Dawn of Dae

by R. J. Blain

  There were six of us, and I mimicked them, stealing glances at Baltimore’s infamous crime lord. He was wearing one of his best suits, which made him easy on the eyes—and made him stand out even more than usual.

  What was he doing? If he was there to ruin my chances at graduating through Bach studies, I would kill him. I’d play his game, wait until he lowered his guard, and throw his bullet-riddled corpse into the Chesapeake to feed the fish.

  No one would notice an extra body in the water.

  He had every reason to try to screw things up for me. Kenneth had a lot of dogs, but I was one of his best. When his debtors disappeared, I sniffed them out. From time to time, I even managed to hunt down those who had wisely left Baltimore’s city limits to escape Kenneth’s territory.

  My boss was talking to one of the professors; I didn’t know the woman, but she wore the school’s blue-and-gold badge on her shoulder as a declaration of her importance. The way she contained her hair in a tight bun added at least ten years to her age. Her eyes warned me she was a force to be reckoned with; she took her time examining us, her gaze pausing at each interesting detail. She noticed my digital pad. The boy in front of me had an old-school notebook and a pen, which she stared at. The others she disregarded after a brief glance.

  “If you had come earlier, Mr. Smith, you would have had a better choice of the students,” the woman scolded, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “Are these not exemplary merit students?” Kenneth’s scorn came out in his voice. “We pay the colleges well for these students.”

  Several of the other students in line with me flinched. I allowed myself a scowl, wondering what it’d be like to strangle him. Would the rashes and potential blisters be worth it?

  Probably.

  “There are a limited number of students capable of keeping pace with our regular academic base, Mr. Smith,” she said, her eyes narrowing. Knowing Kenneth, he had goaded the woman into repeating herself several times to please him.

  He was infuriating like that.

  “What about her?” Without looking at any of us, Kenneth gestured, his finger pointed unerringly in my direction.

  “What about her?” the professor replied, turning her full attention to me.

  “I’ll take her.”

  “Miss Daegberht is reserved for the dean, Mr. Smith. You simply can’t take her. She’s already been selected.”

  My mouth dropped open. The dean wanted me?

  I couldn’t tell if my grave, once dug a little deeper, led to China, heaven, or hell. What was Kenneth doing? Was he trying to screw me out of my housing and education for the next four years?

  My contract required me to work a set number of hours per week for the college. All I could do was gawk helplessly at the pair, aware of the other students staring at me.

  Out of the corner of my eye, all I could see in their expressions was shock and pity. I liked that; they were too smart to be jealous.

  If I was the dean’s assistant, my every move would be scrutinized.

  “Perhaps we can make an arrangement.” Kenneth’s tone was reasonable, but his mouth told another story, one that ended in bloodshed if he didn’t get his way.

  “Perhaps an adjustment to her schedule can be made to permit a five year term instead of the standard four years. That would allow extra working hours alongside her education,” the woman conceded, making a thoughtful noise. “I will inquire.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll talk to the dean myself,” Kenneth snapped, his tone souring to match his scowl. “If, of course, he has the time.”

  I wanted to get back to work digging my grave so I could crawl inside and shovel dirt over myself. Instead, when the woman gestured to me, I stepped out of the line. She opened the door to the dean’s office and pointed inside. I went in, and Kenneth Smith accompanied me.

  The pleasure of an assured victory infused his smile.

  The dean was a tall man with piercing blue eyes and wispy graying hair, and judging from the way he relaxed behind his desk with his shiny oxfords propped up on the edge, he had been expecting us—or at least Kenneth.

  There was a young man in the room with him, who sat tense and rigid in one of the room’s other two chairs. He wore a suit almost a match for Kenneth’s, but he lacked the smug confidence of my drug-dealing boss.

  “It’s been a while, Mr. Smith,” the dean said, gesturing to the free chair. “Sit, sit. Haven’t you gotten tired of me telling you no?”

  Kenneth laughed long and loud. “Never. And you tell me no until I give you reasons to tell me yes, and as always, you then do what I want. So, let’s get down to business, shall we?”

  “Is that any way to treat someone who is doing you a favor, Kenneth?” the dean replied, arching a brow.

  “I’m simply trying to save you time. I know how busy the first day of the new Bach cycle is for you. So many new talents to distribute among your professors—it’d be a pity if I missed out on this batch.”

  The dean smiled, a rather unfriendly expression. “How considerate of you. I see you found a student of interest to you. I brought another who fit your criteria. Before I agree to anything, I want to know what you’re up to.”

  “I am working on refining my corporation. I am branching out my business to cover all caste sectors. I require students with a broad range of skills and experiences for the project. Of course, the college will be paid suitably for the use of the students’ time and effort.”

  I had no idea what Kenneth was talking about. Then again, I limited my exposure to him as much as possible; I already knew too much about his operations in the Inner Harbor. Getting to know the man on a personal level was no different from inviting the devil to bed.

  Obviously, I had missed out on something important—a mistake I wouldn’t make again, not with him.

  How had he wormed his way into the college system? Why?

  Was he really going to ruin my chances of finishing my Bach studies?

  My eyes burned with the need to cry, but I straightened my back and lifted my chin. No matter what situation Kenneth threw me into, I’d claw my way out. I’d prove to him I wouldn’t be stopped.

  I would break free of his chain. Once I finished my studies, I could move to any city in the world.

  The dean stewed on Kenneth’s reply, sighed, and nodded. “It’ll cost you.”

  “Doesn’t it always?” Kenneth replied, his tone wry.

  “Why don’t you two go into the hall and introduce yourselves?” the dean suggested in a tone allowing no argument. “Mr. Smith and I have business to discuss. I will expect you both in my office tomorrow morning at ten. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied.

  The young man simply rose from his chair, bent in a stiff bow, and stormed to the door. I hesitated before following after him.

  He waited until I shut the door behind me, then his expression changed to loathing and disgust. Thrusting out his hand, he waited, glaring at me the entire time.

  Handshakes sucked. If I didn’t shake with him, he’d think the wrong thing. Bracing for the burn, I clasped his hand. He squeezed hard enough my joints cracked before he released me.

  “Terry Moore. Don’t bother showing up. I don’t need some dock rat messing up my work.” Turning on a heel, he marched down the hall, leaving me to stare after him in stunned silence.

  So much for finding my mark on my own. What the hell was Kenneth thinking? Surely Terry knew who Kenneth was—or did he? If he didn’t, why would Kenneth come scoping out my job? Could Kenneth have outsourced his work to one of his underlings? That wasn’t like him; he took extra special care with his elite clients. If an elite knew Kenneth sold, it was because Kenneth had dirt on them—and a lot of it.

  What was so special about Terry Moore?

  All I had were questions and not a single answer for any of them.

  I sighed and stared at my reddening hand. At least my skin hadn’t blistered yet.

  Tomorrow, I really would h
ave to wear gloves. Were gloves in fashion among the elite?

  It was a good thing Kenneth hadn’t loaned me a gun. If he had, there would have been bodies, and his would have been the first to hit the floor. So those waiting in the hall wouldn’t think too badly of me or assume I was a cold bitch, I forced a smile by fantasizing about dancing on Kenneth’s grave naked.

  I’d definitely be the one who got away, and I’d make him regret it every last minute of his miserable life.

  I had two things I wanted to do: eat and sleep.

  The rest could wait for morning. If Kenneth wanted to interfere with my work and ruin my life, I needed to be ready for him. I dumped my tablet on my coffee table and headed for the kitchen, muttering curses the entire time.

  I yanked open the refrigerator door and came face to face with a man wearing a suit rivaling Kenneth’s. With his dark hair slicked back, he looked the part of an elite, although there was something strange about his double-breasted suit; the dark material shimmered.

  I blinked, and so did he.

  Men, especially good-looking elites, didn’t just step out of a refrigerator. I opened my mouth, closed it, and regarded the door I held open, puzzled on how to shut it with him in the way.

  Did extreme hunger spawn hallucinations? I hadn’t had a hit of any hallucinogenic in years—and it had been over a year since my last episode.

  I was over the drugs… wasn’t I?

  I had dreamed up a lot of weird shit while on some form of drug or another, but well-dressed men coming out of my refrigerator was a first. Sighing, I considered my options. Screaming and finding some sort of weapon to bludgeon the invader with topped my brief list, but I was tired enough it seemed like too much effort.

  He recovered first and said something in some fluid language. I wasn’t even sure if he was saying words or just making a string of really, really nice sounds. If it was a language, I wanted to learn it. It was sensual, soft, and soothing.

  “I don’t have any idea what the hell you’re saying. Get the fuck out of my apartment,” I snapped, stepping aside and letting go of the door. He brought up his elbow to prevent it from closing on him. I pointed at the front door, which was all of ten strides away.

  When he laughed, his eyes sparkled, and their color enthralled me. The blue was bright and intense, as vibrant as the dawn sky. I sucked in a breath and stared.

  I’d never seen anyone with eyes anything like his.

  I didn’t like older men; I wasn’t supposed to like men at all. All they did was make me miserable. He lifted his hand towards me, and I flinched away. Lines creased his forehead as he frowned.

  “Pardon me, but might you be able to direct me to the city hall? I seem to have taken a wrong turn somewhere,” he stated, and his English was as sexual as the other language he had spoken.

  I should have screamed profanities at him, but unable to string two thoughts together let alone get creative, I stammered the directions.

  “Sorry to bother you, Miss…?”

  “Alexa,” I blurted.

  Before I could stop him, he grabbed my hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed the back of it. His mouth was soft, warm, and sent shivers crawling up and down my spine. My brain fired off warnings of imminent pain so strong my toes curled in anticipation of misery.

  He let me go, shoved his left hand into his pocket, and smirked at me. “Do you have a last name, Miss Alexa?”

  The polite way he spoke threw me off balance, and I mumbled my last name before asking, “Who are you?”

  “Alexa Daegberht. That’s a nice name. I’m Rob. I like you, and I think I’ll make you my woman.”

  My mouth dropped open. “You’ll what?” I shrieked. I drew a breath to curse at him, but in three long strides he was gone, waving a farewell before closing the door behind him.

  I had to be suffering from hallucinations. There was no way a man had come out of my refrigerator, asked for directions to City Hall, and then declared I was his woman. It was too absurd to be reality.

  Maybe Kenneth had slipped a hallucinogen into his cigar, a subtly devious one with a long set-in time. Maybe I hadn’t even made it away from the couch, collapsing in exhaustion from my long day without breakfast or lunch. After the day I had, screwed up dreams seemed appropriate. Maybe I really was asleep.

  My macaroni and cheese chose that moment to flop out of my refrigerator onto the floor. It hit the worn vinyl tiles with a splat. Instead of scattering like it should have, it bounced and jiggled, leaving neon-orange smears in its wake.

  “Mommy!” my macaroni and cheese squeaked.

  There was only one thing for a sensible girl like me to do. I fainted.

  Three

  “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!”

  The ceiling was covered in neon-orange smears. I blinked, but the stains remained. I blearily checked the rest of the kitchen. Cheese coated the floor, the cabinets and counters, and even the refrigerator I so loathed. The culprit of the culinary catastrophe bounced around my head.

  “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!”

  My macaroni and cheese was talking to me, and like a child on a sugar high, it darted to and fro in its excitement.

  It reminded me a lot of me as a child, hoping for attention despite my fear of being touched. As macaroni and cheese couldn’t bounce around or talk, I searched for a realistic explanation for my situation.

  I eliminated drugs; I’d been high enough times to recognize I wasn’t impaired from anything I’d used before. While the macaroni and cheese counted as a hallucination, I otherwise felt fine. Well, as fine as somebody on the floor could be. On further investigation, I discovered a disturbing fact: like my kitchen, I was caked in neon-orange cheese. The back of my head throbbed, a painful reminder I had fainted upon my first introduction to my dinner’s animation. Food didn’t talk, yet mine was singing in a squeaky, high-pitched voice.

  Maybe I had done some form of drug and didn’t know it. Or someone had slipped me something. Someone slipping me something fell into the realm of the possible. I could see Kenneth hiring one of his other bitches to do just that, and I could think of a few willing to do the job on the house to get rid of me, Lily included.

  “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!”

  Lurching upright, I stared at the disaster my new apartment had become. The macaroni and cheese had limited its destruction to the kitchen. Since when had hallucinations been considerate enough to keep their messes easy to clean? The thought amused me for several minutes while I watched my dinner flop around and leave more cheese smudges in its wake.

  For a conglomeration of noodles and powder, it was pretty versatile. It bounced off the floor, splatted into the cabinets, and launched itself up onto the wall to ping-pong between the fridge and the cupboards. It even splattered against the ceiling a couple of times.

  I stared at the casserole-shaped splotches on the white paint, grateful it was all some sort of hallucination. Hallucinations made sense. The ache where I’d cracked my head into the floor explained everything. I’d gone and given myself a serious concussion, and I imagined everything.

  Yes, a concussion made a great deal more sense than a conspiracy theory involving Kenneth and his other bitches slipping me drugs.

  Macaroni and cheese didn’t dance, it didn’t bounce, and it certainly didn’t talk. Since my dinner was absolutely incapable of doing those things, I wouldn’t have to clean up after it. I hurt too much for it to be a dream, and while a concussion could justify the symptoms, it could still be a side effect of some drug.

  I could just assume I had a concussion and Kenneth had drugged me. Rolling with a conspiracy theory put me into the mentally unstable category, but I could make it work. I embraced the dual reasons for my current state with vindictive glee.

  When the hallucinations eased, I was going to find Kenneth and kill him. How had he dosed me? I could concoct at least three methods. His stupid cigar may have contained an hallucinogen. He hadn’t touched me at the college. Drug-induced hallucinations sucked. T
he episode I suffered through would cause me nothing but problems. Macaroni and cheese simply couldn’t talk nor jump, let alone pretend it was a parkour expert high on a speed trip.

  There was also no way in hell I was its mommy, no matter how fond it seemed of the word.

  If anyone asked, I’d explain I’d hit my head moving things in my new apartment and blame a potential concussion. I’d then claim I hadn’t felt it was a real problem, and that the pain, blurred vision, and other obvious symptoms had faded quickly. Those in the upper caste would believe me.

  They liked when the lowest of the low didn’t cost them even more money.

  The macaroni and cheese plopped to the floor beside me. “Mommy?”

  “You’re not real,” I informed my dinner, wondering how long the hallucinations would last. If it was from a concussion, I expected I’d have a macaroni and cheese companion for a few days. If Kenneth worked to get me expelled from Bach studies, he was going about it the right way and the hallucinations could last up to a week if he used any of the common drugs he often had available. I groaned and hid my face in my hands. How was I going to make it through a day of classes when I couldn’t trust anything I saw or heard?

  No matter how deep I dug my grave, it didn’t go to China or heaven. It led straight to the depths of hell.

  “Mommy?” My macaroni and cheese whined.

  “No,” I replied.

  “Mommy!”

  “I said no. You’re not real.”

  The front door of my apartment opened, and my other hallucination walked in. Rob wore the same suit, and I marveled at my brain’s ability to remain consistent while under the influence of a concussion or drugs. He was smiling, his expression as smug as I remembered.

  “That’s going to be interesting to clean up,” he said, closing the door behind him. “Why are you on the floor, Miss Daegberht?”

  Rob observed the antics of my animated dinner and shook his head. I scowled. Why did a figment of my imagination have to reinforce the existence of animated macaroni and cheese and be so damned good looking in the process? I was torturing myself, and I knew it. In all honesty, it made sense; if a random stranger created by either a concussion or hallucinogens was going to wander in and out of my apartment, of course I’d make him handsome—and old enough to be reliable but young enough to still be interesting.