by L F Seitz
“You don’t know why I attacked you?” he said, surprised. “Your body language tells a different story.”
I grew hot, sweat accumulated on the back of my neck as I thought about him watching my body, observing how I moved. What was he seeing? What did he mean? It was distracting as I considered his question.
I poured coffee into my #1 mug and inhaled the sweet scent. It cradled me in its comforting arms. I glanced away to find him watching me curiously, and only then did I notice the exhaustion that weighed on him. The paleness of his complexion looked sickly, and the purple discoloration near his tear ducts and lower lid were prominent. Had he stayed up all night, checking in on me? Watching me. I offered him my mug of coffee, sliding it across the counter, careful to keep space between us. An olive branch, so to speak. Caffeine for information. He stepped up to the counter opposite me and took it willingly. I only found glasses left, so I used what I had, pouring coffee into a tall cup for myself. The heat didn’t bother me.
“You said a few things last Friday night that I still don’t understand, as well as why you attacked me,” I said slowly. “Why aren’t you planning on doing it now?” It was probably not smart to bring up my death to him, given he could so easily maim me, like a bird and mouse. At any moment, he could swoop from his high branch in the trees and pierce me with his talons.
“I discovered some things about you that night that –” He stopped, his eyes shifting quickly to glance out the window. “The facts I found don’t correlate with what I’ve learned or witnessed. There is something going on here, and I plan to figure it out.” Turning back he observed me as I averted my glance.
“So you stayed last night because you needed to speak to me?”
“I was coming to interrogate you last night, actually.” He pressed his lips to the rim of the mug. “Until I found you making a complete fool of yourself.”
I swallowed hard as I thought about how he found me, laying on the ground like an idiot. I blinked several times, pushing the mortifying memories deep and tried to bring myself back to the important discussion at hand. He was being vague, and I was growing impatient. I needed to know everything. I’d been starving for information for days, and now the source of my feast was here but refused to give me anything but crumbs.
“What are these things that you don’t understand about me?” I asked, and quietness settled for an awkward amount of time. I peeked up from my glass of coffee to find him staring out the window.
“I will not disclose that yet. I don’t trust you,” he said.
“What could I possibly do with the information?” There was more sourness in my tone than I should have let myself convey, but I couldn’t hide the disbelief. This was information about me. Why couldn’t I know about it?
“Lie.”
“Why would I lie?” I demanded.
“So I won’t kill you,” his gaze managed to catch mine in its snare, and I was captivated. Against the growing sunlight, they were crystalline. I swallowed hard, anger swelling as he tried to instill fear.
“You don’t scare me.” I regarded him when I spoke, raising my chin. It was partly a lie, but I wanted to seem braver than I was. That strange heat I got when I grew angry urged me to push back, but the fear gripped hard, making my back ache with tightness.
“Why is that? You should be.” His voice deepened. Being close to him, even a couple feet, made my head spin with his alluring qualities. I moved toward the recliner, putting some space between us so I could think straight once again. He remained standing at the counter, holding the cup in his long pale fingers.
“If you wanted to kill me, I would be dead by now.” I trained my eyes to the floor as I tapped my glass with my nail.
“Yes, you would be.” His cockiness beamed.
“What if what you find isn’t good?” I swallowed hard. “About me.”
A smirk appeared on his face, and my insides twisted. My eagerness to know what he was thinking put me at the edge of my seat when he regarded me like that.
“Is there something dark about you that you’re hiding?” He asked. I noted my clammy hands before clasping my glass harder. I thought about the Latin words my foster mother interpreted for me: show me your face, tainted soul, demon. The words stabbed at my heart, but they had to be wrong.
“I have nothing to hide.” I squared my shoulders.
Before I could react, he stepped closer, reached down, and picked up my sketchpad from the side of the recliner. “What’s this?” Micah asked, setting his coffee on the TV tray to open the sketchpad. I reached over to snatch it from him, but he twisted out of reach. The corner of his lip twitched into a crooked smile. There was an odd normalcy about the expression that broke the tense interaction we were having.
“Oh God, please don’t.” My mouth grew dry as he opened to the first drawing I did of him. He scanned the pages, saying nothing. My art had always been mine. Other than art class in school, I have never showed anyone my personal work, though I did get good feedback on my assignments. It was my getaway, my place where I could be at peace. I discovered it in middle school, how drawing could take me away from reality for a while. Escaping was critical for me.
This book was a paper version of my thoughts for the past week, and the person I thought of most was now looking at it.
“What are these on the second page?”
“Rocks with blood on them,” I said in a small voice, completely embarrassed. He flipped to the third page, where I drew the black figures with blue orbs in their heads.
“That one was a dream.” I focused on the faded hickory fabric of my recliner's arm, picking at it gingerly. Drawing was like baring my soul, and I hated the vulnerability that came with someone else viewing my art.
“You saw this in a dream?” he said. His expression changed. He flipped past the drawing of our hands to the last page, which was my favorite. It was my last drawing of him. He relaxed as he examined it, and I rubbed my forehead, praying he didn’t think I was obsessed with him.
I explained some of my dream to him: blue-eyed figures with swords walking toward him and me, and his words – she’s one of us – but I claimed I couldn’t remember the rest. I wasn’t going to tell him about the handholding and the sacrificing; it might freak him out. It was too intense for even me to handle. Being close to anyone of the opposite sex in any intimate way wasn’t something I was used to, let alone could fathom as being a part of any actual reality of mine.
“I was in your dream?” He asked, his gaze shifting to mine. I bit the inside of my lip as I nodded, saying nothing as he flipped back to my picture of the hands. Before I could respond, he asked, “What’s this?” He held the sketchpad out and pointed to the two intertwined hands.
“That was just a doodle of some hands. Nothing special,” I replied, anxiety nearly choked the air out of me. His expression grew soft, almost gentle, which seemed foreign on his features. He pointed at a bracelet dangling from the wrist of one of the hands I drew, and then lifted his own hand in the air, revealing the same bracelet on his wrist. It was a double-strap, brown-leather band, held together by a single crystal bead. This was so humiliating.
“OK, yes, I saw that in my dream, too. It was unusual, so I drew it. No big deal. Drawing helps me think.” He set the sketchpad back in the recliner pocket, moving across the room from me. Finally I could breath. By now, my body was so tense that if a statue were created in my image that title of it would be the epitome of stress.
“You said something last night that sounded like you knew more than you were letting on,” Micah said. I tucked my hair behind my ear once more. I wanted to just come out with it, but fear held my tongue. Focus, Lamia. Get the answers you need.
I explained what I remembered from last Friday night, about the blue glowing lines on his skin and the similar ones on mine, only red. His eyes being pure white, and the sensation of my insides catching fire after he spoke those Latin words. I told him warmth never bothered me, how heat never burned me
. Telling someone about this temperature situation I have had my whole life is new for me; it’s a part of me I’ve kept secret from everyone.
“That confirms a theory I have,” he said. “I get cold – like, freezing. Abnormally so when we are near one another.” He seemed to lose himself in that statement. I was speechless as I connected our odd temperature fluctuations when it came to one another.
“And you said you saw your skin glow.” His eyes shifted quickly around my frame. “You don’t see anything on your skin now?”
I observed my hands and feet and shook my head. He nodded and said nothing. There was still so much I didn’t understand, but that was the first time he actually revealed some information. Maybe if I keep going he’ll give me more of what I’m looking for. I rambled on about going to Jennifer’s home on Sunday because she knew Latin. I explained how she’d translated what she could, something about showing a demon’s soul. Then I told him how I’d talked about it with my friend Cindy, and how I’d lied to see if she could give me any information that might help me.
“What did your friend say?”
I told him about the bookstore Cindy took me to, Avalon's Books, with the weird shopkeeper and the untitled book that had basically jumped into my lap. “The shopkeeper gave it to me for free and then told me not to trust you, that you would kill me. She knew my name. And yours.”
I let my head fall back against the recliner cushion and thought about how crazy this single week had been compared to the rest of my dull life. How obsessed I’d grown with it, risking conversation with a killer for the sake of wanting to know more.
“The book, what did it say?” He sounded curious. I walked into my bedroom to look for it. The cats, now fast asleep, snuggled together on my bed. They had to be brothers. I reached under my bed, where I had last kicked the book. As my fingers grazed the leather, I noticed how it warmed to my touch.
“Catch,” I said to Micah back in the living room. He caught the book, releasing a sharp breath before dropping it to the floor. He gritted his teeth as welts covered the flesh of his hand, where the book had touched. The book burned him?
“What the hell?” I asked as I stepped close to him, gawking at his palm.
He closed his hand, and the space between his fingers glowed a bright blue. As the blue light faded, he settled again and relaxed his fingers. The burn on his palm was gone. The eeriness of it caressed my skin, forcing a shiver out of me. Did that really just happen? Instinctively, I reached for my neck, thoughts falling into place.
“Yeah, I healed you that night, too,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. He looked to his hand once more before rubbing his palm on his thigh. I blinked several times before speaking.
“Very unusual.” I knew I thought I saw things that night with my skin glowing, but to actually see it – it didn’t seem real. I bent to pick up the book. It was still warm. The hairs on the back of my neck stood when I realized how close we were – about two feet apart. He’d been civilized until this point, and I decided to keep it going. Maybe it would lead to more answers.
I moved to open the book and show him the first page.
“All who stray from him are damned,” he translated the Latin beautifully. “An inevitable force that will conquer all worlds and leave only destruction. Survive is to surrender. Be against him, and you will not live to see the end.” We sat in stillness considering the words.
“Well, kinda feels like a warning,” I said as I flipped through the pages until I got to the one with my name scribbled across the top. I left it open for him on the TV tray as I picked up my glass for more coffee. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him reading the description of Lamia in the book and rubbing his chin.
“You want some more?” I asked. He lifted his half-empty mug for me to fill.
A strange sensation came over me. If I took out all the extra context of this moment – him being my attacker and the odd underlining supernatural mysteries that lingered in the air, as well as the fact they we are basically strangers – it felt nice to visit with someone. I didn’t know him, but there was a real essence around him, with no expectation for me to be nice or polite, no pressure to be anyone but myself. I knew this wasn’t a social experience; this was an interrogation and getting answers, but I couldn’t ignore that thought completely, not when I’d never experienced it before.
Though he was a stranger, a threat, I felt fear less and less as we continued to talk. Deep down in my core, I knew he was going to tell me I was anything but normal. Something inside me recognized him and woke from its slumber the night he attacked me. Even now, I felt it, watching him through my eyes, something in my blood waited for him to identify it, to call it out. It was only a matter of time.
At this point, Micah was the only other person who knew more about me and who I was than I did. That fact threw off everything that I should morally do: I should run away, call the police, demand he leave, but I couldn’t. Because the closer I got to him, the closer I got to this sudden mystery that consumed my life.
I selfishly wanted more, even at the risk of my own life.
When I reached him, I grasped his cup to steady it. His finger touched mine, I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from getting lightheaded. It could be the temperature fluctuation we talked about earlier between us, or that fact that he was the most attractive man I’d ever met. I couldn’t tell. I didn’t say anything as I walked away, tripping on my own foot and stumbling forward before grabbing the counter to steady myself.
“Didn’t spill.” I smirked as I set the pot back on the hot plate. Though I really wish I had just smacked my fat head on the counter and passed out instead of having to be humiliated by no one other than myself. I took a few deep breaths before turning around and leaning on the counter. Micah didn’t seem to have noticed I’d even made a fool of myself. I took the opportunity to regard him again: frost like hair cascading over his hard shoulders while he observed the book in front of him. He was handsome, that was obvious, but why was I this attracted to him? I’d never been this observant of a man’s features before, never so intent on their opinions of me. Judging by his smooth skin and sharp features, I’d say he was in his early 20s. He couldn’t be more than a few inches taller than me, and he looked solid, his muscles taut. Didn’t look like he had much fat on him at all. Was that my type? I huffed at my idiocy; he almost killed me nearly two weeks ago. Why was I even having these thoughts?
He pointed to the book. “This is the original description of the demon Lamia, but that’s not you. You know that, right?”
“Well, I kind of knew. I’ve never eaten a baby, let alone seduced a guy.”
Micah clarified that the original Lamia is very powerful, not to mention very old. No one has seen her for a millennium, but I might have been named after her. Like how people name their kids after famous warriors or gods.
“Who would want to name me after a demon?” That was probably a stupid question for me to ask. Of course a demon would name a child after a demon. Micah must have seen my facial expression because he didn’t reply. The question that led to all others was finally in my lap, and I didn’t know if I was brave enough to ask it. I glanced at my coffee. It was still and reflected my image in the murky liquid. My dark, almond-shaped eyes and thick dark curls, my round face – I looked how I’d always looked. I’d always had this face, but now I saw something I don’t recognize. Now I didn’t know if I fully understood who was looking back at me.
“So, what am I?” I asked bluntly. The question made it difficult to take a steady breath as I gripped my glass harder, the rawness of my fear pressing on my ribs and making it impossible to move as I waited. He considered my question.
“There is ... a lot to talk about,” he said. “Do you know what a Cambion is?” he asked. He took my speechlessness for a no and continued, educating me on how Cambions are offspring of both human and demonic origin, usually succubi. My birth mother was most likely human without knowledge of demon
existence, and my father – if that’s what I’d even call him – was a demon. Micah said it’s the most likely combination, given the outcome, since I have no visible demonic deformities, which is a result of having a demonic mother. Though a male demon and female human can result in demonic deformities of the offspring, it's very rare to look as human as I do.
Shock was obvious as the information flowed, but I couldn’t get caught on how implausible it sounded. I required answers, and now I was getting them. This was the breaking of the dam, and I didn’t want a little water here and there; I wanted to drown in it. I could sense myself leaning toward him, as if his very breath drew me in. I wanted everything he knew.
“Cambions look like normal people to someone like you, because they have the ability to mask their deformities. They have special abilities, too, inherited from their demonic parent. For instance, your ability to withstand heat. It’s a talent most Cambions have. Most are also great a manipulating people.” I knew I was good at playing jokes, but I didn’t know playing tricks was in my blood.
“You can also heal yourself from a stab or cut,” he added. “I helped you that night only because I noticed you weren’t healing yourself. I think it might be because you don’t know what you are so you don’t know how to do it. That’s why halflings – half human, half supernatural – can’t get intoxicated unless they let themselves.” I held my hand up to stop him.
“Let yourself? I don’t get it,” I said.
He shrugged. “I don’t really know, because I’ve never gotten intoxicated. But I’ve been told by other halflings it’s like flipping some sort of switch and letting your human side become drunk.” He shrugged, sipping his coffee.
“You’re saying I let myself get drunk last night? What else can I do? If I’m half-demon, what are you?” I set down my empty glass on the counter.
