed dips and she stirs, opening her eyes.

  Iakov settles gingerly next to her, and they're face-to-face, close in the dying light. The bandage over his chest bleeds vivid red, stark. "Go back to sleep," he mumbles.

  She scoots over on the bed to make more room, and he slides in, face pinching from pain. "How bad?" She reaches out, touching her fingertips to the hollow of his throat, over the bandage.

  His hand covers hers, large and warm. "I'll live," he whispers, voice somehow cocky in the dim, hushed bedroom. "Go to sleep?" His eyes slip closed.

  She nods, settling her head back on the pillow. She can't look away until the light finally slips to darkness, her hand still in his.

  They both jolt awake with the sound of a key, an actual key, against the front door, and for a second they're frozen, staring at each other with mouths agape.

  "My friend Trixie," Aimes whispers, as she recognizes a familiar voice cursing. "She has a key --"

  Iakov holds a finger to his lips, smiles a large, heartbreaking smile, then...disappears. Gone. No noise, no flash of light, just not there anymore.

  "How ya feeling?" Trixie calls out from the doorway, then, "Wait, what are you doing here?"

  Her heart pounding, Aimes clutches the gross bathrobe to herself and totters out to the main room, where Katya sits, doing paperwork.

  As soon as Aimes comes into view, Trixie relaxes. "Oh good, you're upright. Um," Trixie gestures with the bags of groceries at Katya.

  Katya smiles, all professional and government approved. "I believe we met at Timmy Nolan's? A few months ago?"

  "Yeah, uh, what are you doing here?"

  Aimes collapses onto the couch with a sigh, still feeling like her heart is beating too hard. "She and I meet up sometimes, she heard I was sick and volunteered to bring food."

  Katya raises an eyebrow at her, then looks towards the bedroom, and Aimes tries to discreetly shake her head.

  Trixie shrugs, then goes about putting away the groceries. "But you're feeling better?" Both of Aimes's cat's run up to Trixie, begging for pets and twining around her legs while audibly purring.

  Aimes takes a moment to check in on herself, closes her eyes. The steady throb behind her rib cage has receded to a faint pulse, but her limbs still feel heavier than normal. "Better, I think. Wouldn't want to run a marathon."

  "No shit." Trixie flops onto the couch with her and cuddles in, pulling out her ipad. Both cats immediately pile onto her lap. "Did I wake you?"

  Aimes shakes her head, then nods. "Sorta. I was in bed since like noon yesterday, so you're 'kay."

  The crumpled dust of Katya's phone catches the light on the table, a stark reminder of yesterday. "Hey Katya, that cute guy you introduced me to a few days ago, do you have his number?"

  She quirks an eyebrow. "He didn't give it to you?"

  Trixie elbows Aimes, soft. "A new guy?"

  Aimes shrugs, feeling a bit stung for no reason. "Who knows."

  They settle into a quiet lull, and the next time Katya makes eye contact with Aimes, she silently shakes her head.

  Aimes goes back to work the next day, and between libraries, her phone buzzes from her supervisor, asking to see her in the DTLA offices.

  The Downtown LA offices is a bit of a misnomer, as they're tucked away inside a floor of a high rise, where they rent out a single office and share space for a conference room.

  The boss, Russ, is the stereotype of a Silicon Valley tech guy, who never wears actual shoes but Birkenstocks with socks and day-old shirts. But he pays way more than they'd expect and seems interested in library science. Aimes has met him all of five times, as he usually just emails instructions and plane tickets.

  Russ waves her into his tiny little office that smells too much like feet, and his assistant nods at her without breaking eye contact from his computer.

  "Aimelie, do you want the East Coast Convention cycle?" He blurts out, without even saying hello. "I had a guy out there. He quit."

  "You had me in New York two weeks ago." Aimes raises an eyebrow at him.

  "And they liked you a lot and all the states are gearing up for conventions this season and I don't have any guys out there. You wouldn't have to move, just...go out more."

  Aimes stands , as there are no spare chairs, feeling like something's off. "So you want me to travel more?"

  "Yes, and on the East Coast. Like...once or twice a week"

  "Twice." His assistant mutters.

  "Twice a week. You'll get a 30% boost for travel anywhere longer than 3 hours away and I'll see about writing in something bigger next year."

  Aimes pauses, glancing between the assistant and him, neither of them making eye contact. "I still get two days off a week, then sure."

  Russ claps, and she feels like she just admitted to doing something horrible. "Excellent, can you travel tomorrow?"

  "Tomorrow. Not much notice." She blinks.

  Russ swivels in his chair. "He quit three hours ago, and he was going to talk to the Librarian Association of Maine." He bounces in the chair, unaware that he’s doing so. "We only have three library systems in Maine. We want more."

  Aimes sighs, looks to the unresponsive assistant. "What time would my flight be?"

  He types, bored. "Seven fourteen, eight thirty two, or ten twenty eight out of Burbank. The ten twenty eight would only give you one hour to check in and set up. Return flights for the next afternoon at five ten with only one connector."

  "Were you gonna be out of luck if I said no?" Aimes blurts out.

  "Pretty much." He doesn't look apologetic.

  "I'll do the eight thirty two flight," she says, pulling out her phone. Four missed texts, but she texts Trixie rather than reply.

  AIMES (4:12 PM): Anyway I can beg an airport ride tomorrow at 7???

  Russ swivels back to his desk, in what would be a clear dismissal if he was the type to do that, so Aimes nods at the assistant.

  "You'll get the iten shortly." He mutters as she strides out.

  By the time she gets back to her beat up
car, she's just a smidge bewildered, her mind going into planning mode.

  TRIXIE (4:35 PM): This mean no margaritas tomorrow?

  AIMES (4:36 PM): I sorta got a promotion?

  TRIXIE (4:37 PM): Margaritas tonight?

  AIMES (4:37 PM): Totally not up for margaritas yet.

  She thumbs the other text messages open, two from Evan asking for techie advice and two from Katya.

  KATYA GOVERNMENT (3:47 PM): So I obviously have answers for you now.

  And

  KATYA GOVERNMENT (4:22 PM): Meet at Flasks?

  Aimes leans her head back against the car seat for a brief second.

  AIMES (4:40 PM): As long as I don't have to drink. It'll take me an hour to get there.

  KATYA GOVERNMENT (4:41 PM): Sure.

  She sighs, pressing a hand against her chest, right where the phantom ache still echoes.

  Flasks is empty, devoid of even the blurry bartender, a closed sign flipped at the door. Katya has to unlock the front to let her in, and only the light in the back of the store is on. It's stark, leaving a profoundly uncomfortable feeling like she's walking into an interrogation.

  Katya rests her hands on a LARGE stack of papers, one that leaves a thick feeling in the back of Aimes’s throat. "How are you feeling?" Katya asks, and it's between the edge of friendly and professional, and Aimes sits on one of the booths with a slump.

  "I just got promoted cause a guy at my company quit and my workload got doubled. Maybe." There's a glass of water on the bar, and she gulps it. "It's unclear."

  "Well..." Katya drags out the word. "We finally solved the big mystery in your life right now." She stares down at the pages. "Couldn't have picked a less complicated guy to pick up at a bar, could ya."

  The packet of papers is intimidating. "How bad is it?" Cause his sudden, literal disappearance still stings if she thinks about it head on.

  Katya looks at her, with the blue screen of death eyes. "He's a Demigod with a fucked up family out of Russia." Her official voice is back. "He's not accepted in most non-human societies because they don't trust him or his family."