by L F Seitz
“Cambions are also fast, strong, and mischievous,” he ticked off the attributes on his fingers, ignoring my question. “They can be very persuasive to humans. You can also speak and understand fluent Latin – or, you should at least, or you will in time. In addition, Cambions have supernatural perception, giving you the ability to see what people really are. You feel it, you smell it, you just know when someone isn’t human. Oh, and our species have been enemies since the dawn of demons’ creation.” He lit up as the information poured out of him. He was excited to talk about it. He was passionate about it.
I scrunched my face. Enemies? That must be why he had so much hatred for me when we first met and explain why he wanted to kill me. Yet, he’s standing in my living room, which doesn’t make any sense. If we were enemies, then what did he want from me now? What did he expect to gain from this?
Growing up in houses that were never really my homes and living with people who were never really my family, I always yearned for the light at the end of the tunnel. All I did was watch movies and read books. I yearned for adventure and magic, for home and family, and something that gave me purpose, like I’d gone through all of this for something. I had to believe all the loneliness, pain, bullying, and neglect was for something greater – and this was it? I was the bad guy? I stood in front of this man with an angel face as he told me I’m part demon. He tried to kill me. I did nothing wrong. And yet I’m the demon?
This is comical. So comical it’s hurting my insides. It’s making it hard to function.
“What are you?” I asked again.
“I am Nephilim, the sons of God and the daughters of men,” he quoted – though from what, I didn’t know. “The beginning of my species spawned from a human female and a male angel.”
Should I even believe any of this? What reason do I have to believe what he’s saying right now? I watched a book burn his skin and blue light heal his hand. Was that enough to show me he was telling me the truth? I didn’t know what to think anymore. I remember how supernatural he looked that night and the glowing of my skin before I passed out. I had to believe myself, right? My own eyes couldn’t deceive me. Could they?
I studied my hands, flipping them over as I took in the smooth, light olive skin. Micah’s words soaked in, and I slowly connected the dots. This was why he wanted to kill me. I understood that, but it didn’t make it easy to swallow. It was like swallowing a beehive and undergoing their stinging all the way down to my very core.
How is this my outcome? What did I do to deserve this? Is it because of my parents? Would I have turned out better if they hadn’t abandoned me? I thought about what Micah had said: my father was most likely a demon, which meant I probably would have ended up much worse. Regardless, it would have come to this. There is no way to get around DNA.
Resentment grew as I peered up to meet Micah’s gaze. He was half angel, and most likely had the life to mirror it. “Do you know your parents?” I asked, balling my hands into fists as my nails dug painfully into my palms.
“I was orphaned when I was born and put into a home ‘til I was thirteen. That’s when my people claimed me.” His eyes glossed over, reliving past memories.
The resentment collapsed into a heap of guilt, my shoulders rounded in as I rubbed my forehead. The picture that I painted for his life was no more then a fantasy; for both of us it seems.
“Do we all become orphans?” I asked.
“Most Nephilims come from clear bloodlines. Cambions have a lineage, but it’s often lost because it isn’t well-documented. Most later reconnect with their demonic parent when they succumb to evil.”
“Did you come from a bloodline?” He shifted, uncomfortable.
“No, they don’t know where I came from. There is no record of an Anderson bloodline. They think either the bloodline was never documented, or my last name was changed long ago. They have sent my DNA to Porta Caeli but found no match.”
“What’s Porta Caeli?” I asked.
“It’s the capital city of Nephilim, but I’ll explain it another time,” he said as he walked over and stood on the opposite side of the counter from me, setting down his empty mug.
“You left your foster home at thirteen, right? What happened?” He asked.
“Yes, I moved around every couple years, so it wasn’t surprising,” I said. “I’m sure you understand that, since we were both orphans.”
“But I stayed in the same home from placement ‘til I was thirteen,” he said. I couldn’t hide the disappointment. Despite our perceived similarities, we were still from different worlds.
“Why were you moved at thirteen,” he asked. “Did something bad happen?”
“Maybe. Why?”
Micah explained how half-beings, like him and me, ascend at thirteen, meaning they gain their full amount of powers. That explained a lot. I felt sick as I recalled what Jennifer, my foster mother, had said when I visited her. How she thought I had started the fire in her house that night.
The day it happened was my thirteenth birthday. There was a small get-together with the few kids who answered the invitation I’d put out to my entire art class. I wasn’t close to anyone in particular in my eighth grade glass at Mahone Middle School, but I felt closest to the kids in my art class. Out of twenty kids, only three showed up. We talked and laughed for a few hours and ended up watching a movie, which I got as a gift from one of the girls. When I went to bed that night, I dreamed about arguing with a classmate over a book I owned that he’d stolen from me.
I was vigorously rubbed on the arms until I woke to a strange mask looking down at me as I coughed, the smell of fire and smoke filling my nose and burning my lungs. I heard sirens blaring and someone yelling for paramedics. There were so many faces I didn’t know asking me my name and if I knew where I was. I was terrified.
“I don’t remember my ascension,” I told Micah. “The lady who translated the Latin passage for me was my foster parent at the time. She sent me away after it happened, after the fire. She just recently told me why she sent me away. That night, I set a block of houses on fire.”
“I’ve never heard of that happening before,” he said, looking puzzled and uneasy.
“She told me that the firefighters explained it as if the flames looked like they were coming from me, yet I wasn’t burning. Jennifer said I told her nothing aside from having a bad dream. She doesn’t believe them, though. She still blames me. The fire killed her husband, her cat, and some neighbors.” My voice was strained. The more I shared, the worse I felt.
“Fifteen,” he said.
I glanced at him sideways.
“I killed fifteen people when I ascended.” His tone was blunt, aiming to distance himself from the memory.
“What happened?” I said, hushed.
His adams apple bobbed. “We were at a public pool for a birthday, a party my parents were throwing for me. I got over emotional about winning a game of tag. I burned the corneas out of everyone’s heads with angelic light. Killed everyone: my parents, my friends.” He cleared his throat.
“Cambion ascension usually involves fire or violence. The majority blow something up: propane tanks, electrical outages, motor vehicle accidents. There have been only a few as horrific as mine, and those happened before the 1920s.” The words rushed out of him, again, trying to distance himself from his own terrible memories.
I fidgeted as I thought about what Micah said. He hadn’t heard of a severe ascension happening in a long time, so why blame myself? I needed to get away from this pity I felt for myself before it consumed me. I moved around the counter abruptly. “I’m going to change my clothes and make my bed.” I didn’t wait for his reply as I walked into my bedroom and searched for something to wear. I wanted to be comfortable without looking homeless, given his comment early this morning. I began wondering why it mattered until I remembered who was here, and then it was obvious: there is a guy in my apartment, not to mention an attractive guy. I haven’t been attracted to someone since I was
six. Good ol’ Rico Montana.
I pulled out black leggings and a faded Packers football sweatshirt. Homeless, it is. Once dressed, I laid my comforter out flat, covering the whole bed, then walked back into the living room, where Micah waited patiently. He was standing by the window like he had been when I first woke up.
I stood in my doorway and watched him, sorting through all the information he’d given me about what I apparently am, a Cambion. He said we were mortal enemies. He didn’t trust me and I didn’t trust him- so where did that leave us? A hard question dragged itself against the for front of my mind as I moved, finding my way to the opposite side of the window crossing my arms as I faced him. The way he talked about Cambions, my kind, I knew I wasn’t on the winning side of whatever fight was happening between him and them.
“How many Cambions have you killed?” I asked. His jaw flexed as he tapped his finger against his crook of his elbow.
“Too many to count, but I remember almost every one,” he said without remorse. The reply sent a shiver through me. My kind. I don’t want to be one of them, a demon, but DNA doesn’t give you a choice. I noted the gravel that covered the alleyway, struggling to process as he spoke again. “Most of them were vicious, evil, and nothing like you. You would think they were full demon in comparison. The older they are, the smarter they are. Some give scars you’ll never forget.” In the light, I could see the scars he spoke of: a few on his arms and one looking like a bite mark on his wrist. Though my gut was telling me physical scars weren’t what he was talking about.
“Why do you do it?”
“Nephilim were created for the soul purpose of defending mankind from Lucifer’s creations. It’s my duty to defend those who cannot defend themselves, no matter how dark or difficult it may be. No matter how many people we lose in the process.”
“It’s your job, so you have to –”
“And I like to.” He paused, searching my features for a reaction, but he wasn’t getting one. Other than being the same species, I had no connection to the demons he killed. Honestly, I felt like I had more in common with Micah than with my own kind. When I thought of Cambions, all I imagined were creatures comparable to Gollum from The Lord of the Rings – only more vicious, with claws and fangs. They were dark with cruel intentions, and that wasn’t me. Standing in front of me was a man, a Nephilim, who appeared to be a human being, which was more relatable to what I look like now. If only that alone could determine what I am, which was a monster, but this issue goes further then the skin.
“Every Cambion we’ve ever investigated has been accused of murder. Every Cambion I’ve killed showed no remorse when faced with death. They cackled at it. But you. ...” The intensity of his voice made my skin tingle. “Your eyes are different from any I have seen. You cried as I tried to kill you, and when I spoke the incantation, I thought your mask would dissipate, and I would see what lies beneath. Then I realized you don’t have one. You are a demon, but you have no sign of deformity. No sign that you have fallen into shadow. In my thirteen years of study, I have never heard of such a thing, which makes you very special, Lamia.”
My ears grew hot as he finally laid everything out on the table, all the reasons he was still here, talking to me instead of killing me. The mound of information sent me reeling as I asked the first question that made it to my lips. “Fallen into shadow?” I repeated.
“Gone dark. It’s when a Cambion succumbs completely to their demonic nature, leaving no trace of humanity in their actions or decisions.” I half-listened but couldn’t stop going over what he said about my not having a deformity. I don’t have one, but he said all Cambions do, so am I really one of them?
“So, you do this often? Attack other Cambions like you attacked me? Are you a solider?” This was a whole new world to me, a tear in my reality that led to another lingering just behind it.
“The Nephilim have many names, like Venator, Angel’s Advocate, and Holy Hunters. We track, we watch, we kill. Sometimes, we research; other times, we are told to eradicate the problem. You weren’t like that. I stumbled across you that night, and I could feel it. Something about you is ... off. The night I attacked you, I was on my way home when I felt strangely cold. I saw people flowing in and out of the bar across the street, and my gut told me to wait. I didn’t notice you at first, but then you removed your coat, showing your markings. I thought I was seeing things. A Cambion would never walk around with their markings showcased. Then I thought maybe you were extremely powerful and confident in your abilities. So I followed you.” He shifted his stance. “I didn’t understand why you were crying. I didn’t think Cambions could cry. I had questions, but I didn’t know if you were trying to trick me, so I had to finish the job. When I spoke the incantation and brought out your inner demon, there was no way to avoid it: I saw your eyes, and I couldn’t do it.”
Everything he said sounded like it could possibly be real, maybe, until it was applied to me. How could any of this be my life? Be careful what you wish for: this was example A. I wished on the stars every night as a child for something more, that from all the chaos and pain, something was bound to come out of it. Turns out I’m not the hero of my own story, the phoenix arising from the ashes; I’m the villain. I still have a moral code to act kindly, but how long will that last? Will I suddenly change now that I’ve discovered this about myself? Even with these abilities Micah says I have: do I really want them if it means I have to be the bad guy?
“What did you mean when you spoke about my markings?” I asked. Makes you very special, Lamia, he’d said. I held on for dear life to the hope he was right, that I didn’t have to be one of those evil Cambions.
He pushed some of his pale hair behind his ear, exposing his chiseled jaw, and I took in a sharp breath. In an attempt to cover my attraction, I coughed.
“Cambions have deep maroon markings on their skin when they aren’t being summoned. Yours are black, and I have never seen that before on anyone,” he said pointing at my bare wrist. I couldn’t see what he saw, but recalled seeing glowing markings on my skin the night I was attacked. “Also, your eyes weren’t all black, like other Cambions. I’ve never seen eyes like yours.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“That’s so strange.” He stepped closer to me, observing my bare hands and wrists. “Maybe it’s because your supernatural sight is somehow closed off. Judging by how you’ve reacted to everything I’ve told you, all of this is completely new, but not terrifying enough to send you running away. That tells me the concept of it all isn’t unrealistic to you when it comes to others, but it is when it comes to yourself, you don’t see anything other than what your human mind has portrayed all these years. So, if I had to take a shot in the dark, I’d say you can’t see them because you weren’t taught that there was more to see beneath the world’s glamour, so you never bothered to look. You really don’t see your markings?”
“No, but I see yours.”
“Interesting.” He squinted as his gaze traveled up to my neck.
I needed to see what he saw when he looked at me that night. My inner demon. I pulled my sweatshirt sleeves up to expose my bare arms. All I had was a tank top underneath and wasn’t about to show him everything. Being a size 16 I wasn't comfortable showing anyone what a baggy shift could hide.
“Show me what you see,” I said. “Wait. Will it hurt?” Micah stared at me for a long moment, his finger tapping against his lower lip as he debated.
“At first, yes,” he said as he stepped forward. I could reach forward and touch his starlight hair if I wanted. He smelled fresh and crisp, like the ocean breeze. He was a few inches taller than me, and I let my gaze fall to his shirt collar as he spoke. I could have sworn he hid a smile, but I didn’t look up to find out. For the first time, I heard his breath hitch while he watched me.
“Et reducam te in caligine Demon nunc urbs est patris tui. Ostende mihi faciem tuam, et non est misericordia, quae est a carne daemonum interficiam corpus, perit in aeternum
misericordia ignis. Et incarnatus est de Angelo, anima tanted ostende.”
My ears rang for a moment, and then I couldn’t hear anything he said. Without the adrenaline of our first encounter as a buffer, his words stung. A hot pain flared under my ribs, making me sharply curl into myself as my bones ached. I wanted to peel out of my own skin. I felt completely raw – inside and out. The pressure was too much to stand, and I fell to my knees. Micah’s hands gripped my arms. As quickly as it had started, the pain vanished. Nothing but rage remained.
“I’m OK. Let go,” I said. I didn't know if it was the demon in me or the sudden regret, but I couldn't let go of the anger I felt. I didn’t want him to see me, not again. I felt vulnerable as I sat breathing heavily. The emotion within me filled my lungs with fire. I knew I needed to escape before I did something I regretted.
I ran to the bathroom and slammed the door, savoring being alone in the dark. The anger in me soon made way for a new emotion: fear. What will Micah do now? Will he kill me because I am condemned, because I am part demon? I shook away the thoughts of being damned and flicked the light switch. The sudden brightness sent a shooting pain through my skull. I slammed my hand against the switch to turn it off, but instead it crumbled beneath my palm. The light went out as the switch plate fell in pieces to the ground. I groaned and flipped on the nightlight beside the sink. Lines glowed on my limbs. I ripped off my sweatshirt and gaped at my body in awe. The markings curved across my chest in patterns that followed my veins, connecting on my back as they slid across my legs. They were beautiful. How can something this amazing be evil? How was this fair to anyone? To me?
“Lamia,” Micah called from behind the bathroom door. I ignored him. My irises were deep red surrounded by black. Not a speck of white was left. My jaw dropped as I stared at my inner demon, the dark side of me I’d never known existed. I guess I do look evil. I can’t bear what Micah might think of me.
“Micah,” I whispered, leaning against the sink. So this is it? This is what gets to determine the rest of my life?
