by Danae Ayusso
Huh, Dannette sounds like an interesting person, and now much of Draven makes sense.
We hadn’t talked about anything like this in my self-therapy sessions. But I was starting to understand why Draven would get a weird look on his face when I mentioned certain things when it pertained to Mom and Mother, and some of the few things I could remember of Mother.
We had more in common than either of us would like to admit.
“If she isn’t Soren or Dannette’s mother,” I said, looking to the smiling woman across the sandwich shop.
Draven smiled. “Christian’s mother’s mother, his grandmother. She’s unbelievably sweet and caring, and adopts everyone that wanders in. Grandma Di is a good woman, and she makes amazing sandwiches.”
The round woman came over with two platters in hand and set them down in front of us.
Draven took it upon himself to order for me, and as mad as I wanted to be about it, I couldn’t be. Whatever he ordered smelled amazing and looked delicious. One platter was filled with a variety of finger sandwiches and the other had a dozen four-ounce mason jars filled with an arrangement of cold salads and fruit parfaits.
“Thanks, Grandma,” Draven said with a smile.
She looked between us, before softly smacking him upside the head when he stubbornly shook his head.
“Fine,” he huffed, making a face. “Grandma Di, this is Mademoiselle Mikhail Simoeau. Training Bra, this is Grandma Di.”
Again, she smacked him. “Don’t call her that. You know better… Simoeau, huh?” she said, giving her grandson a look.
Draven smiled a teeth-baring smile.
I couldn’t help but giggle.
“Your middle name should have been Trouble, I swear,” she said, sounding aspirated. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mikhail. If you need anything, just holler, and don’t be afraid to slap him around a little bit. He needs it.”
I chuckle. “I’ll keep that in mind, Ma’am. Thank you.”
“Oh! A girl with manners,” Di beamed. “You better be a total gentleman to her, Young Man,” she warned, giving him a wagging scold of her finger as she headed off behind the counter.
“Of course,” Draven assured her with a wink.
He smacked my hand away when I reached for a sandwich and I glared at him.
“Manners,” he scolded. “Grandma Di will make more if you require them. I put two of these platters down myself if in the mood.”
“Why can’t I go home?” I asked, watching him plate some food on one of the small white plates that was stacked by the napkin dispenser on our table. “Did Price really tell you to take me hostage?” I demanded.
Draven made a face, one I got often over the course of the summer. “Were those his exact words? No. Soren made another house call and Price didn’t want you anywhere near Soren when he’s in one of his moods.”
My eyes widened.
“Simian and William are both there, as is Nick,” he said, as if he knew my concern. “Most likely Soren brought Matthieu, Paul’s father, and Émile for backup. He would have fared better if he brought Mère: she would stab him in the front, not the back. If needed, Nick will, with much reluctance, call Kenyan for support, and Kenyan would call his father, Gérard, because of his position in the family. Here, try the Cuban styled Monte Cristo with the grilled mango and avocado salad.” He set the plate in front of me before making himself up an identical one.
“They won’t let anything happen to Price, right?” I asked before taking a bite of the sandwich.
For a fleeting moment, the well-being of the man I have waited my entire life to call Father meant very little to me. The only thing that mattered was the Cuban pork and pickle sandwich I was eating.
“I told you they were worth the wait,” Draven said, knowingly, before taking a bite.
I nodded before taking another bite and another, shoving the whole thing in my mouth and struggled to chew so I didn’t choke.
He gave me a look. “Your table manners are criminal,” he said before taking another bite.
“I’ve heard that a time of two,” I admitted, spearing a bite of the salad with my fork before shoving it in my mouth. “Price told me it would be polite to thank you for the snack box, even if you don’t want my gratitude.”
As if he was trying to show me what proper table manners look like, Draven used a napkin to wipe his mouth.
“No thanks is required, Training Bra. The moaning was proof enough that you enjoyed it, and I have to admit, I was enjoying you enjoying it as much as the rest of the males in the class were. You moaned more than once, squirmed even, and giggled a couple of times, bouncing up and down in your seat. It was painfully stimulating in all the right ways at the wrong possible place.”
That isn’t embarrassing in the least.
“I’m discovering food is my blanky now,” I said, finishing the salad before setting the plate to the side and waited for the next.
“I have been replaced?” he scoffed, sounding offended.
“Yup. I’m sure there’s a tasteless meat in my mouth joke in there somewhere, so thanks for refraining.”
He chuckled. “The day is still young.”
“I have faith in your ability. What’s this one?” I asked, taking the plate he was offering me.
“Roasted gold and purple beets with goat cheese and a white bean spread sprinkled with orange and lemon zest served on a toasted rosemary baguette. The salad is simple citrus and spinach leaf with strawberries and a lemon vinaigrette. Grandma Di rather enjoys watching cooking shows and loves trying new things in the kitchen. That hobby turned into a successful business… Good God, Woman, chew!” he scolded when I scraped the last piece of spinach in my mouth.
“It’s good,” I said, talking with my mouth full.
Draven made a face, putting his half of sandwich down and pushed it to the side.
I grabbed it and smiled wide. “Thanks!” I beamed before taking a big bite.
He nodded with a chuckle. “Well played, Training Bra, well played.”
****
After gorging myself on two platters of sandwiches, half of the salads and all of the parfaits, I was ready to take a nap. All I wanted was to go home, crawl into bed after a long, hot bath, and sleep for the next week.
Draven said we couldn’t return just yet.
From what I understood, someone took a header into the pond.
Which family they were from?
Draven didn’t say, but I had a strong suspicion it was his since he was laughing over it.
Instead of heading home, Draven was driving us around Anaconda, giving me the dollar tour of the town without actually giving me a tour.
“You said Nick would call Kenyan if needed,” I said through a yawn.
“Yes, and?”
“Kenyan’s father is Gérard, that is a French name and you said his position in the family, so I’m assuming he’s a Van Zul,” I clarified.
Draven nodded. “Gérard is the second eldest of the Van Zul bloodline. He has two sons: Kenyan and Halisi.”
My eyes widened. “Dillon is dating a Van Zul?”
“Simply scandalous, is it not?” he mused.
Absently I nodded.
That explained why Dillon didn’t tell me about her boyfriend. I wouldn’t tell anyone if I was dating or sleeping with a Van Zul either.
“Technically, they aren’t dating,” Draven said. “She won’t take his intentions seriously, and he is smitten with the forbidden fruit of the Simoeau bloodline, even if she isn’t blood. Instead, they are merely sleeping together.”
His tone was flooded with amusement and disgust, but I’m not sure why.
“I take it that is a no-no,” I said.
“Unless you like cock,” he agreed.
What in the hell does that have to do with anything?
“What?” he asked, looking over at me.
I shook my head. “I’m not sure what to say about that. I’m assuming it has something to do with there bein
g no females in my family tree.”
Draven made a face. “Yes, it does. Price will tell you though; it’s his responsibility to tell you. Unlike Soren that didn’t say anything, and instead left it to Price to explain to a homeless mère et l'enfant after he slammed the door in our faces.” His accent flared so heavily that I couldn’t make out most of what he said.
“Squeeze that steering wheel any tighter and you’re going to break it,” I warned.
He blinked rapidly then looked over at me, his solid black eyes going to white and black again. “Je suis désolé,” he apologized, looking back to the road.
“Do the eyes have something to do with whatever it is Price has to tell me?”
“Oui et non, more of a side effect of it,” he said, choosing his words. “The same with the speed, but that isn’t something most possess as I do. It comes naturally to me, something I have to struggle to keep from doing. The others, it is usually something that happens when heightened emotions are involved—anger in my experience—and that gives them the added speed and traits of our kind.”
That makes, sense, I suppose.
“Our kind?” I asked the obvious.
Draven’s lips twisted into a contemplative pout. “Those demons that tried to hurt you in Philly, the ones that only you seemingly saw?”
“And you wonder why I thought you weren’t real,” I groaned.
“True. A normal person would have run, so I accept and understand your position now. Those things, those unexplainable demons as you called them, were real. Very much real. The pain from their attacks is proof they are real, but only you saw them.”
“Stating the obvious.”
“Stating it again so you grasp what I’m saying.”
I rolled my eyes. “Awesome, we’re demons. Sweet! Apparently being called the Wicked Bitch of North Philly wasn’t just a cool nickname and actually had merit. I’m a demonic bitch. Awesome.”
He chuckled. “I’m sensing sarcasm.”
“Not in the least, Man Whore. Justice will be pleased to know that we aren’t as damaged as we thought, and that it’s demonic heritage that’s to blame.”
Again, he chuckled. “I surely must meet Justice; she sounds fascinating.”
I punched him in the arm, glaring. “No. Besides, she doesn’t like you and refuses to acknowledge you even exist. I don’t know what you did to piss her off already, but bravo. I wish I had that pleasure.”
Draven shook his head; I’m sure he was questioning his sanity for entertaining my lack of sanity. “Demons had nothing to do with us, though many would disagree. What you and scholars, historians, Hollywood, and religion has insultingly coined demons are so much more. Everything you thought were nothing more than figments of the overly creative and darkened imagination are real. Vampyre, loup-garou, loogaroo, fantôme, boo hag, skin walkers, shapeshifters, the Engulfer of the people of the Coeur d’Alene Nation, the Teelget of the Navajo, ghoul, mare, wendigo… You name it, and it’s real.”
I shook my head. “You’re fucking me with, aren’t you?”
He looked over at me.
I know that face, and it was his serious face.
“No shit?” I asked, dumbfounded.
There’s no way. He has to be screwing with me. I’ve only heard of a couple of those and they were in fairy tales and the lore section of the library. They weren’t real…
They couldn’t be.
Could they?
“Exactly,” Draven said, sensing I was seemingly questioning but having an open mind…
For now.
If I find out he is screwing with me, he’ll never be able to get it up again because I’ll make sure I break the entire unit he is so very proud of in his pants.
“So if what you say is true, how come they aren’t all over the news?” I asked.
“Aren’t they?” he asked, pulling into a cemetery and put the car in park.
This is a little foreboding and not at all creepy.
“Are you going to kill me?” I asked the obvious.
“Not yet. I like the architecture of the mausoleum,” he said with a chuckle, turning the car off then got out.
When I continued to sit there, looking at him standing in front of the car, he chuckled and came around and got the door for me.
“Don’t be scared. Price was certain the house would be clear of Van Zuls by five so we have over an hour to wander around.”
After helping me out of the car, Draven shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away from me.
“Come, Training Bra,” he called out when I continued to stand there, watching his ass as he walked away from me. “Stop objectifying me.”
I flipped him off then followed.
“On the news, in the media, they are portrayed differently,” he said, continuing the discussion. “The media humanizes the monsters, and gives them faces and names, and sometimes, if the victims are white enough, memorializes them in picture and with an asterisk footnote on a Wikipedia page. You’ve seen on the news that there’s a serial killer-rapist in the Missoula area?”
Yes, it made me cry, a few times.
Those stories on the news always upset me.
“I have,” I whispered.
Draven waited for me to join him. “Missoula’s questionable and horrific events are either some sociopath that watched too much television as a child and it warped his fragile mind.”
“Or?” I asked when he didn’t continued.
“Or it is mythical in nature, thus not human. True, not everyone can be Jack the Ripper.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Mythical creature,” Draven said as if it were obvious. “In Missoula the rape element is not so mythical, but the ripping out of their throats screams young vampyre, confused loup-garou, or something we’ve never seen before.”
That isn’t at all unsettling.
“So everything I’ve been lead to believe that didn’t go bump in the night,” I said at length, “does?”
He nodded. “Does that scare you?” he asked, his eyes moving over my face many times.
The look I gave him caused Draven to chuckle.
“It means I’m not completely insane,” I said. “Thus, it’s a reprieve; regardless of how temporary it is… Why are you looking at me like that?”
Draven shook his head. “You are a strange, strange little creature, Training Bra,” he said. “So oddly accepting of everything which shouldn’t be accepted without evidentiary proof, as you geniuses say.”
I blushed. “Would you rather I be screaming and fighting you on it?”
“No, but it’d be more fun for me,” he admitted. “Next thing of business.”
Draven disappeared then reappeared standing on top of the seven-foot granite obelisk in the middle of the cemetery. He stretched his arms out wide. “I’ll never let go!” he proclaimed.
I shook my head in aspiration, joining him. “It doesn’t surprise me you’ve seen Titanic.”
He looked down at me. “It does surprise me that you’ve seen it.”
I flipped him off. “Just because we were in the hood doesn’t mean we were living under a rock.”
“Since Tyler Perry didn’t direct or was in drag and staring in it, I figured it was safe to assume you hadn’t seen it,” he said.
“I’m pretty sure that was racist,” I said.
Draven snorted. “If you were as black on the outside as Justice thinks you are on the inside, maybe.”
“That I know was racist, and kind of messed up,” I said.
Why I bother with him, I don’t know, but I clearly see why Justice wants nothing to do with him.
“Go on,” he said, looking at me.
“Fine, whatever,” I huffed, making a face. “I’ll ask what you’ve been waiting for me to ask, again. How do you move like that?”
I’m kicking his ass the first chance I get.
“Whatever do you mean?” Draven mused, walking down the side of the structure, his body complet
ely perpendicular as he went along the vertical surface.
This should be freaking me out, but it isn’t.
If anything, it’s mildly amusing.
“Armature parlor trick,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Let’s see you moonwalk it.”
Draven dropped to his feet on the grass. “You would ask that instead of pressing the impressiveness of that gravity defying display.”
I shrugged. “You’ve yet to impress me, Man Whore. You should really work on that.”
He smirked. “Challenge accepted,” he said then moved in a blur of movement towards me and everything went black.
“Breathe,” Draven whispered in my ear, his strong hands resting on my hips, pulling me back into him. “In and out,” he coached, his fingers digging into my sides, holding me tight.
I gasped, struggling to catch my breath.
It wasn’t the unusual means of travel that rendered me breathless.
The annoying man whore holding me tight was solely responsible for that.
Normally, this type of close contact touching, the perceived intimacy of it, would cause me to freak out and start swinging. The anxiety attack would cause me to get sick, angry, violent, and scared all at once.
It wasn’t a good look for me, or Justice for that matter; she’s usually the recipient of said attack so she deals with it in a way that only makes sense to her.
A few swing first and ask questions later anxiety attacks have happened since coming to Anaconda. They are getting farther and farther apart though. I’m not as jumpy, and don’t flinch as much, and around the family I’m less likely to freak out from their proximity.
It has taken time and conscious effort to get to that point.
And yet, as usual, Draven seems to be the exception to the rule for some reason.
