by Zales, Dima
A better question is: how many times does Ariel have to tell herself that, assuming she really believes that nonsense?
Examining her closely, I notice that, for whatever reason, she looks strung out. Is she missing her “friend” Gaius, or did she inhale enough of Harper’s fumes to be in a similar boat with me?
“Do you think it was Chester’s power that nearly got you killed?” she asks, clearly eager to change the subject.
I consider her question.
I already suspected Chester’s powers in arranging the spicy drink debacle. Could he also have influenced my luck/misfortune in meeting Harper? After all, the drink gave Harper a way to approach me.
“The first time I saw Harper was when we were with Chester,” I say. “So it does seem possible.”
Ariel’s strides lengthen. “I should’ve stabbed that bastard.”
“Then you’d be in trouble with the Council,” I retort, straining to keep up.
“Might be worth it,” she grumbles. “I didn’t think even he would stoop to rape.”
“If it weren’t for my vision, I’m not sure that would’ve been rape,” I say after a long pause. “That was the problem. I wanted Harper.”
“Because of Harper’s power.” Ariel nearly rips the handle from the door in front of her. “Coercing arousal like that is rape.”
I hurry through the door to keep up with her. “Not that I want to defend Harper, but, just to play devil’s advocate, if I want someone, whatever the reason, is it rape?”
“If you’re tricked into it, it is,” Ariel says.
“By that logic, you can turn a lot of consensual encounters into rape. For example, say a guy lies to a girl about his job—and makes himself seem more appealing just to get into her pants. That’s not rape… or is it? Or what about those pick-up artists who use negging or whatever to get a girl into bed. Are they rapists by your definition?”
“What they do is not as potent as what Harper did to you.” Ariel opens the door that leads back to JFK. “But I think it’s in the same ballpark.”
I decide to shelve this debate for a day when my mind is clearer, and we walk in grim silence the rest of the way through the airport.
When we get into a cab, I doze off and sleep for most of the ride back.
“Home, sweet home,” Ariel says, and I wake up enough to help her drag me out of the car.
We walk into the elevator, but before the doors can close, a man enters.
“Good evening, Sasha,” Vlad says, his brooding features warmed by a faint smile. Then he notices I’m not alone in the elevator, and any hint of a smile completely disappears.
I look Rose’s vampire beau up and down and instantly regret it. His imposing frame and pale symmetrical face—with those sensual lips—reactivate Harper’s evil influence with a vengeance.
He presses the top floor for some reason. Perhaps he doesn’t want Ariel to know he’s going to our floor? I guess he doesn’t realize that I’d already told her about him and Rose the other day, after he saved me from the zombies in our hallway.
“Ariel, this is Vlad,” I say, deciding to play along with the charade of Ariel not being aware of his connection to Rose. “Vlad, this is my best friend Ariel.”
“We’ve met before,” Vlad says, his face back to his dark, broody unreadableness.
“You have?” I ask, but neither of them replies, making me wonder if they met at some secret vampire event that Gaius took her to.
“I didn’t know you lived in this building,” Ariel says to Vlad, her voice cool and polite. I guess she decided to also pretend she doesn’t know about Vlad and Rose.
“I don’t come to this abode often,” Vlad says and looks at me intently with those pitch-black eyes that seem to say, “I’m lying to protect Rose, and you better run with it.”
Since staying quiet is the easiest thing for me to do in this very awkward situation, I keep my mouth shut.
The silence that follows should probably go into Webster’s Dictionary to define the word “uncomfortable.”
To distract myself from lusting after Rose’s man, I run calculations in my head. Within a few moments, I compute that the distance between his eyes and mouth is thirty-six percent of the length of his face, while the distance between Vlad’s eyes is—
The elevator dings, and Ariel and I step out, leaving Vlad there so he can pretend to ride to another floor.
Ariel opens the apartment door for me, and I tiptoe in, determined not to wake Felix—not just because I’m a good friend, but also because the last thing I want is to see Felix through sex-colored lenses courtesy of Harper.
“You’re staying in my room tonight,” Ariel tells Fluffster when he excitedly prances up to greet us.
“Yay,” the chinchilla mentally replies to us both. “Can I touch your knife?”
“Just don’t hurt yourself,” she says, rolling her eyes. “And don’t touch any of my firearms.”
“Deal,” Fluffster says and whooshes into her room like a small whirlwind.
“I strongly recommend a date with your ‘magic’ massager,” Ariel says with a smirk right before I walk into my room. “You can’t keep ogling people the way you’ve been doing—especially when you go to Orientation tomorrow. Give a teenage boy a look like that, and you’ll end up on some list for sure.”
I slam my door in Ariel’s grinning face and lock it.
She’s not completely wrong about my state. My skin feels much too hot and tight, my clothes chafing uncomfortably. Before I do anything else, I decide to undress.
It should’ve been a simple task, but in my revved-up condition, it feels bizarrely sensual. The more articles of clothing I remove, the more turned on I get—as though it’s a lover and not myself who’s taking all this off.
When I’m completely bare, I not-so-reluctantly reach for Copperfield and slide under my blankets.
By the time I turn Copperfield on, I’m painfully eager for the encounter. Ariel was so right. I need to scratch this itch before all this pent-up energy leads me to do something stupid.
Wait.
I can’t be thinking about Ariel as I do this.
For that matter, I can’t be thinking about anyone else I know, though I guess it would be safe to fantasize about a celebrity. Say, an actor like Matthew McConaughey or Michael Fassbender. Or both.
Inhaling a breath, I barely touch myself with Copperfield through the blanket.
White light explodes in front of my eyes, and warm energy pulses through my body so violently I have to bite my pillow to stop from crying out loud.
Wow.
That was the most unexpected and earth-shattering orgasm I’ve ever had.
I pull Copperfield away to see if I want to go again.
It takes me less than a second to realize that yes, I definitely want to go again.
The second time is so strong my vision blurs. I might also have pulled a muscle.
Catching my breath, I have to admit that there are perks to this business of nearly dying by incubus. Someone should bottle their mojo and sell it for recreational purposes.
I’m dying to go again, so I do, and through no fault of my own, the image of Michael Fassbender somehow morphs into that of Nero. I guess they’re of similar type?
To my utter horror, the image of Nero coincides with the strongest, most toe-curling release of them all.
I’m unable to banish images of Nero as I go again, and again, and again.
Did Harper turn me into a sex addict? Because as drained and overly sensitive as I feel, I can’t help wanting to go a dozen more times.
Turning down Copperfield’s speed, I allow myself one last indulgence—with the image of Nero intruding into my weary brain once again.
That’s it. I’m officially a sex-squeezed lemon.
With a goofy grin on my face, I close my eyes to savor all the endorphins swimming in my bloodstream—and fall asleep right away.
* * *
I wake up with fuzzy memories
and a vibrator under my shoulder blades.
Putting Copperfield away, I look at the clock.
It’s 1:37 p.m., and I have to be in Queens for Orientation at three.
I frantically throw on a shirt and hop out of my room as I pull on and zip up a pair of jeans. Detecting the smell of something delicious cooking in the kitchen, I start salivating.
Dashing into the bathroom, I quickly freshen up, then sprint into the kitchen.
“The party girl awakens.” Felix grins at me. “What time did you get home last night?”
He’s standing by the stove with a sizzling skillet full of stir-fried veggies that make my stomach rumble like a grumpy bear.
“Five in the morning.” I grab a plate and thrust it at Felix pleadingly.
“Going to bed that late is going to wreck your circadian rhythm.” He dispenses some of the food onto my plate, then gets a heaping portion for himself. “You’re officially under Ariel’s bad influence.”
I shovel some spicy bok choy into my mouth and resist the urge to moan in pleasure. Am I still suffering from incubus side effects?
No. If I were under the influence, Felix would look more appealing to me than he does right now, in his loose Batman PJs—a horrific gift from Ariel back when Felix was apparently even skinnier than he is now.
“Where is Ariel?” I ask when my mouth is sufficiently free.
Felix shrugs. “Sleeping?”
Fluffster scurries into the room and waves his tiny front paw at me.
Feeling like a psych ward patient, I wave back at my chinchilla.
“You were in Ariel’s room,” I say to him. “Where is she?”
“She left right after you went to bed.” Fluffster uses me as a perch to jump onto the table in two leaps. “She didn’t come back at all. I know—I slept on her pillow.”
Felix takes out his phone and types up a storm.
I chew my food greedily until I hear his phone ping.
“She says she’s fine,” Felix informs us with a touch of disapproval. “Says she’ll be back later today.”
“I guess I get to go to Orientation without a babysitter,” I say. “Strange she’d derelict her duties like that, though.”
“It’s the vampire,” Felix says, lowering his voice and looking around as though Gaius could be listening from behind our kitchen counter. “I don’t think he’s good for her.”
I swallow a forkful of snow peas and broccoli before asking, “What’s a blood whore?”
Felix chokes on his food and begins coughing so hard that I stand up, in case I need to use the Heimlich Maneuver.
He seems to be catching his breath, though, so I walk up to the kitchen counter instead and get some oats and a little saucer for Fluffster.
“Where did you hear that term?” Felix asks when he can finally speak.
“Chester called Ariel that last night.”
“You saw Chester again?” The right side of Felix’s unibrow rises like a seesaw. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“It was last night,” I say. What I don’t add is that Felix will never learn the complete sequence of last night’s events—not if I want to face him in this kitchen in the future. “We briefly ran into Chester. He said he didn’t try to kill me, and in passing, he called Ariel by that word.”
“I don’t think Ariel is… that.” Felix stabs the veggies on his plate a few times as though they might crawl away. “It’s a derogatory term for someone hooked on vampire blood. They’re usually willing to do anything to get a fix—hence the term…”
“Vampire blood is addictive?” I ask, recalling the unorthodox blood transfusion I witnessed when Ariel was hurt at The Bodies exhibit.
“It has both healing and analgesic properties and is supposed to rival some of the worst illegal drugs when it comes to the high you get.” He turns beet red. “Not that I know from experience.”
“So Ariel could be addicted?” I ask, looking at him and Fluffster in dismay.
“I doubt it,” Fluffster mentally replies. “She’s very strong.”
“But she’s also a little troubled,” Felix says, rubbing his forehead.
“Then we better keep a close eye on her.” I try to project as much motivational energy as I can.
“Sure,” Felix says.
Fluffster pauses in his attack on the oats and solemnly bobs his furry head.
“Okay.” I spear the remainder of the veggies onto my fork. “I’ve got to run.”
Stuffing the contents of the fork into my mouth, I grab my empty plate and stick it in the dishwasher as I frantically chew.
“Have fun,” Felix says with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “I’m sure Orientation will be a blast.”
Still chewing, I wave goodbye and hurry to the coat closet, wondering if I should bring the gun with me.
I’m going to be around teenagers, so there’s a real risk I might be tempted to shoot somebody—which is a good argument against bringing a weapon. But, on the other hand, Ariel will be furious with me if I don’t bring it.
Shrugging, I take the gun bag and hang it over my shoulder.
Armed and ready, I leave for Orientation.
* * *
It’s 2:55 p.m. according to my phone when I approach the dingy room where I met Dr. Hekima yesterday.
There are a bunch of messages from work on my phone.
They need me yet another Sunday?
Deciding to put off checking the messages until after the class, I power down my phone and debate walking into the room.
Even out here in the corridor, the aroma of stale coffee and mold is joined by a strong stench of teen spirit. The low-level hum of many young voices speaking all at once brings back unpleasant flashbacks from high school.
My heart rate speeds up. Feeling like I’m walking into a saloon in a Western movie, I shuffle into the room.
Silence falls, and twenty pairs of villainous eyes stare at me in sadistic fascination.
Chapter Sixteen
Okay, maybe only a small handful of faces show any hint of caring about my existence, and the class probably fell silent because they thought I might be Dr. Hekima—who, unfortunately, isn’t in the room yet.
The place still looks like a support group hangout, only now it also has the feel of a high school cafeteria—with all the horrors that implies.
There are about twenty teens of high-school age sitting around the room, split into what seems like thirty cliques.
Walking as though through poisonous molasses, I get a folding chair by the wall.
Most of the kids appear quite average. However, one clique consists of four girls who look more like actresses from some teen movie—far too mature for their age, and with clothes, hair, and makeup that should require a team of stylists and hairdressers.
I mentally dub them “the beehive.”
Clutching my chair, I scan my surroundings, trying to decide where to sit. If I were a teenager, that would be a life-defining choice.
Fortunately, I’m no longer a teenager, and the decision is easy. There are only two spots available, unless I’m willing to ask teens to move their chairs to make room for me—and I’d rather get a root canal.
One spot is next to a cute, petite girl with glasses who is sitting on her own, and the other spot is next to the beehive.
I turn toward the small girl with glasses.
“Is she in the right place?” one of the four bees asks in a hushed but quite audible voice as soon as my back is to them.
“I wonder what she is,” says another—this one not even pretending to be whispering. “Maybe a pre-vamp?”
“I doubt it,” says yet another, perkier bee. “They never look so frumpy.”
“O.M.G.,” yet another one of them “whispers” in a voice that sounds like she smoked five packs a day for sixty years. “Is she about to sit with the Psycho?”
I unfold my chair confidently next to the small girl they called Psycho and hang my messenger bag on the back of the chair, figuring I
might be less tempted to use its contents this way.
My new neighbor doesn’t look up from her notebook, on which she’s scrawling something as though her life depends on it.
Poor girl.
I recognize her haunted behavior.
I was a late bloomer as a teen and it sucked, but this girl is probably always going to stay this tiny and young-looking—a blessing when she’s forty but a curse for her today.
Done dissing me, the beehive moves on to a discussion of my new neighbor—at least I assume that’s whom they’re discussing. From the not-quite-whispered comments I catch, you’d think they were talking about a zombie with leprosy instead of this cute-as-a-button girl. According to them, my neighbor’s horn-rimmed glasses are a hideous disfigurement, as are her clothes, her posture, her hairstyle, her bag, and everything else.
Of course, I think her glasses are stylish and make her look like a sexy librarian in training, or a hot hipster chick. But what do I know? Apparently, my nice pair of black jeans and leather-studded, Criss Angel-inspired top are “frumpy.”
My neighbor looks up from her notebook, staring at me with eyes so wide they barely fit into her spectacles. You’d think I just did that “appearing Sasha” illusion I’ve always dreamed of performing on TV.
“Hi,” I say in the friendliest tone I’m capable of. “I hope you don’t mind that I sat next to you.”
“It’s a free country.” The girl smiles sheepishly, exposing a set of braces and the cutest dimples I’ve ever seen.
“I’m Sasha,” I say, and battling the urge to pinch that adorable cheek, I extend my hand to her.
“Maya.” She gives my hand the limpest shake I’ve ever gotten.
There’s some snickering from the direction of the beehive, but I ignore them. As loudly as I can, I say, “It’s very nice to meet you, Maya.”
She blushes and resumes whatever she was doing in her notebook.
The mentalist in me can’t help sneaking a peek.
She’s working on a drawing—an eerily accurate caricature of the prettiest of the four annoying girls. We must share a brain, because she gave her subject the body of a chubby bee with a crown on her head.
