by Cyn Balog
It’s uncomfortable being so close to him. I pull away and straighten. “And Satan,” I say. “Don’t forget Satan.”
The joke doesn’t hide my discomfort. He tries to position himself closer to me again, but I take a step back. Finally, he nods, a rare thoughtful look on his face. The smile is still there, but his expression is just … changed. It’s scary, because I’m not used to it. “How can we forget Satan?”
The coach calls for the runners to line up, and he just stands there, oblivious. I point toward the track. “Go get ’em.”
His face returns to normal and he gives me a thumbs-up. “Consider ’em got,” he says, jogging away.
Off in the distance, a gaggle of girls is stretching on the green, whispering. Every so often, one turns and looks at me. It hardly seems fair. I’ve barely been able to shake the stigma from the last incident, and now here I am again, Front-Page Julia, the dead guy’s girlfriend, propped up in the spotlight for all the world to examine like some sad sideshow act.
CHAPTER 6
Eron
In all my years of the seduction, I have never felt so uneasy. Last night was a lesson in frustration. Everything I explained to the boy was greeted with “But why?” or a snide remark. If he had been one of Mama’s stepchildren, she would have already taken a belt to his rear countless times. Tonight I expect much of the same torture, but worse. Tonight the agenda calls for me to introduce him to every one of our charges.
I bring him to Evangeline’s window first. He follows me with a decidedly human masculine swagger, and I wonder if he will ever assume the graceful floating typical of our people. Evangeline is what many would call an attractive woman, though she is a bit too modern for my taste. It is obvious that Mr. Colburn finds her appealing, as he leers at her with human longing while she changes into her satin negligee.
I’m ashamed for him. “You might show some respect and avert your eyes,” I suggest.
He looks at me as though I’ve grown another head. “Why? She can’t see me.”
“Even so …,” I begin, but realize it’s pointless to argue. I try to convince myself that in another few weeks it won’t be my concern.
“Whoa. She has some rack,” he says with a grin. “So, she’s the slut?”
I bite my tongue. I never said that. I simply said that she wasn’t one to sleep in her own bed. Most nights, I’d have to track her down in one strange bedroom or another. Silliness; one would think that by now she’d realize that I do my best work in a familiar bedroom. But I suppose he’s right; many humans do not hold their slumber as sacred as we Sleepbringers do, and Evangeline is one of them. She prefers to dabble in other, less healthful pursuits. As much as I hate to agree with him, she is a woman with loose morals.
She slides into bed next to her latest conquest. A slight man with dark, wiry hair wraps his arms around her as the sheet falls over them. Then she reaches up and turns out the light on her night table. I turn to the boy and say, “This is where we come in.” I move toward the window, and he stops me.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. How do you know they’re not going to get it on?”
“Get it …?” I begin, but then shake my head. Another vile new turn of phrase I’ll need to learn before I become human. “You will learn to know your charges intimately. She is clearly tired and ready for me.” He moves to follow me, so I quickly hold my hand out. “Stay here. Watch this one from outside.”
He narrows his eyes, but I ignore him. I suppose I could have him follow me, as it’s not as if Evangeline can see us, but I simply must have a few minutes’ peace. I pass quietly into the room and stop at her bedside. One foot, toenails painted red, is peeking from beneath the sheet. This is her usual way of sleeping. Leaning over, I whisper sweet nothings into her ear, then take the sand from my pocket and sprinkle it on her head. I begin to run my hand along her body, over the curves but never touching them. Her heavily lashed eyes flutter and then go still. In another moment, she is asleep, dreaming of the farm where she grew up. I rise and quickly pass through the window.
“See how simple it can—” I begin, but then I hear a girlish giggle coming from the branches above. Mr. Colburn is leaning against a tree limb, facing completely away from the window. He’s smiling up at a young woman I’ve never seen before. She is wearing a long, formal dress and is enraptured by my student. She’s obviously one of our people. “Mr. Colburn, have you been watching?”
He looks at me lazily. “Sorry, I’ll catch the next one. This lovely woman—” He turns to her. “What did you say your name was, again?”
She blushes. “Genevieve.”
“Genevieve was just telling me a great story about a dude who fell asleep at dinner and ended up with a beard of spaghetti,” he says, and then a short laugh that sounds a bit like the honk of a goose erupts from his throat. “You guys know how to live it up.”
I glare at the girl. Seducing someone to sleep when they’re clearly not ready is strictly forbidden; however, sometimes it is necessary when a charge ignores the call of exhaustion for too long. Still, this unpleasant task is not something to brag of, and certainly not something to laugh about. “What are you doing here? Where are your charges?”
She points at the window. “That man—Bruno—is mine.”
I nod and say as pleasantly as I can, “Well, I have much to teach my trainee, as I’m sure you’ll understand, so …”
She nods sadly, gives the boy a doe-eyed look, and disappears.
He grins. “Thought you said this was solitary work, old man.”
“If you are doing it well, it is solitary work,” I return, business like, drawing the chain of my pocket watch from my vest. I check it; it’s after ten. “We’ll need to get to Vicki soon. She’ll be going to bed shortly. And you must be careful with her. You have to be sure she is deeply asleep. She tends to walk in her slumber.”
He follows me down the street, to the wet grass outside Vicki’s home. It’s fortunate that she lives in a one-story house, as she often trips and bruises herself during her sleepwalks. Sometimes I can guide her back to bed, but other times she will swat me away. She’s over fifty and has lived alone since she left her parents’ home as a teenager; she is used to doing things her own way.
My student peeks through her window. Vicki is sitting up in bed, bifocals on, reading a book. A cigarette is burning in the ashtray at her bedside. In the light, her hair is the unnatural color of a vibrant sunset, and the shadows and smoke bury themselves in the wrinkles of her face, making her look older. “Holy mother …,” he breathes, then turns to me. “You’re not serious.”
“About?”
He points a thumb toward the window. “That. That broad is older than you are.”
“And?” Clearly I no longer have the patience to reply in full sentences.
“And I’m not going to do a lady who’s old enough to be my grandmother,” he chokes out. “That’s repulsive.”
I sigh. “Mr. Colburn, you seem to think that you’re having a romantic relationship with your charges, and that is not the case. You are simply soothing her to sleep.” Vicki reaches over, lays her book on her bedside table, and turns off the lamp. I pass halfway through the window and realize he’s not watching, again. He’s concentrating on the busy street outside, where a trio of tan girls with white-blond hair is strolling and giggling. I snap my fingers at him. “Perhaps you’d better come with me.”
“Yeah?”
“Close your eyes, imagine yourself weightless, sliding through the window as if it is air.”
He does as he is told and follows me through, tentatively. One’s first time can be a little frightening and thrilling, as the feeling of passing through solid matter tends to send shivers up and down the length of one’s body, as if every inch of skin is alive. “Whoa,” he whispers, blinking, when we’re standing in Vicki’s bedroom. “I need to try that again.”
“Later,” I say. “And you don’t have to whisper. She cannot see or hear us unless she’s asleep. And e
ven then she’ll think she’s dreaming.”
For the first time, he’s silent. It’s as if he enjoys doing the opposite of what I tell him. I pad on the lush shag carpeting to Vicki’s flowered comforter and pull a handful of sand from the pocket of my jacket. “Take only a handful, no more.” He watches as I sprinkle it over her and it dissipates in the moonlight, casting her skin in a powdery glow. I whisper sweet nothings again and begin to move my hand gently above her, a hair’s distance away from her skin. “You see,” I say to my student as I work, “I’m not touching her, not at all. Never touch them.”
He leans in closely and observes. “No touching? What would happen if—”
I sigh. “Just don’t.”
Vicki always takes some time, shifting from her side to her back to her stomach before she finally relaxes enough to let me do my work. Fifteen minutes pass, and just when her breathing begins to slow and I think I’ve got her, she sneezes in my face, clutches her pillow, and flops over onto her side.
I wipe my face with a handkerchief. This is one of the less glamorous parts of the job.
“Well, this sure blows. Is there an upside to this job, then?” Mr. Colburn groans, studying the pictures on the top of her bureau. “Hey! She was kind of hot, about a thousand years ago. You might have even dated her, when you were alive.”
I attempt to ignore him and continue my work.
“So, yeah, you never told me. How did you die?”
I hold up my hand to him, to say, “Stop.”
“Just making conversation,” he says from behind me. In Vicki’s vanity mirror, I can see him reaching out to touch a glass figurine near the frames.
I quickly straighten and grab his thick wrist before he can come in contact with it. “Don’t touch anything,” I demand.
“Whoa, sorry, man,” he says, putting his hands up in surrender. “I wasn’t going to move it.”
“Do you not remember the first rule I explained to you? You carry out your work, and then you leave. You do not touch anything.” I turn back to Vicki, who is now stirring again, thanks to Colburn’s disruption. “It won’t matter to Vicki if you speak, because she cannot hear you. But I can. And I do require silence for this part of the process.”
He claps his heels together quickly, like a soldier, and salutes. “Aye, aye, Captain!” he shouts firmly.
Fortunately, he watches carefully and silently as I carry out the rest of the seduction. When Vicki is snoring, I turn to him.
And cringe.
He’s holding Vicki’s smoldering cigarette in his hand.
“What did I tell you?” I hiss, snatching it from him and depositing it in the ashtray near her bed.
He holds out his hands. “It … was going to fall into her bed. She would have burned alive, man.”
I narrow my eyes. “So? Did I not just say that you do not touch anything? No exceptions.”
“But Chimere told me that we protect them—”
“We offer some protection, but within limits. You do not touch them. You do not handle human objects.” I see his puzzled expression and sigh. “For example, you may offer them advice in their dreams or comfort them while they sleep. As a human, do you not recall waking up from a good night’s sleep and having the answer to a seemingly impossible problem that had been plaguing you the day before? Or feeling energized and relaxed after a particularly stressful day? That was the work of your Sleepbringer, Chimere.
“In this situation,” I explain, “you could have warned Vicki in her dreams that danger was near, so that she would awaken and put out the cigarette herself. Do you understand?”
He doesn’t speak, just lets out a grand puff of air that blows the mop of hair out of his eyes.
“All right,” I say. “Julia’s next. But I often come back to Vicki’s home two or three times during the night, just to make sure she hasn’t walked off.”
He eyes the woman in disgust. “Wow. You should just let the old bag walk out into traffic.”
I glare at him, hoping he’s joking. He doesn’t flinch under the weight of my stare, so I say, “That is not funny. Only an Original, like Chimere, is allowed to seduce a human to her death. You are, in essence, to care for your charges as you care for yourself. Protect them. You must never even talk—”
“Jeez. I was kidding,” he groans. “You people need to lighten up.”
“If Chimere hears you talking like that, she’ll never let you assume this role.”
He snorts. “There’s a fate worse than death.”
“There’s worse. They can put you in the Last Place.”
He laughs. “Are you telling me they rank us? If I come in last place, do I still get some lovely parting gifts?”
“The Last Place,” I repeat. “It’s like purgatory for the most depraved Sleepbringers, the ones who fail miserably at their duties. A prison.”
He snorts. “I practically owned the detention room at school. I bet they already erected a memorial to me there.”
“It’s not something to laugh about. Every day there will seem like an eternity.”
He smiles slyly, as if to say, What would you know about it, old man? Hopeless. I don’t bother to continue my warning.
We step outside. “You’ll come to realize that you crave the seduction the way humans crave sleep. You won’t be able to avoid it.” In the moonlight, I study him. He does look rather haggard, his eyes sunken. “You’ll need to seduce soon.”
Somewhere in the garden, a cat meows. “I thought you said I had to wait. That I was too much of a newbie or something.”
“You are, but you’ll have no ability to concentrate on your studies unless your mind is sharp and clear. And for that, you’ll need to perform a seduction.”
His eyes brighten and he rocks back and forth on his branch. “Bam-chicka-bam-bam. Yeah, baby. Lead the way. You said Julia’s next?”
“No, I never said you’d be seducing Julia,” I say. At that moment, that cat appears, rounding the corner of Vicki’s house. It’s yellow and fat, and unlike a human, it can sense us. It purrs, warming to us immediately. Animals love us. I take it as serendipity that this feline is here at this exact time. “I said you’d have to perform a seduction, but you are too new to perform it on a human.”
He studies me, then the cat, and his jaw locks. “No friggin’ way.”
“We cannot continue if you don’t.” I stroke the cat’s soft fur. “And cats are easier. It’s a nice starting point.”
“I am not. Freaking. Getting with. A cat,” he says, curling his lips in disgust.
“As I said, you are thinking about it like a human. Remember, you are no longer human.”
He eyes the animal and frowns. I have to say, it’s quite satisfying.
CHAPTER 7
Julia
Griffin was the only customer I ever had who ordered item number 1.26 on Sweetie Pi’s menu. Number 1.26 is an egg cream, a drink made with chocolate syrup, milk, and seltzer. It is gross. I’m just thinking about how my egg cream—making skills will seriously suffer without him when a gaggle of senior girls line up outside the stand, studying the menu. They’re all holding shopping bags from Forever 21 and Hollister and smacking their lips. Since I’ve worked at this stand in the food court since freshman year, pre-Griffin, I have a knack for predicting what certain customers will order. Judging by their waistlines, I can tell that these girls are fat-free vanilla yogurt in a kiddie-size cake cone all the way.
Well, actually, I can’t claim psychic powers; I’ve waited on these girls a zillion times. One, Kiki Nickelson, has been coming here just as long as, if not longer than, I’ve been working here. Considering how often I see her at the mall, her dad must be harboring some serious guilt issues over giving his daughter such a goofy name. He seems to have surrendered to her full control of the credit cards as a peace offering. She looks at me and says, “Oh, hey, Julia. What’s up?”
The good thing about being Front-Page Julia is that people who would otherwise call me “hey, y
ou” do know my name. The bad thing is that that’s about all they care to know.
“Not much,” I say, still sporting my “can I help you?” smile.
Kiki’s face falls, and I can tell right away that she has made the connection between Griffin and me. Tears flood her eyes—real, honest-to-goodness tears. “Ohmigosh, I am so so so so so sorry about Griffin,” she says, smacking her heart with her manicured hand.
“Thanks,” I say. She and Griffin dated, many moons ago, until, as he put it, “I got so sick of her I had to Kiki her ass out the door.” He said she was about as high maintenance as the space shuttle.
The other girls offer their condolences and put in their orders. I was wrong; they all order fat-free vanilla in kiddie cups instead of cones. When I hand over the goods, Kiki is still giving me the sad puppy eyes. “You look like you’re holding up pretty well.”
I nod. The biggest problem with tragedies is that afterward, the world expects those affected by them to cease all functioning. I think everyone was expecting me to be lying here, a mangled heap of body parts, like a Picasso painting.
“If you need anything, just let us know, okay, Jules?” another girl says, dropping a five-dollar bill into the little tips canister at checkout, then patting the top of it as if she’s donating to the Dead Boyfriend Support League.
I smile, knowing that if I ever attempted to take them up on that offer, they’d run like hell in the other direction. My experience with tragedy is that people will offer condolences and support but never be around when you want to collect. That was the way it was when I was seven; I was utterly alone. Yeah, things were better when I started dating Griffin; it felt like I was making my way back to Normalsville after an extended absence. Being Griffin’s girlfriend showed everyone I wasn’t contagious, or a ticking time bomb ready to explode. That gave me confidence. I cringe, remembering how I’d get whenever someone ignored me, or gave me that mock-sympathetic look, or whispered behind my back, There’s that girl! You know, the one who … I’d cry and get all flustered, which just kept the rumor mill churning out news of how Julia Devine would never, ever be normal again. She’s obviously still scarred, they’d say. Mentally unstable.
