by Harold Wall
"Are you smoking?"
Kyros snorted, "What's it gonna do kill me? Don't get on my case about smoking, boss, I get enough about that from my ma." He blew the smoke out his nose, getting a look of
disgust from an elderly woman who passed him, and a look of approval from her cigar toting husband. With a single look from him, the mister seemed to say, Enjoy and indulge while you can, boy, before you get married. Distracted, the fox shuddered at the thought. Kyros guessed smoking was the only indulgence the man got in the marriage.
"Just find out, and send your mother my regards."
"No can do, boss. She hears about you one more time and she'll fall in love. Eager for options. You know how middle aged women get."
Actually, he had no idea, but continued. "Oh, are your parents having marital trouble?"
"Right now, they're getting along great. Dad's in Canada." Kyros took a quick glance towards her building, and saw that she had stood on the steps and hailed a taxi. "Boss, she's
leaving but she said she was going to study. What do I do?" In his office, Thierry rolled his eyes. This was the first time Kyros was the leader of his own mission and he was
evidently in need of orders.
"Kyros, what do you think you should do?"
"I…uh…I could follow her or search her apartment. Which one? Which one, which one…I could follow her and then search her apartment! Thanks boss, I gotta go."
Not bothering to use his motorcycle two blocks away, Kyros easily kept the same pace of the yellow car. Taking minute breaks to catch his breath, and mentally wishing he could
shift into animal form without the danger of dog catchers, he watched covertly as she made several stops. A gym, a library, a hospital, a pay phone the subway (in which he
selected a seat two cars away from her)…the chase finally ended in a rundown block of Jersey City. He watched from afar as she walked up to a three story apartment complex still
decorated with Christmas lights, and ignored the whistles, cat calls, and vulgar invitations of the drunks and loafers on the neighboring porches. At her knock, she was greeted by
an African woman who looked tired beyond her years. The two shook hands and stepped inside.
He leaned on a car, preparing to stretch his auditory senses to eavesdrop, when one of the men who petitioned Maria yelled out to him.
"Hey, fag! Get your ass off of my car!" Ah, the eloquent language of the Jersey streets, he thought with a sneer. But, then again, the Bronx wasn't much better.
The man, who almost overflowed out of the dirty wife beater he wore, took a full five minutes to simply stand up and glare at him. Kyros glared back vehemently, after all the man
was interfering with his mission. He may not have had the muscles of other shifters, such as bears or lions, but he did have quickness and precision. Even without them, Kyros
couldn't see how he could lose against this boar of a man. And, with six months without real excitement (for the missions had consisted of fleeing vampires and shifters, a pity
really) a fight was readily anticipated.
The sweaty tub of fat saw the violent eagerness and verve in Kyros' eyes, and took a step back. "I wasn't gonna fight ya! Just get your ass off my car!" He supposed that was the
closest to an apology he would get from him, so Kyros nodded and leaned against a rusty fence instead. A fight would have distracted me any way, he realized and turned all
attention to Maria. Soon, after he struggled to block out all the other bustling sounds of the city, two faint voices filled his ears.
"…and I know this is probably the last thing you'd want to hear about. But…"
"Say no more, I know what you're getting at, and the answer is no. But I did know her, we lived across each other, in the worse part of town." He could almost imagine Maria biting
her bottom lip again, for even he thought there was no way the city could be worse than the old, dirty, and decaying living conditions that surrounded him.
"...and, despite my warning, she went any way. But the poor girl. She couldn't go through it, she made herself sick just thinking about it. Instead of going to the broker's apartment,
she went to Teddi. So, technically, she never was one because she never really had a customer."
"So…why did she even want to be one?"
"Well, she never really told me. I assume it was family troubles, because the day she moved in ( I was helpin' her, you see) I handed her a picture of her and her parents to put on
a table. But she told me, 'Martha, just leave that in the box. I'll take care of it.' But I never saw that picture again, nor any others. That's why they wanted to take pictures of you so much after you were born. She felt that she needed to fill the apartment full of pictures. It looked so empty without them."
"Oh…do you have them?"
"I'm sorry, but they were lost in the fire." Kyros heard the screech of a pushed back chair.
"Thank you for seeing me. I have to go."
"But don't you want to know about your father?" Maria sighed, and Kyros heard Martha pat her hand.
"You know you do. To move to the future, you have to know your past, honey. I'll fix something for us to eat. The children are sleepin' over at a friends house and those damn noisy
idiots up stairs are away for vacation. If you call Boston a vacation…"
Kyros pulled back his senses and jogged back to her apartment. He heard various family fights along the way, only one out of eight were in English. A smile came to his lips when
he thought of a cheesy Charlie Brown poster in his old Spanish class. It said something like "No matter what the language, everyone can understand a smile." He guessed the same
went for obscenities and rude gestures.
It was pitifully easy to break in. For one thing, the lock was defected and could be simply unlocked by a credit card. And Maria forgot to lock it in the first place. He guessed what
ever provincial town she came from in good old Georgia didn't have a high crime rate.
It was a two bedroom apartment, but she filled one full of unpacked boxes. Kyros searched her bedroom, gingerly replacing all moved items to their original spots. When he first
arrived, he assumed she had chosen her new home due to a lack of funds. But the girl had a wide range of CD's. A DVD player lay under the unmade bed, as did speakers and a lap
top. She had draped an old table cloth over a television with built in VCR. He wondered why she didn't just hawk the valuables and move to a safer neighborhood.
At her tiny desk, Kyros did not use caution with the leafs of papers, for it appeared she did not either. The four drawers were stuffed messily with hundreds of notebook papers;
some short stories, poems, and diary entries ripped out in anger or sadness. Music sheets to songs he had never heard of, dating back to the 1930's. Envelopes from Georgia
explained where she received the funds. In the days when Circle Daybreak had her allegiance, it was known she lived with a wealthy aunt from the Cotton Land. Some papers lipped
from his hand and stooped to pick them up. His eyes began reading before he could stop them.
I am not tall.
I am not blonde.
I do not giggle inanely.
I am not built like Barbie.
My eyes do not wear blue eye shadow very well.
I do not smile for no reason.
I am not All American.
I am an individual.
Kyros found himself both smiling and scoffing. For some strange reason, he was happy she wasn't one of those girls who constantly dieted, or dyed their hair to be like everybody
else. But it was far too naïve of her to be an individual simply for those reasons. After all, who isn't blonde and built like Barbie? he asked himself.
There were also extensive notes on hospital names, numbers, medical papers on a "Tybal, Gwendolyn Marks," and lists full of scratched out names.
"Gwendolyn Tybal?" Kyros scratched
his head. He wondered if it was a medical problem that his head itched when ever there was an enigma at hand. "Who is she, a sister?" He had
never heard of any such thing, but then again Maria was a private person.
There were no signs of the past. No Christmas cards from Poppy or Iliana, no jewelry bearing black Dahlias or any other special flowers. The boxes in the other room held clothes,
an amazing amount of clothes actually. Clothes, shoes, purses, jewelry…Kyros suspected Maria had a miniature department store in the loads of boxes.
Then a nearly inaudible "damn" was heard just outside her rickety door. Kyros slapped his forehead. The fire escape was outside the living room, and, being a fox and not a cat, he
couldn't jump out the window. He hoped Maria didn't feel any urge to continue unpacking for the day.
"Hello? Who's there?" There was an edge that he had never heard in her voice: fear.
"I know you're here, you left the door unlocked." Rolling his eyes, Kyros stepped from the shadowy room and into the living room.
"No, you left the door unlocked," he retorted, with her back facing him.
"OH MY GOD!" Kyros caught the bat with one hand, wincing at the sting of it. The girl has one helluva swing. She began to shriek.
"What the hell are you doing in my apartment, you sick bastard! You better…Kyros? Kyros Snow, is that you?" He jerked the bat from her grip and placed it safely on top of a book
shelf.
"Yes, it's me. I…" okay, think quick… "I was stopping by to see if you wanted to go to dinner after you finished studying. But I found the door unlocked and decided to lecture you
about it, but instead there was nobody here." Guilt washed over her face and Kyros mentally complimented himself for such a smooth lie. Almost as good as Blaise.
"Oh… oh, you see I was studying I didn't lie to you about that, but I, I…I needed to, um, do something that couldn't wait," she finished weakly, nervously biting her lip. Kyros began
to find the mannerism endearing.
Then he felt a bit of guilt himself, for he hadn't exactly been the picture of chivalry. "It's okay, I was gonna make you pay for dinner any way." For a few awkward minutes, they
stood looking at each other, their minds blank for any starters of conversation.
"Why don't we just dine here? It's cheap and the foods' okay," she suggested with a shy smile, her eyes cast down. Again, the emotion was so foreign to Maria that he stared with
complete surprise.
Closing his mouth, Kyros forced a smile to his astonished face. "Of course. But how's the service?"
Thierry Mansion, Nevada
July 17, 2000
Nilsson opened the door and found Keller struggling to keep her eyes open and making her son more comfortable in her arms and Galen, who dug in a cumbersome baby bag for
something. The baby let out a wail before he saw Nilsson. Then he stared at him with wide eyed curiosity, smiled, and clapped with pudgy hands.
"How did you do that?" Keller demanded, eyes popping wide open. "I have gotten two hours of sleep and you have to tell me how you did that!" Keller was very near to choking
Nilsson, and Galen restrained her before she could do much damage.
Nilsson, of course, remained calm and showed them to the dining hall. Hannah stood waiting to greet them, and she took the baby with delight into her arms. Again, he let out an
adorable laugh and proceeded to plant a wet and sloppy kiss to her chin.
"Oh, isn't he a charmer? Why is his bib on his arm?" she laughed. Galen, who was resting his head on the table, looked up. With exhausted pride, he noticed that his son shined with
youthful exuberance. His blonde hair floated around his head like a halo, although it was static from the car seat that made it stand on end and not divinity.
"We were a little busy this morning. I wasn't paying attention when I dressed him," Galen yawned. All turned their heads to Thierry, who had just entered with a cell phone in hand.
A look of satisfaction then bewilderment crossed his face as he paced back and forth along the large table. The others could only sit and crane their necks to follow his movements.
"You want to stay?" he asked with alarm. Hannah looked confused as well.
"Who is that?" Keller asked.
"Just a minute, Keller," Thierry replied, thinking the question was directed to him. He listened for a few more seconds and sighed. In his round of duck, duck, he chose Keller as
goose. "Here," Thierry handed her the phone, "he wants to talk to you."
Keller raised the phone to her ear and then smiled. "Yes, hello Kyros. I'm…terribly tired, the baby's crying schedule doesn't exactly coincide with our sleeping schedule… Yes, here's
right here. Of course you can." Keller gently placed the cellular phone to the baby's side, who tried to grab it and use it a chew toy.
In New York City, Kyros smiled when he heard a squeal of baby laughter. "Hello, do you know who this is? It's Kyros! Marco…"
"Polo!" Their son yelled happily. It was unusual for a baby's motor skills to develop that fast, but then again their son was not a normal baby. Panthers and jaguars' offspring were
fully developed in two or three years.
Keller put the rather wet cell back to her own ear. "Aren't you proud I taught him his name?" She rolled her eyes. Ever since Kyros discovered the little trick, he had been saying
the same thing for five consecutive days.
"It's not his full name. A. Poll. O. That is his name, Apollo. You taught him Polo. There is a clear difference."
"Hey, at least I didn't teach him pot ho." She gave an exaggerated sigh and turned the conversation.
"What's this I hear about you wanting to stay in New York City? The dump of all dumps?"
"Hey don't knock it till you've tried. This city is only one quarter dump, the rest is a great fondue pot of culture."
"You mean melting pot," she corrected flatly and took the cap off a bottle Apollo had been struggling with. When he discovered the tiny obstacle that prevented milk coming to his
toothless mouth, Apollo threw it down in childish fury.
"No, I mean fondue pot. What can I say, I loved the seventy's cuisine. I'm staying on…personal matters."
Keller assumed it concerned his feuding relations. If there was anything in the Night World close to the Irish temper and liquor endurance, it would be the shape shifter clan of
Snow. Kyros had once described the quintessential routine dinner at his branch of the Snow family: "You fight as you sit down to dinner, eat, fight while you eat, fight as you clear
the table, get out the liquor and cigars, and then make up for all the fights of the past two hours." But, of course, that was only when he visited.
Peter sat in the car in the dark, sitting, waiting impenitently—tapping his forefinger on the steering wheel. His face read nothing but irritation. He had been waiting in the car for
over twenty minutes and still no one showed, or at least made a move to come out. He moaned irritably, slapping a hand to the passenger seat and moving his body to get a better
look at the front door of Denny's.
Where is she? He stared at the front entrance intolerantly.
There was no one at the door, and the area surround it was as dark and gloomy as ever. The space looked like a pit stop in the middle of nowhere. The only sign that the place was
still alive and open was the large Denny's sign up ahead of him glowing in big yellow and red neon lights.
Peter groaned again sitting back in his seat. He was getting a little worried and thought maybe he shouldn't have stormed off the way he did and left her there. But it wasn't
fault! Those fucking bloodsucker just got him so mad! Who was that bitch to tell him he had to be friends with that mother fucker? She was a nobody to him, and yet she was telling
him what to do, and so casually too! That fucking Night Worlder, he beggared in his mind, cursing her for wh
at she was. The car then grew quiet as he began to wait again. He
pressed his head all the way back until it hit the seat, resting his body as it relaxed from where he sat. He let out another unsettled breath, and glanced to the other side, where a
bunch of warehouses' sat and a traffic light gently dangled from its post, turning from red to green and back.
He began to reminisce about the warehouse incident and just how close he—and his group were from dying there. The reality of it all bothered him, and angered him as well. He
had never been so close to death then that day. He could feel his rage begin to boil in him. We had gotten lucky… And that just infuriated him even more. He wasn't supposed to
have gotten lucky—luck was not supposed to be in there. The job was just supposed to go out smoothly. There wasn't supposed to be any mistakes, it was supposed to be
perfect in every way. And above all, Mikey wasn't supposed to die…
Peter closed his eyes, pressing a hand to his eyes, and rubbing them, over stressed. Another breath, only this time it was torn.
In the back of his eyes he pictured Mikey's mother and how broken she had looked at his funeral. The plump old woman could not stop with her weeping, she was like a broken
faucet, just pouring and pouring and pouring… It was hard to watch, and it was even harder to give his respects for her son to her.
Peter chuckled to himself this time, but it wasn't an exultant chuckle, it was another tense sound. He thought Melody had been so lucky not to have gone. He became serious.
course that was because she was guilty. Peter recognized that she couldn't face Mikey's family yet—not after what happened. And he saw she was blaming herself for his death a
thousand times over. He had first noticed it when she had left the infirmary for the first time. How the posture of her body had changed once she left the room. Peter didn't know if
Melody identified it yet, but she always had a habit of doing little things that would give her away. Although they were really minor, too small for anyone that hardly ever knew her
to know. Like for instance, when sad, she would wrap her hands around her belly lightly like a tail, and bob her head down to the side like she had cat ears. It sometimes fascinated
