by A. E. Grace
“Wait, go back a minute,” Circe said, tapping his hand. “So did you eat up your own puke?”
Miles laughed. “You know, I do recall an odd impulse to do so. But no, I didn’t. Like I said, I think I went into shock. I fell asleep or fainted or something, and when I woke up, I was just a boy again. My t-shirt was torn, my underwear torn. I remember being hugely embarrassed about it, you know? Like, I didn’t want my parents to find out. I wanted to hide it from everybody.”
“Sounds like my first period.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know about that. I was confused for years. Sometimes in the night I’d change just randomly, even with no nightmare. But eventually I became able to control it. And… well, that’s when life really changed for me.”
He turned to her and kissed the tip of her nose. “Not what you were hoping for?”
“No,” Circe admitted. “Sounds like it was something you already had in you. I guess I don’t have it in me.”
“It’s not all good, darling. You outlive your friends, your family. One day, I’ll outlive you.” He stopped talking for a moment. “And I’m not going to like that one bit.”
“But you also have so much time,” Circe rebutted. “So much space to do things. You could scale every mountain in the world if you wanted. You could read every book if you dared. You could try every exotic cuisine, travel forever to exotic lands.” She leaned back, grinning just thinking about it. “You could live a month as an animal and then write a book about what it’s like. You could… you could become the world’s best private detective, able to solve cases in ways normal humans couldn’t. You could smell a strawberry like I can’t smell a strawberry. You could listen to the sound of birds in the wind like no person could. You could-”
“I could be afraid to fall in love. I could be afraid to make friends, because I’ll just lose them to time, watch them wither and wilt. I could be afraid to tell people the truth about what I am because they’ll be afraid. They’ll hunt me down like they hunted my kind down before. Except they won’t just kill me now. They’ll subject me to experiments. They’ll use me. Weaponize me. Make a tool of me.”
“You could become a journalist and interview every important world figure for generations.”
“I could watch every important world figure forsake their responsibilities for politics and personal gain.”
“You could map the receding glaciers. You could contribute to environmental science in ways no others can. You’ve watched the world change immeasurably. You were there near the dawn of the industrial revolution, and now you’re here at the dawn of the digital age. What’s next? The space age? Will you see that, too? I envy you, Miles. I envy your chance to see so much more than I ever will, than I ever can.”
Miles got up, and sat behind her, wrapping his arms around her stomach and resting his head on her shoulder. He kissed her ear, before sighing. “I’ve watched the world change, but watched it stay the same. We still sell the skin of animals. We still kill each other. We still torture. We’ve built a lot, but I haven’t seen any meaningful change.”
“You’re jaded, Miles.”
“And you’re full of optimism, Circe. I would hate to see it drain out should you live to be a hundred.”
“If I lived to be a hundred like you, I’d be wise enough to let things go, and only worry about what I can change, rather than what I can’t.”
“You’re wrong,” Miles said. “Because you’d still have that passion of youth. You’d become like me. Jaded. Bitter. Hiding.”
“I wouldn’t. How long will you live for, anyway?”
Miles shrugged. “Don’t know. Two, three hundred years maybe. That’s what Leon intimated.”
“The wolf in Borneo.”
“Yeah.”
“Why don’t you find him? Ask him more?”
“I don’t want to know.”
“I can’t imagine not wanting to know what I was,” Circe whispered. “I can’t imagine ever being at peace that way.”
“Racing gave me peace.”
“Gave?”
“Now it’s you that does.”
Circe snorted, and slapped his arm. “Stop being such a sap.”
“I’m sorry, Circe.”
“For what?”
“That you can’t make better use of this gift than me.”
“You race cars.”
“And you would do something useful.”
“Maybe,” Circe murmured.
A silence settled between them, and they lay on the mat in the hot desert night, looking out at the full moon that hung above the city like a lantern.
“Would you care if I did expose you?”
Miles pushed his lips together in thought, fondling her fingers with his own. He shook his head. “I used to think I would. Now… I’m not so sure. I used to be more afraid than I am now.”
“Are you worried about what it would do to your legacy? They’ll say you were cheating at racing, that you had an unfair advantage.”
“I don’t give a shit about legacy. I race for myself. It filled a void. Now, you’re filling it. My nickname was ironically intended. I know I have an unfair advantage.”
“So… are you ready for the race tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” He held her hand. “I suppose so.”
*
Will the secrets never end? What more is there that I haven’t been told about?
Am I being unreasonable in expecting to know about something as important as the fact that he moonlights in the off-season as a vigilante environmentalist?
Sounds like a character straight out of a men’s airport novel.
I’m not angry. But I am disappointed, a little.
It is sad, though. I can see that. He’s trying to stop people who kill cats and then skin them, and then sell them to rich people in rich countries. Mum owns a fur coat that I’m pretty sure is real, though I’m not sure which animal it came from. It was a gift, too, but she still owns it.
I’m conflicted, I suppose. I don’t feel as strongly about it as he does. I mean, sure, in theory I’m anti-fur. I would never *buy* fur.
But if I see someone wearing fur, I don’t really think about it one way or the other. I’m not filled with a seething hatred. I’m not even burdened by indignation. I just kind of… ignore it.
I can’t imagine how opposite it must be for him. It’s simply not inconsequential to a person who can change into an animal, who can inhabit both sides of the line.
But like Miles said, the cheetahs are on the path to extinction. I’m not sure if they are endangered yet, but they probably will be in a few decades. It’s not only poachers, of course. I mean, their habitat is shrinking, isn’t it? As that area of Africa develops, as more towns pop up and cities grow larger and farms expand, the space they have gets smaller.
I could definitely feel the emotion in Miles today when he talked about it. It really bothers him. He said he doesn’t try to hurt anybody, but he never outright said he never hurts anybody.
I’m almost scared to look up the videos and watch them more intently, or to find reports. I’m afraid I’ll read that he’s capable of a violence that I can’t reconcile, even if it is against ‘bad’ people.
So I’m not looking.
Ignorance is bliss, right?
I wish I could include all of this in my article. Of course, it would out him, send all the bounty hunters his way. I can’t believe he’s got a fucking *bounty* on his head!
I don’t know what I think of that. I’m not exactly impressed.
I’m not a thrill-seeker.
I guess I like to be in control, too, and this is definitely something I can’t control.
Miles is still asleep right now. It’s the morning of race day. He’s been so distracted. I wonder if he’ll win this race or not. He might not.
I wonder if we’re safe, too. If so, for how long?
“Miles, do you mind if I watch the race from the stands this time?”
He grinned at her
. “Want the air-conditioning, huh?”
Circe nodded. At nearly forty-five degrees Celsius, and eighty-percent humidity, she was going to spend as little time outdoors during the day as possible. It was simply too unpleasant: never-ending sweat, constant thirst, and that special kind of unmatched discomfort of having damp clothing on… soaked with perspiration.
The pit garage would have fans and air-conditioning, but since it was open on one side, it would still be hot. Coupled with all the crew, the testing, the machinery… yeah, that would be unpleasant, and Circe definitely wasn’t in the mood for smelling the body odor of two dozen men in close quarters.
“No problem. I’ll drive you there.”
“Thanks.” They were on their way from the hotel to the racing track. Miles had rented Porsche 911 GT3, with hard seats and even harder suspension. “God, you’d think the roads would at least be a bit smoother.”
“Why’s that?”
Circe waved her hand about vaguely. “New development and all.”
“I’ll agree, it makes for tricky driving.”
“So why didn’t we rent a comfortable car today?” She looked up, saw the roll-cage. This was no daily driver.
“This is comfortable,” he told her, smirking. “Compared to the one I’m about to race later today.”
“Really?” Circe asked in disbelief. “Because I can feel the vibrations in my bum pretty damn strongly.”
“Really. When I race, I can feel every nook and crack and bump in the road. The Formula One car is designed to give that kind of feedback to the driver, and the best drivers know how to use the nerves in their butt…” He trailed off. “I’m serious, by the way. They know how to feel the track. With their rear-ends. Nothing’s more valuable than a sensitive pair of ass cheeks.”
Circe had to suppress a childish laugh “Do you use your body’s senses much while racing? I always thought it was just technical, you know? Hit the curve at the right angle at the right speed, gear down at the right time, shift back up at the right time.”
“Well, that’s part of it,” Miles said, donning a didactic tone. “But, come on, of course you use your body. You feel it. You feel the corner, feel how much harder you can push, or whether you’re already up against that line of limitation.”
He weaved the car left and right on the big open highway. Circe held on, making sure her seatbelt was properly fastened.
“It’s all instinctual. The best drivers have the best instincts.”
He accelerated, switching through gears rapidly using the paddles on the back of the steering wheel. Circe felt it in her gut; she was pressed right up against the hard racing seat.
“Miles…”
“It’s more than just physics. I mean, sure, you can break it down, and maybe a robot could lap faster than a human if it was the only one on the track. But pit a robot against me in a real live race, and I’d beat it. Because it’s not just precision…”
A jeep and a truck were in adjacent lanes ahead of them, and with no room to overtake, he took an exit ramp, blew through the red light at the interchange, and hit the opposite entrance ramp so hard the car rattled and bounced. Circe felt her bum lift of her seat momentarily before she crashed back down onto it.
“But it’s improvisation.”
“Miles! For fuck’s sake!”
They were back on the highway, jeep and truck left in their dusty wake.
“Sorry,” he said, slowing down to a more sensible speed. He reached over and touched her thigh. But Circe felt that last strand of what remaining temper she had left flap away, and she moved her thigh inward, rejecting him.
“That was dangerous, Miles. Don’t do that shit with me in the car.”
“You’re right. It won’t happen again.”
Circe bristled still, and chewed on her nails while looking out of the window as the towering VIP stands for the race track grew larger and larger.
“Thanks,” she said as Miles slowed the car to a stop. She climbed out with some difficulty – the car was so low – and looked back inside. Miles looked completely unphased that they’d just spent the last ten minutes in tense silence, and it wound her up some more.
She thought about telling him good luck, but still annoyed with his boyish stunt, she didn’t and slammed the door instead. It frustrated her to no end that he simply drove off toward the pit garages, his brake lights not once flashing.
Circe knew that she had been trying to bait him a little, and that he was bound to ignore it, considering he had to race today. But… it still sucked!
She stood in the heat, feeling it for a moment, how close it was, how it seemed to penetrate her pores, invade her body completely. Miles had stopped at a light, his sports car grunting and growling.
“Good luck,” she said to him, though more to herself. A large once-white van pulled up beside Miles, and Circe started to turn toward the stands, fingering her press pass, when she caught the shine of black metal.
Whipping her head back around, she saw a large gun stuck out through the passenger-side window of the van, pointed straight at Miles.
“What the hell,” she whispered, her hairs standing on end and her heart shifting gears into overdrive. She began to walk toward the two cars, but saw the back doors of the van fling open. She stopped. Three hooded men, each brandishing a glinting weapon, hopped out and surrounded Miles’ car.
“Miles!” she screamed, digging into her purse for her phone. She saw them drag Miles out of the car, haul him around to the van. Her eyes connected with his over a distance of perhaps a hundred meters, and the tendrils of dread squirmed in her chest, wrapped around her heart, and squeezed.
He was thrown into the van, the doors were slammed shut, and the dusty, shabby thing drove off, huffing out puffs of bitter, brackish exhaust.
With her phone in her hand, roaming service connected, Circe realized that she didn’t even know the number for the police.
And that was when she noticed that a second van was coming straight for her. Her gut instinct told her to run, and she double-timed it to the stands, but the van pulled in front of her.
“Argh!” she cried, slapping it with her palm in frustration. More hooded men poured out, surrounding her.
“I’ve got the police on the line,” she said, holding up her mobile phone. “Leave now and you won’t be caught.”
But they ignored her, snatching her phone away, and putting a foul-smelling hood over her head.
Blinded by blackness, she was forced clumsily into the back of the van, and felt her arms bound behind her.
The van lurched off.
Circe struggled to fight the onset of panic.
*
This was probably the most precarious situation Miles ‘Cheat’ Cohen had ever been in.
Or, at the very least, off the track.
With a blindfold on, mouth gagged, and hands cuffed tightly behind his back, he knew that all it would take was to simply shift into his cheetah form, and the cuffs would slip off his paws, and the blindfold would fall down around his neck.
But he couldn’t be sure if he was alone yet or not, and if he wasn’t, the moment he started to change they’d probably put him down for good.
Miles wondered if this was to do with his off-season extra-curricular activities, or if it was to do with the fact that he was a shapeshifter. He was fairly certain he hadn’t been kidnapped for ransom… who would they ransom him to?
“Miles Cohen.”
He moved his head up toward the source of the sound. South African accent with a bit of Sierra Leone inflexion… probably to do with his sabotage.
“Or as they call you, Cheat. Right, bru?”
Miles mumbled a swear into the rag tied around his mouth. His blindfold was then violently yanked downward, and in his face was a shiny metal switchblade, brandished by a tall and tanned man with stringy arms and a nasty smirk.
“Fank yeo,” Miles said through the gag, and he looked quickly around, but there were no details to ta
ke in. It was a plain room without windows, lit only by a single bulb dangling from the center of the ceiling. Stinging sweat trickled down into his eyes.
“You’ve been a busy boy, ay?” the man said, and he pushed the blade against Miles’ cheek and sliced through the gag.
“No idea what you’re talking about,” Miles said, spitting out bits of thread still stuck to his tongue.
“No? You sure about that, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s too fucking bad then, bru, because bad things are going to happen to you. You’re going to start regretting what you’ve done soon, eh?”
Miles upped-and-downed the man. He was fairly solid, but nothing he couldn’t handle. The pistol in his belt was worrisome, and the knife in his hand even more so.
“You know how much you cost, Miles?”
“More than you’ll ever make doing what you do.”
The man began to tick off his fingers. “Cars, jeeps, weapons, not to mention the lost trade, huh? I’m surprised you still come out here, Cheat. You know there’s a network in these countries.” He gestured vaguely around with his finger. “It was only a matter of time before you were screwed.”
“How’d you know it was me?”
“Come on, bru! It’s the digital age, yeah? Even in a shithole country like Namibia they’ve got digital recordings. Somebody recognized you, my mate. You think a hat and sunglasses will hide your face? You think wearing a hospital mask means nobody will recognize you, huh? It was bound to happen. You come back to Africa for years in a row? Coincides with our equipment being sabotaged? Eh? No other reason for a man like yourself to come back to the land that God forgot, huh?”
“It’s my home.”
The man fingered his knife’s point. “And so we’re looking at you, right? Watching you.” He pointed at his eyes with two fingers. “You’re on our radar, huh? And you’re going to videos on YouTube? You know there are only a couple of providers out here, right? Our buyers got fingers in many pies, mate. They own the cables, they own the most of this whole fucking place, bru. Not just one, but many. We’re watching you, and you’re looking at your videos, showing off your… handiwork. You showing it to that lovely girl, huh? Trying to impress her, Cheat? What, you got a small cock or something that being a race driver didn’t do it? She say no or something? There are other ways to impress a girl, my mate.” He grinned nastily at Miles, before pulling the knife’s edge along his thigh.
