by H. A. Wills
My stomach is a hard mix of feelings: rage over the police’s incompetence, sorrow for Felix, and a sinking weight of helplessness. “Are they at least still looking?”
“Nope,” he spits out. “The case is still open, but until they find more evidence...” He releases a pent up sigh. “Anyway, so that’s really why I hate July. Not just because of the mass death thing, though that does suck. It’s how little anyone seems to care anymore-- you know, outside of you guys. The reason you hate July have anything to do with what I saw?”
I snort; it’s an ugly sound of derision. “Yep. My birthday is July 8th, and my father used it as a benchmark of my progress, I guess. He always got more creative on that day.”
“Not big on birthdays then?” he comments, his voice flat.
I scoff. “No. Not so much.”
“Was what I saw...?” Felix trails off, the anger in his warm timbre leaking away to something far gentler.
“I’m pretty sure it was my sixteenth birthday, though I can’t be positive.” My body grows tense, my hands gripping the mug tight, but it’s with long lived fury, not anxiety. Since Felix already saw what my father did to me, talking about it feels easier.
“I told you it was his go-to until I plateaued, but what I didn’t mention was how furious he was.” Tears drip unfettered down my cheeks. “He did it every night for over a week when he stopped seeing progress.”
My voice grows thick as I confess, “I nearly lost my mind that summer. All I could think about was the pain, and everything outside that basement didn’t exist. I even forgot my own name for a while.”
Felix curls his hands into fists. His expression is broken with grief, but he doesn’t cry-- and that’s when I realize he can’t. He could probably morph his appearance to look like he’s cried, but the release of emotions that comes from crying, he’s incapable of doing as a spirit. How devastating it must be to feel so deeply and not be able to let it out.
I sniff, attempt to wipe the tears from my face, then release a watery laugh. “It’s funny, I think it was going back to school and being surrounded by some semblance of normal that kept me together. During the day, I could pretend it wasn’t real, you know, and everything that was happening to me was just a horrible nightmare. It’s one of the reasons I like school.”
He steps closer to me, and I have to tilt my head back to look into his eyes. He reaches like he’s going to touch my cheek, but stops midway through the gesture, dropping his arms to his sides. It makes me think of what it felt like to be held in his arms while I cried. What it must have felt like for him to finally touch someone after all these months.
“I wish I knew the right thing to say,” he murmurs. He’s so close that if he were alive, I’d be able to feel his breath against my skin. “Kaleb’s the one that’s good with this kind of stuff. I just crack jokes.”
“You listen, and you’re still here. That means a lot.” I give him a bittersweet smile. “Besides, I like your jokes. There wasn’t a whole lot of laughter in my life before I came here.”
“I think I can manage those things. If you want to talk, I can listen.” More of my Felix makes it through when a smirk starts tugging at the corners of his mouth. “So I’m guessing the whole super witch, healing thing is why you laughed about Gina’s rumor that you threatened to...”
“Kill myself? Pretty much,” I snort, this time in genuine humor. “Surprise! Learning my deep, dark secrets earns you the knowledge of how twisted my sense of humor really is.”
“I can work with that. I’m dead, remember? Morbid humor is kind of my shtick.” He grins, his hazel eyes turning bright. “Also, I was totally right. Call it what you want, but having power in all four elements plus spirit means you’re just like the Avatar. I’m so going to rub that in the guys’ faces.”
I return his grin, while shaking my head. “Better pray I don’t have to save the world from the Fire Nation, because I currently have power in exactly nothing until I get this binding spell off.”
“That’s not true. You’re like Kora, when she was-- wait, no, that’s a spoiler. Trust me; you’re just like Kora.” Felix pauses, his elfin features bunching as he thinks. “Hey, you’re also kind of like Deadpool. Crazy healing powers, and you’ve had some decent one liners.”
“Thank you?” My face screws up in confusion. “Who’s Deadpool?”
He gasps-- eyebrows raised high on his forehead. “How do you know about X-23, but not Deadpool?”
“I like the X-men cartoon and some of the early movies, so I read a few of the comics,” I answer slowly, then add as an afterthought, “Originally, I thought she was a reimagining of Lady Deathstrike.”
“You see, first you shock me, then you start talking all geeky to me about comics and rattling off different mutants by name.” He sighs with a playful flutter of his lashes. “Be still my heart.”
I snicker, smiling up at him.
“We have so many movies to add to the list,” he hums with joy. “You’ll love the Deadpool movie, then we have to catch you up on all of the X-men movies, before you watch Logan. X-23 is actually in that one.” He gives me an assessing look. “Now the question is, do we make you suffer through the bad ones like the rest of us did? Hugh Jackman, great Wolverine. The Wolverine movies, not so much.”
A happy warmth fills me, because despite what Felix saw, he’s still treating me like he did before. To him, I’m not a pitiful, broken thing. I’m still the same Callie he knew before the gruesome flashback he witnessed.
Before I can respond, I hear Donovan call our names, and Felix jumps back away from me. It’s only because of Felix’s reaction that I blush, imagining what we must have looked like. Not that anything could happen-- except in my dreams, where he can now go. Nope. Nope. Nope. Couldn’t my friends be slightly uglier?
Donovan’s a few feet away from us. Fortunately for my out of control hormones, he’s rediscovered his black t-shirt and leather jacket since I last saw him.
“Callie, your aunt is up and making what she calls ‘a traditional English breakfast’,” he informs me, making his way over. “If you’re hungry, she said it’s almost ready... though I gotta warn you, there’s baked beans, broiled tomatoes, and she’s fried the bread instead of toasting it. Shit’s weird.”
I can’t help bursting into giggles over Donovan’s dubious expression. While I try to get my cackling under control, Felix mutters that he’ll meet me inside then poofs away. Worry worms its way into my stomach. Are my secrets too heavy for him to bear alone?
“You okay?” he asks when he notices the furrow in my brow.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I hedge. “Or as fine as I can be at the moment.”
Donovan shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. “About that... look you can tell me it’s none of my business and to fuck off.”
My heart picks up speed, rattling in my ears. Is he going to ask point blank? Will he be hurt or angry when I tell him I’m not ready to talk about it?
Oblivious to my internal struggle, he continues, “I was wondering... if you were interested, I could teach you some self-defense. With your magic bound, it might be good for you to know other ways to defend yourself.”
Relief washes through me so fast, I feel a little lightheaded-- or that could partially be because I’m hungry.
Donovan runs one hand through his black, sleep tousled hair. “Witches rely too much on their magic anyway. There’s something to be said for being able to throw a good punch, and...” He releases a harsh breath. “And I’ve heard that learning self-defense helps some people feel more in control after they’ve been attacked. I know it isn’t the same thing you went through, but if it could help...”
“I’d like that,” I blurt, touched by his offer to help.
“Yeah?” he asks with a small twitch of his full lips.
“Yeah.” I smile back, then motion for us to start walking, dumping my now cold coffee onto the grass.
“We can start today, if you want. I do most of my train
ing on the weekends,” he tells me as we walk side by side, close but not touching.
Our physical interactions are very different than the others. He doesn’t pat me on the head like Connor, offer comforting touches like Kaleb, or hang all over me like Nolan. Until last night, there was always purpose in every gesture. A hand guiding me through the halls to keep me from getting lost. A quick grab to keep me from falling on my face if I tripped. Maybe, the occasional brush of fingers when handing each other something. But nothing like last night, when I snapped out of the flashback, and he was holding my hand. Then there’s this morning, when I woke up half on top of him. I don’t know what to think. Was last night a fluke because he was worried or has our relationship evolved like the others? Ugh. Sometimes I feel like I’m starting to understand how this is all supposed to work, and other times, like now, I feel like I’m back to square one.
“Today’s fine,” I answer, working my mind back to the conversation at hand, and not how close we are but aren’t touching. “What kind of training do you do?”
“Pretty much you name it, and I probably do some form of it,” he answers with a shrug. “Weapons training. Hand-to-hand in a shit ton of different styles, both offensive and defensive. I do all of my endurance and strength training during the week since I can do that on my own.”
“On your own? Who do you do all the other stuff with?” I inquire. It didn’t occur to me that he’d need help.
He gives me an odd look. “All of the guys. Well, except for Felix because-- ghost. Nolan helps sometimes, but he’s pretty useless. He can fight and his quick reflexes can be a challenge, but he doesn’t take it too seriously. Figures his charm abilities will get him out of most things. Dumbass.”
“Even Kaleb?” I gasp. “He seems so anti-violence that I’m surprised he’d want to learn.”
Donovan doubles over and laughs. And laughs. And laughs some more. I’m about ready to stomp inside, when he finally gets ahold of himself.
“I’m sorry, it’s just...” he snorts, then wipes at his face. “Kaleb is against violence with humans and generally with other supes, but we’re training to fight and kill demons. He’s nephilim first. Yeah, his purpose is helping souls but demons don’t give a shit.” He shakes his head, some of his hair falling into his eyes. “Just wait, you’ll see. Man is a fucking beast with a longsword.”
“Swords?” I squeak.
He flashes me a look of concern. “You okay with that?”
“Yeah, swords are fine,” I reassure in kind of a blinking stupor, then shake myself out of it. “I mean, I’ve never dealt with swords in the past, so I’m good on that front. It’s more surprising, like I’ve somehow wandered into the middle ages.”
This earns me an amused grin. “Bullets don’t kill demons. It hurts and can slow them down, but what is always guaranteed is decapitation and...” he stutters to a stop.
“Fire. You can say it,” I finish sternly, crossing my arms, my coffee mug dangling from my fingertips. “Donovan, one of the things I like about you is that you’re blunt and don’t sugar-coat things for me. Please, don’t start now. I’m the same girl I was before you learned about all of my crap.”
Releasing a pent up breath, I look up at him-- which is another neck crick in the making. I’m used to being short, but this is ridiculous. “I need you to treat me the same as before. Don’t treat me like I’m broken... even if I am.”
Heavy grey clouds slowly roll across the sky, turning his bright blue-green eyes the color of a tropical pool tucked away in the depths of lush foliage on some forgotten island. The color all the more breathtaking in contrast to his rich olive complexion. He searches for the truth in my face before nodding in agreement.
“I get that,” he murmurs, the gravel in his voice making the words sound like a harsh declaration. “I’d be fucking pissed if people started treating me different because they found out about my past shit.”
He places one hand on my shoulder, the heat of his skin felt through my hoodie, and leans forward so that our gazes are even. We are at the casual touching stage? Or does this count as purpose because he has his serious face on?
With sharp intensity, he draws me into his eyes and promises, “For the record, I think you’re the exact opposite of broken. Surviving leaves scars, and whether you can see them or not, you’ll feel them. Doesn’t make you broken.”
“Sounds like you speak from experience. Is it your family?” I whisper, both soothed and aching, because he’s put words to how I feel and quelled my fears.
He stands up straight and looks over at the blackened grass behind us. I feel colder when he stuffs his hands back into his jacket pockets.
“You know I’m an orphan,” he admits, pursing his lips and shifting his weight to one side, “and that my family died in a fire when I was eight. It wasn’t an accident. My parents, my older sister, and my older brother were tricked by the demons they were hunting and trapped inside an abandoned house. Fire is effective against demons but is pretty fucking deadly to nephilim too.”
Donovan glances over at me, then back to the spot. He sighs. “When I say orphan, I mean no extended family either. It’s literally just me; I’m the last of my line. If it weren’t for Kaleb’s family taking me in, I don’t know what would’ve happened to me.”
“Damn, fire has really screwed us all over,” I mutter with bitter sarcasm.
He grunts his agreement, his gaze looking like it’s lost in the past.
I bump his arm with my shoulder. “To being scarred but not broken.”
His focus returns to me, and with a hint of a smile on his full lips, he echoes, “Scarred but not broken.”
I’m envious of the way Donovan knows himself. How he’s confident in who he is and takes unapologetic ownership of his past. I wish some of that would rub off on me.
Chewing on my bottom lip, I murmur, “How do you do it?”
For a moment he simply stares at me, his eyes focused on my mouth, before shifting back to my eyes. “Do what?”
“Tell people.” I sigh with an awkward wave of my hand and feeling like a moron, because I asked like he should be able to read my mind. “With your past and everything... you just said it. No hesitation. No apology. Just... ‘Hey, here’s my fucked up past. Deal with it.’”
“Secrets can only hurt you if they’re kept a secret,” he states simply, then an annoyed expression washes across his features. “What I mean is... if everyone knows, it can’t be used against you. Also, I’ve found that if you tell people just enough of your fucked up life, they think that’s all there is and stop digging.”
I snort, thinking about how deep a person would have to dig to get the full scope of my fucked up life. Hell, even I don’t know all of it, and it’s my life!
It never occurred to me to offer up some of my story as a way to keep people from learning more. I consider how much I’m willing to give up-- how much I can live with strangers knowing about me. “So what you’re telling me is, if people knew that my mother is dead and my father is in prison for attempted kidnapping, that should be enough fucked-up-ness for one person, and no one will think there’s anything more.”
“For a normal person, yeah, that should be enough fucked-up-ness,” he replies in a thoughtful way, as if he’s weighing whether any more details are necessary.
This part of Donovan always amuses me. The way he disregards the why of something, because, in his eyes, it’s unnecessary to solving the problem.
He seems to realize what he’s done, and quickly adds, “Callie, you don’t have to tell anyone anything. You don’t owe anyone your story. Just because I did it, doesn’t mean you have to.”
“I know.” I release a quick breath, my stomach twisting inside, “but you’re right. The longer I’m the mysterious new girl, the more people will want to dig… and they can’t know the whole truth. I don’t think I could take that. I’d rather people know my mother’s dead and my father’s in prison, than know… everything else.”
“You don’t have to advertise it,” he replies, his eyes narrowing as he stuffs his hands in his pockets. “If someone asks, which they will, tell them as bluntly as possible. Make it clear that you don’t give a shit that anyone knows. It’ll still get around. Rumors will pop up. You’ll get dumb fucking questions about it, but no one will think there’s anything else. You’ll just be another girl with fucked up parents.”
I can do that-- I think. I stand tall and square my shoulders, determined to take control of my narrative.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“Don’t worry about it. People are dumb. Manipulating them is easy.” Donovan shrugs with a nonchalance that I can tell he doesn’t fully feel, and looks away. He may not care about the why of something, but the how matters to him a great deal.
Earlier, I was worried he’d ask for the details he clearly wants, and I’m deeply touched that he’s doing his best to give me the time and space I need. Gently, I tug on his jacket sleeve, so he’ll look at me again. His expression is tense, his internal struggle painted across his features.
“Someday I’ll tell you the whole story, I promise,” I whisper, meeting his eyes. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s only… talking about it means reliving it, and I can’t. Not right now.”
His tense expression turns into a full scowl, as he grumbles, “It’s… fine. Just, if something bothers you, say it. We’re not fucking mind readers.”
I can’t help but bust up laughing, as it occurs to me that his struggle is more than his frustration due to lack of answers. “All this talking about emotional stuff is killing you right now, isn’t it?”
“You have no idea,” he mutters, pursing his lips.
I laugh even harder, until my stomach growls loudly, coffee no longer enough to hold me.