by Allie Gail
I pour him another and shove the glass his way. Let him get hammered if he wants to. I can afford to be generous. Soon we'll be able to get some straight answers from him, or at least I hope we will, and maybe all this can be over.
“I don't like to drink alone, love.”
Absently, I pour one for myself and gulp it down. It doesn't burn as much this time. The taste is actually quite nice, once you get used to it.
“Tell me something, Judith. What makes you think you'll find your answers with me?”
It's hard not to smile. The fact that he's hoping to talk his way out of it bodes well for us. It means there's a strong possibility that this could actually work and he knows it.
“Because you're the only one who has them.”
“Did it ever occur to you that I'm not the villain here?”
“Hm.” Pretending to consider it, I press my lips together and shake my head. “Nope, can't say that it ever did. Sorry.”
“Do you know what your problem is?”
“No, but I expect you're about to tell me.”
“You assume too much,” he informs me dryly. “You assume that I am the orchestrator of your friends' disappearance. You assume that I am a cold-blooded killer such as the one who murdered your parents. You assume that my intention is to slaughter you all the first chance I get. But what do you really know of me, Jude? Beyond your foregone conclusions, what is it that you know for certain?”
I open my mouth to respond, but for the life of me I can't come up with a convincing defense.
“Was it my fault I was born into this existence?” He slams both hands down on the table, causing me to jump. “Do you think I would not trade all the madness swimming in my head if I could?”
I stare at him mutely. This was not what I expected to hear, coming from him.
“You people...with your dull conformity and your apple pie dreams. You haven't seen half the things I've seen. Nor would you want to. You live in your individual little bubbles of jobs and mortgage payments and backyard barbecues – the only Hell you're privy to is what you read on the internet. You don't know what it's like to be born to a sadistic bitch who would rather lock you in a dark closet than look at you. Who finds it preferable to overdose on heroin than to deal with the pressures of motherhood. Or what it's like to be pitched from one foster home to another because there is something just a little bit off about you that makes people uneasy. You don't know what it's like to be dragged down into the underworld at thirteen years old by a father you've never met, only to be taught how to fight. How to kill. How to hate. And you – all you can do is assume.”
I listen to his tirade in rapt fascination. It's impossible not to feel some sympathy, to acknowledge that what he says is, at least to some extent, true. Maybe it isn't his fault he is what he is. But that still doesn't mean he is to be trusted.
I venture to ask, “Why would your mother lock you in a closet?”
“Having a child was a hindrance to her lifestyle.” His eyes cloud over with some dark emotion. “Apparently, some of the clients she brought back to that filthy hovel she called a home were put off by my presence. So...out of sight, out of mind.”
“Clients?” I can't think of a tactful way to ask what I'm wondering. Turns out I don't have to.
“My mother was a whore, Jude. A heroin addict and a prostitute.”
“Oh...” I breathe the word in a whisper. Biting my lip, I hesitate for a long moment before continuing. “Please don't take this the wrong way, but...if she didn't want a baby, why couldn't she just find another home for you? Put you up for adoption or something?”
“Now that I'll never know. She used to joke to her repugnant friends, I tried to abort the little fucker but he just wouldn't die. Right in front of me, as if she wanted to make it painfully clear just how much she despised me. Sometimes I think she kept me around just to torture me. Because I ruined her life, or at least in her eyes I did, she wanted to ruin mine. She had to have someone to blame for her misery.”
Disgust curdles in my stomach. If his story is true, it's one of the most reprehensible things I've ever heard. How could a mother treat her own child, the one who depends on her for love and protection, in such a despicable and heartless manner?
“I was six years old when she died,” he continues. The bitterness in his voice is palpable. “She wasn't much older than you, only twenty-four, but already completely used up. She looked like a sick old woman. If you saw her on the street, you'd turn the other way. I was glad to see her go. She was a disgusting waste of life.”
“And you were sent to a foster home after that?” I press on.
“I was sent to many. I never stayed in one place for long. Like I said, I had a way of making others ill at ease. Picture a child who was too perfect, too astute and articulate, and yet unable to make friends. Who seemed immune to every childhood illness and who never came down with so much as a sniffle. I wasn't normal, and people could sense that. It was nothing they could put their finger on, but it was enough that no one wanted me around for any longer than necessary.”
I have to wonder what Loc must have looked like as a child. A little cherub, no doubt, with those bright blue eyes.
Sighing, he motions to the bourbon. “I could use another drink, if you don't mind.”
“You and me both.” I pour us each a generous shot. We set our empty glasses down at the same time and gaze at one another wordlessly.
Finally, I break the silence.
“Did your mother know what you were? Or that your father was a demon?”
“No. So you see, she didn't even have that as an excuse. Paradoxical, isn't it? She had no reason to hate me and yet, she did.”
I frown, struggling to comprehend the whys and wherefores of it all. “I don't get it. Why would your father pick someone like that to carry his child? Oh, wait a minute – did he? Or was the conception an accident?”
He shrugs indifferently. “I couldn't say. Under normal circumstances, a demon would be unable to create or nurture life. This is why cambions are such an anomaly. So I have to assume that it must have been some freak cosmic accident. I have no other explanation for it.”
“You never asked?”
“My father isn't exactly the type that you sit down and have a heart-to-heart with.” He smiles, but it holds little in the way of mirth. “For that, you'd have to possess a heart.”
Oh, wow...
This is far more information that I ever could have anticipated. And such a strange, sad story. The fact that he views his father as heartless...it makes me wonder if the human side of him is more dominant than I surmised.
“This really isn't fair, you know,” he murmurs, interlacing his long fingers together and giving me a reproachful look.
“What isn't?”
“This one-sided inquisition. The fact that you're the one getting to ask all the questions. I expect we'll have enough of that later, don't you think?”
Touché. “Was there something you wanted to ask me?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Why accounting?”
“Why accounting?” The abrupt swerve in conversation strikes me as funny somehow, and I press my lips together, stifling an awkward laugh. “Hm. That's...you know, I don't really know. I guess maybe because I'm good at math and I like keeping things organized. I'm sort of a control freak. And numbers, they're constant. You never have to figure out what they're thinking or what they expect of you. They either add up or they don't, and if they don't, then you know it's on you and you're the one to fix the problem. There's no guesswork involved. It's straightforward and simple.”
He cocks his head curiously. “Are you saying you aren't good with people?”
“No. Not necessarily. They're just unpredictable, is all.”
“And you don't like unpredictable?” He seems amused by this.
“Unpredictable scares me,” I confess.
His rakish smile makes me feel all warm and squiggly inside. Or is that the alco
hol? No, it's him. Definitely him.
“You must find me absolutely terrifying, then.”
“Not always.” I smile back. I have a pretty nice buzz going. Hopefully the bourbon will help with my persistent insomnia.
“Not always? Well, we'll have to work on that. Won't we?”
“Your timing is all off. Halloween was over about three hours ago.” I try to suppress a giggle and fail. It's past three in the morning – no wonder I'm so loopy.
“Ah, yes. Halloween. I'd almost forgotten. And how was your evening? Did you have any spooky encounters with ghosts or ghouls?”
“You mean besides you?”
“I'm not the one you have to watch out for, sweetheart.”
“No? Then who is it I'm supposed to be watching out for?”
“The Bungisngis, for one.”
“The what?” I burst out laughing.
“You mean to tell me you've never heard of Bungisngis? A giant one-eyed humanoid, sort of resembles the Greek Cyclops...”
“What is this, some kind of phallic reference?”
“Not at all. It has tusks and great big teeth. Also a massive appetite. He'll eat you up in one bite.” Giving me a playful wink, he adds, “It is a Philippine legend, however, so I suppose the odds of a sighting here are just slightly less than likely.”
“Naturally. 'Course, after seeing the things you're capable of, I don't think bumping into a Cyclops downtown would faze me that much.”
He seems genuinely puzzled by my comment. “What do you mean?”
“The whole...insta-healing thing. Have you always been able to do that?” Unnatural or not, it's impressive as hell. I have to admit I'm envious. Something like that sure would come in handy.
“Ah...well, that isn't something I do, per se. Just my body's natural defense against injury. Something that developed during adolescence.”
“Then you didn't have the ability as a child?”
“Not to the extent that I do now, no. According to my father, that was a self-defense mechanism in its own right – something to prevent undue attention until I was old enough to know the meaning of discretion. Can you imagine the uproar it would have caused? One minute I'm hurt; the next I'm not. My injuries did mend at an accelerated rate, but not quickly enough to draw suspicion.”
“You mean like, if you fell down and scraped your knee. It would get better in a day or two rather than, say, a week?”
A shadow seems to eclipse his face, and I catch the slight movement of a muscle in his jaw. “I suffered a lot more than scraped knees at the hand of my mother.”
I look into his eyes, deep into the endless expanse of clear sky, and wonder with a twinge of sadness just how much pain is hidden there. The paradigm has shifted. And now it strikes me as dismally ironic how it's the human in his twisted family who is coming off as the true demon.
I search for something to say, but the only thing that comes to mind is, “I'm sorry.”
Closing his eyes for the briefest moment, he gives an aloof nod but says nothing.
In an effort to break the tension, I do the only thing I can think of. I pour us both another drink. No more for me after this – I'm already feeling the effects and, pleasant though they may be, now is not the time to let my guard down.
I wonder if Russ will notice how much is missing. Maybe I should just throw the half-empty bottle away and hope he forgets he bought it. No way will he believe I drank this much by myself. Hell, as far as he knows, I don't drink at all. Sometimes I think he forgets that I'm twenty instead of twelve.
“One more for the road?” I nudge the glass closer to Loc, sloshing a wave of amber liquid onto the table.
“Are we taking this party on the road? Now there's a compelling idea.” He empties the contents in one draught, then laughingly says, “You'd be much better company on a road trip than Silas. I can't imagine tourists traps being his thing. Something tells me he wouldn't be impressed with the world's largest ball of twine.”
“Who's Silas?”
“My driver.”
“You have your own chauffeur?” Holy moly. Maybe he wasn't kidding about the seventy-five thousand dollar bottle of whiskey.
“Yes...well, he's also something of a personal assistant.”
“What do you need a personal assistant for?” To hide the bodies? I almost say, then decide that maybe I shouldn't be joking about something that could very well be fact.
“I don't particularly need one. It's just one of the many perks of royalty.”
Is he teasing or he is serious right now? I'm still debating this when once again he turns the tables.
“You know, it occurs to me...you still haven't cashed in on our bet. I lost, and yet somehow I seem to be the one reaping the rewards. How did that happen?”
“Don't worry, your royal highness,” I assure him with a soporific smile. “I still plan on collecting.”
“Soon, I hope. I'm not sure I can stand the suspense.”
“You won't have to. If it's all the same to you, I'd like to go ahead and use my minute now.”
He doesn't even try to hide his amusement. “This ought to be interesting. A side of Judith Sterling I've never seen before.” Hands folded casually before him, he lifts one finger just a fraction of an inch. “Your brother's implements are right over there, should you care to make use of them. I do hope you'll wield them with a bit more creativity. His moves were always so predictable. Just hacking away, no finesse whatsoever.”
For a split second, I have no idea what he means. When I realize what he's referring to, I am appalled. “What? Are you – no! No, I don't want to hurt you.”
“No?” He gazes at me with a mixture of doubt and curiosity.
“Of course not! What kind of psycho do you think I am?” I didn't mean to make the implication, but it hangs tangible in the air nonetheless. A psycho like my brother?
No. I did not just have that thought. Russell may be a lot of things, but he isn't crazy. And he isn't a sadist. He isn't doing this because he enjoys it. In his eyes, it's just a means to an end.
That's all.
Loc's eyes stray to the analog clock on the wall. It looks like the ones you see in classrooms, large and round and basic. Another remnant from my childhood. Mom taught me how to tell time with that clock. It used to hang in my bedroom, before I hit adolescence and replaced it with a Seether poster.
When the big hand is on the twelve and the little hand is on the six, then it's time to put your toys away and come set the table for dinner.
“Ready to start the count?”
“Hang on. Give me a second.” I stand, still not a hundred percent sure what it is I'm about to do. It occurs to me that maybe this isn't such a good idea, and for about half a second I consider backing out. But I won't. I already know I won't. Something in me can't resist the allure of playing with fire. “Remember, you promised not to hurt me. Not to lay a finger on me, no matter what.”
“I remember.”
“We had a deal,” I remind him, hoping he can't detect the waver in my voice. “No matter how insignificant, that still means you're bound by your word. Right?”
“That's correct.” One corner of his mouth twitches, as if he's entertained by my uncertainty.
“Would you mind standing up for me, please?” First things first. I want to get a good look at him. Just to sate my curiosity...or at least that's what I'm telling myself.
He obliges, and I walk slowly around the length of the table, closer but still out of reach. Oh, my. He's tall. Towering over six feet by a good two or three inches, I'd guess. Lean and fit, and even beneath the dark clothes it's obvious that he's packing enough muscle to render him a formidable threat.
“Once the second hand reaches the top, it will be precisely 3:39,” he says, all business. “Then you will have until 3:40 exactly. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” Watching the clock, I wait for the second hand to tick twelve before letting myself approach him. The first thing I do is reach up to p
ress my hand against his cheek. I don't know why, but I have this insatiable need to see what he feels like. Will his skin be cold, like something undead? Or feverishly hot, fiery to the touch, as one would expect from a demon?
Neither, I realize with relief. He just feels warm, the perpetual scruff of five o-clock shadow soft and fuzzy beneath my fingertips. Normal. Perfectly normal.
Exploring further, I rub a lock of his dark hair between my fingers, testing the texture. It's like fine silk. And as I breathe in, I catch the intoxicating scent of him and wonder, not for the first time, how he can smell so clean and enticing after having been locked up for days on end.
He looks down at me with no expression whatsoever.
Still curious, I drop my hand to his shoulder. Scrunching the material of his plain black shirt in my fist, I yank it, ripping the sleeve at the seam.
And watch in wide-eyed awe as the frayed pieces mend themselves back to tidy perfection.
“That's the coolest thing I've ever seen!” I marvel. “How does that even work? It's incredible.” Not as incredible as when his body heals itself, but still pretty darn incredible. “Does it only work when you're wearing the clothes? If you took off the shirt and then ripped it, would it still fix itself or would it stay torn?”
“Only works when I'm in them,” he reveals, his voice lacking emotion. It's almost as if I'm boring him. I guess he was expecting me to do something a little more daring with my sixty seconds.
Maybe I will yet.
Without giving myself a chance to rethink it, I wrap my arms around his waist and lay my head against his chest, hugging him close. His body stiffens slightly in my arms, and I look up at him innocently.
“What was that for?” He sounds wary. Clearly he didn't anticipate that. Pain and hostility is all he has ever known. It stands to reason that was all he would expect in return.
My intention was to show him the other side of the spectrum. Kindness. Affection. Sympathy.
“I thought you could use it,” I tell him simply.
Almost imperceptibly, his eyes dart to the clock before returning to me. I follow his gaze, noting that my time is a mere three ticks of the second hand from running out. Reluctantly, I release him to take a clumsy step back.
