by R. J. Blain
I wondered if I could get away with kissing him just to find out what it was like. Could a hallucination trigger my skin sensitivity?
I stared at the back of my hand. Was his kissing me another hallucination? I was free of redness, itching, rashes, hives, blisters, welts, or any one of the other common manifestations of my allergy.
Rob turned his attention to me, waiting for an answer.
I flushed. No matter what I said, I’d sound like an idiot, so I replied, “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
It still seemed like a good idea. Until the concussion or drugs wore off, someone could lead me to the top of a skyscraper and tell me to walk off and I’d believe it was a good idea. I probably wouldn’t even realize I was about to plunge to my death.
“You’re covered in cheese. I thought you should know.”
“Hallucinations should be seen not heard,” I complained, grumbling curses under my breath. Hallucination or not, there was no need to be rude to my guest—invader, really. “Did you get lost trying to find City Hall?”
“I’ve finished my business there. Thank you for the directions, Miss Daegberht. You were very helpful. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other things I must attend to. Do have a good morning, and take care of yourself. Remember, you belong to me now.” He strode across my kitchen to my refrigerator and stepped inside. He even shut the door behind him.
“What an asshole,” I muttered. It was a good thing he was gone. My imagination was pissing me off. Were all hot guys jerks? Was that really how I thought of men?
I sighed. Then I blinked as his words replayed in my memory.
Morning?
I jumped to my feet, staggered, and fell against the counter, smearing the wet fake cheese all over the place. My kitchen lurched around me, and I shook my head to clear it of vertigo. I recovered far faster than I had any right to, considering how hard I’d hit my head in order to create a hot, older man and sentient macaroni and cheese. Or drugged. I couldn’t forget the possibility of being drugged.
I swayed on my way to the living room, snatching up my tablet with my orange-coated hands.
The device informed me it was a little after nine in the morning. I stared down at myself, registering the coating of neon-orange product all over me and my clothes. Maybe it was a hallucination, but I couldn’t leave feeling so filthy.
Spewing curses, I ran for the bathroom, shedding drying cheese as I went.
One of the perks of being a merit-based student was my apartment’s location. The front door of the building was directly across the street from the side entrance to the college. I could go to and from classes with little risk of encountering anyone, as long as I dodged the unending stream of cars heading deeper downtown.
I had exactly two minutes to make it from one side of the campus to the other if I wanted to be on time and prove to Terry Moore and Kenneth Smith I wasn’t to be taken lightly—and that I was capable of overcoming anything a concussion or drugs threw at me, including the miniature three-headed giraffe crossing the street with me.
“Good morning,” I mumbled in the off chance it was a real person.
“Top of the morning to you, miss,” it chorused, dipping all three of its heads. Two wore top hats between their horns. The third wore a tiara.
My imagination had a fixation on the British, apparently. Rob hadn’t seemed like quite as dapper a fellow, but I recognized the similarities—except for his belief I was his property.
I wondered what that said about me.
Breaking into a sprint as soon as I navigated through traffic, I beelined for the main administration building. I made it without running into anyone, which surprised me. Concussions and mind-altering drugs had a tendency to erase reality and replace it entirely.
I couldn’t tell which I suffered from, and it would drive me crazy within an hour.
Melting walls, ghostly figures, and noises only I could hear had been a way of life before I had gotten clean. The realism of my hallucinations without the numbing high of the narcotics accompanying them disconcerted me.
Concussions could do the same, which didn’t help matters for me.
Drugs or concussion? Concussion or drugs? I’d be thankful I’d hit my head later and blame a concussion if I botched my attempt to hide my current less-than-sober state.
I made it to the steps of the administration building with thirty seconds to spare. A menagerie clustered on the steps. A cat taller than me stood on its hind legs, talking to Canadian geese with human faces. I wasn’t sure what language they were speaking, but it wasn’t English. To my disappointment, it wasn’t nearly as sensual as the language Rob had used.
I dodged them, earning a couple of glares from the other strange critters my brain had conjured.
A werewolf with pink wings crouched by the doubled doors, watching me with yellow eyes. Wisps of smoke coiled from its nose. I wiggled through the crowd, determined to make it to the dean’s office without betraying the fact I was on some sort of drug or suffered from an epic, mind-bending concussion.
I made it two steps into the building before I bumped into the dean.
He was still a human, although his eyes had turned a vivid purple. Red rimmed his pupils, and he stared down his nose at me before checking his watch. “Right on time. Good. Go to my office and wait there.”
I bobbed my head, shuffled by him, and scurried down the hallway.
Halfway to the dean’s office, a panda with a feathered crest and vestigial wings attempted to climb the wall, pawing at a potted bamboo dangling from the ceiling. Since my concussion or drug-induced hallucinations seemed linked with real people, I figured it was safe enough to greet the panda—and its potted friend. I said, “Good luck with that.”
The panda huffed and flipped its middle finger at me.
Since I was on a roll, I stared up at the bamboo plant and added, “Let’s hang around sometime.”
“Sure,” the plant chirped.
Maybe I could be taught how to cling to the ceiling like that; it seemed like a useful skill in my line of work. If Kenneth had his way, it’d be my only line of work. The thought soured my mood, and clenching my teeth, I marched down the hall.
Terry Moore waited by the dean’s office. Like the dean, he still looked human, although his eyes burned; flames roiled in place of his irises. Heat radiated from him, and I halted a safe distance away.
Maybe the heat or the changes to his eyes weren’t real, but I still perceived pain while under the influence. I’d learned that lesson long ago. If I started screaming because of non-existent burns, everyone would know something was up.
Once the hallucinations subsided, I was going to sit down and have a long talk with Kenneth about how his stunts negatively affected my ability to do his dirty work. If what I was on was anything like the other drugs I’d taken before I’d gotten my head out of my ass, I’d be seeing things for months—maybe years.
And if my hallucinations happened to be from a concussion, I’d blame him for being the reason I had a concussion in the first place.
“I told you not to come,” he snapped.
His breath smelled of smoke. I shivered, resisting the urge to pinch my nose closed. “What can I say? I’d like to finish my Bach studies. Suck it up, pretty boy. Maybe you’ll learn something.”
One day I’d learn taunting the elite wasn’t wise. Maybe.
Terry Moore scowled. “And what, exactly, do you think I might learn from you?”
“Basic math skills,” the dean said from directly behind me. “You are in no position to criticize Miss Daegberht, Mr. Moore. You hold the dubious honor of having the lowest allowable grade here. I recommend that you adjust your attitude, else you will be restarting your Bach studies from year one. No matter how many donations you give to the college, I will not permit you to graduate to Master studies if you can’t demonstrate a full spectrum of skills. Don’t make your crowning achievement here alienating one of the few individuals who might be able to t
urn you into something other than a waste of air.”
When Terry snorted, a plume of black smoke burst from his nose and shrouded his face before rising to the ceiling in a cloud. It stank of rotten eggs.
Throwing up wouldn’t earn me any points, although if I did, maybe I could claim sickness was responsible for my odd behavior. I swallowed several times to force my stomach to settle.
“If I were you, Mr. Moore, I would be grateful for the opportunity to convince Mr. Smith you are an asset to his business rather than a liability.” Opening the door to his office, the dean waved us inside. I waited for Terry, careful to keep out of his way so I wouldn’t get burned. He took a seat.
It smoked beneath him, and the fumes of burning hair strangled me. While tempted to breathe out of my mouth, I coped.
Kenneth waited for us, perched on the edge of the dean’s desk. There was a young man with him who reminded me of my boss in so many ways, right down to the way he smirked.
“You took your time,” Kenneth stated, his tone devoid of emotion. I tensed, my gaze shifting to my boss’s mouth. His cheek twitched from how hard he clenched his teeth, and he scowled. Picking up a thick stack of papers, my boss slapped it against the dean’s desk. “I want basic information about the people on this list. Their full name, current status, gender, caste, current rank, grades, and study focus will do.”
“Mr. Smith, this college is not a private investigating service,” the dean replied, and he growled, sounding far more like an animal rather than a man.
The young man with my boss straightened, flexing his hands.
Kenneth tossed the papers onto the empty chair beside Terry. “I’ll settle for whether or not the individuals went missing this morning. There are a notable number of your students in that mess, so I thought it would be wise to use your resources. In exchange, I can provide the same information on some of your more important donors.”
People were missing? I straightened, staring at the stack out of the corner of my eye. What was going on?
I cursed myself for not having had time to check the news before leaving my apartment. At least I wasn’t covered in imaginary neon-orange cheese. Once I escaped the dean’s office, I would have to look into what was going on.
The way the dean frowned promised trouble for someone. Brushing by me, the older man snatched up the sheets, flipping through them. “Since classes are cancelled, I suppose you can make use of my students for the interim, Mr. Smith. I will expect your complete list by the end of the week.”
Kenneth narrowed his eyes, and for a moment, I feared he’d pull out his gun and be done with the dean then and there. When he smiled, he lacked his usual warmth.
While my boss often worried me, he’d never made me chill from the inside quite so much. The young man beside him cleared his throat and said, “The end of the week seems acceptable to me.”
“Fine. End of the week,” Kenneth grumbled.
The dean offered the stack of papers to me. In my hurry to leave my apartment, I had forgotten my gloves, and I grimaced at how red my hand was compared to the bleached white of the sheets. “Deal with this.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, tucking the stack under my arm without looking over their contents. “Is there anything else you require of me?”
“Take Mr. Moore with you, and see if you can make use of him, somehow.” The dean snapped his fingers and gestured to the door.
I marched out, relieved to escape my boss’s presence, although I loathed the idea of having to dodge Terry and his excessive radiant heat. At least I wouldn’t have too difficult of a time pulling basic information on people. It was tedious basic work, but I could do the task with one eye closed while suffering through a concussion or hopped up on drugs. Maybe while sniffing around I’d find out why a bunch of people were missing.
Kenneth had probably concocted the assignment to make use of me while waiting for my downfall. It wouldn’t surprise me if he were the reason for the disappearances—if anyone was actually missing at all. It was like him to set a trap, lure his victims into it, and wait for the fireworks. I sighed, and without waiting for Terry, I headed for the administration building’s main entrance.
The feathered panda still tried to climb the walls to get at the potted bamboo, who catcalled its pursuer. Their dispute quieted at my approach.
“Some bloke was looking for you,” the plant said, pointing its leaves towards the front doors.
“Thanks,” I replied, wondering who would be looking for me and why.
Terry’s heat warned me he was approaching me from behind. Turning to face him, I secured my hold on the papers the dean had given me. He made a grab for them. His heat drove me back, and he pursued me all the way to the foyer, snarling something unintelligible under his breath.
“I’ll make you a copy. Keep your pants on,” I hissed through clenched teeth.
The double doors banged open, and I whirled around. The pink-winged werewolf I had noticed outside rose up on his hind legs, fanned his feathers, and breathed fire at Terry Moore.
Kenneth and his stupid drug-dealing operation were going to get me killed. I avoided incineration by a pink-winged werewolf by inches. Jumping back, I pressed my back to the wall. My startled cry was choked off by the billowing smoke roiling from the flames still spewing from the werewolf’s mouth. All around me, people—and animated objects—dove out of the way, screaming profanities.
Without any sign of the fire hurting him, Terry Moore stood tall and proud—at least, I think he did. I couldn’t see much through the smoke and fire surrounding him.
The crested panda hopped to my side and blurted, “What the bloody hell?”
“It’s an infestation of the British,” I muttered. There was no way I could hide the fact I was hallucinating, not anymore. Normal people didn’t cower against the wall watching a werewolf puke flames at an annoying elite. Part of me was jealous; I wouldn’t have minded being in the werewolf’s shoes for a few minutes.
“Hardly,” the panda replied. “It’s probably not very safe standing here.”
I had upgraded to sensible auditory hallucinations since my last run-in with narcotics. No, it was more likely I had an epic concussion. But if I didn’t have a concussion, did that mean the drugs were working their way through me? Grunting, I adjusted my hold on the papers and considered how to get out the front doors. If I burned to death due to a figment of my imagination, would I still die?
“Indeed,” I agreed. The flames, the werewolf, and the panda weren’t real. Steeling my nerves to defy what my misfiring brain was telling me, I headed around the pair.
Terry Moore roared, halting me in mid-step. Wind gusted through the door, and the fire went out, leaving my fellow student standing on scorched marble. The other side of the hallway smoldered.
“Really not a good idea,” the panda warned.
“Is that the best you can do?” Terry said, the scorn in his voice drawing an infuriated snarl from the werewolf.
“Seemed like a good effort to me,” I muttered.
The panda didn’t seem very impressed with my comment, jabbing me in the side with his furry elbow.
The werewolf opened his mouth to say something when Terry Moore burst into a pillar of flame. Heat washed over me, so intense it singed my skin and dried out my poor eyeballs. I hissed and blinked. The pain didn’t last long, though my skin was smarting and had turned as red as my usual allergy rashes.
Where Terry had stood moments before was a winged lizard covered in hundreds of glittering scales and gemstones. I had always thought dragons would have leathery membranes like bats, but my fellow student had scales shaped like feathers, and they were studded in rubies and diamonds.
At around two feet in length, Terry didn’t look all that menacing, especially since the bulk of his body was made up of his neck and tail. All things considered, he was rather cute with the added bonus of being decked out in a fortune of jewels. Did I need to keep his hide intact to make the most money out of h
im, or would popping out the gemstones be sufficient?
I wondered what I’d really end up with once my hallucinations faded.
Terry the Miniature Dragon belched fire at the pink-winged werewolf. The werewolf, like any other sensible creature, took offense at Terry’s flames. Maybe my fellow student was a freaking dragon, but the werewolf was larger—and hungry. I flinched at the crunch as the supernatural creature chowed down on an appetizer of scales, gemstones, and dragon meat. When his yellow eyes focused on me, I lifted my hands in a placating gesture, still clutching my papers.
“I don’t think that’ll bloody help,” the panda hissed at me.
Movement behind the werewolf caught my eye, and with his hands in his pockets, Rob strode in, pausing long enough to take in the smoldering walls, the scorched floors, and the werewolf. The tip of Terry’s tail hung out of the side of the werewolf’s muzzle.
With a snap and a pop, the scaled hide crumbled to dust.
“You should have kept your hunting to after curfew,” Rob announced, arching a brow at the werewolf.
What curfew? I blinked. What had I missed after fainting on my kitchen floor?
The pink-winged werewolf drew in a breath, probably to breathe fire in Rob’s face. Uncertain why, I opened my mouth to warn the infuriating man who had popped out of my refrigerator. Before I could make a sound, Rob had the werewolf’s throat in his hand.
“You’re too stupid to live.” Rob didn’t raise his voice above a gentle whisper, but his tone chilled my blood. With a twist of his wrist, Rob snapped the werewolf’s neck.
Like the remains of Terry’s tail, the werewolf crumbled away to dust, which piled on the blackened marble floor. I stared at the mess, aware of the fact my mouth was open but unable to do anything about it.
