Those of My Kind

by Loring, Jennifer

  Mira stubbed out her cigarette and set a hand on Tristan’s arm. Tristan wanted to touch her in return, but she accepted the soothing gesture without reciprocation. The way things were going lately, she almost expected Mira to spontaneously combust. “I think you need wine. Be right back.”

  After a few minutes, Mira returned with two glasses of red wine. She handed one to Tristan, who slowly sipped the rich, tart burgundy liquid, acclimating herself to a flavor not as sweet as the ice wine she was used to.

  “There’s something else. My family is Romani. Or Gypsy, to you. I guess.”

  “I almost thought they weren’t real, you know? What is it like? Not like those crappy shows on TLC, right?”

  “Like being any minority, I guess. It kind of sucks.” Tristan swirled the wine around in her glass. Its resemblance to blood was startling, and her stomach responded with a sharp cramp. “Most of us just try to fit in where we live, because so many people still think we’re thieves and con artists.” Her veins ached. She tried to focus on Mira. Not on her pale skin and the blue ribbons of blood running beneath, but on her eyes. Her lips. Anything else.

  “Well, I don’t. Hey, I know exactly how to take your mind off everything. You’re about my size. You can wear one of my leotards.”

  Tristan’s heart leaped into her throat. She hadn’t danced in years, but her body responded to the word as if she’d never stopped. To share the one thing she loved with Mira was to create a bond from which she could not walk away. When she danced, the hunger and the hunt vanished from her mind in the closest thing to happiness she’d ever experienced. “Mira, there’s something else.”

  If you tell her what you are, that means you trust her. And trusting people is stupid. If life has taught you anything, it’s that. She’ll think you’re crazy. You’re a freak, you know.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m…going to stay in Philly for a while after all. I just wanted to tell you.”

  On the other hand, you’re going to regret not telling her the truth when her life is suddenly in danger. Screwed if you do and screwed if you don’t.

  “Great!” Mira grabbed her hand and yanked her off the couch. “Let’s get changed. You’re gonna be my practice partner. Don’t worry; I won’t make you do pointe.”

  Tristan followed Mira down the narrow hallway to her room. The world could take care of itself for a little while.

  ~

  The girl shot out her arm and braced the door open like a steel beam. Blessing pushed against the door with all of her strength, but it didn’t budge. She had heard about people like this, high on drugs or having a psychotic break, able to mine some inexplicable power source. Was it that, she often wondered, into which each Hunter’s private demon tapped? Did so little truly separate the Hunters from the rest of society?

  “Are you sure you’re looking for me?”

  The girl cocked her head and, not showing her teeth, offered a polite smile. “I am quite certain of that, Blessing Adedayo.”

  Blessing’s heart skipped a beat. “How do you know my name?”

  The test…

  No. I am worthy of more than a minor demon in a child’s body. This is my summoning.

  “I know many things. Shall we speak further? You have an immense gift, Blessing, and I can help you put it to a very important use.”

  Blessing stopped pushing against the door and stepped back. Of course, the demon knew. It was why Blessing had conjured her, after all.

  The girl’s disconcerting stare bored through her. As she stood there like a century-old mannequin, her most alarming feature became apparent. Not the unblinking eyes, not the pallor of her skin and its velvety white fur, not the strangely prim smile.

  She wasn’t breathing. No sound of inhalation or exhalation issued from her nose or mouth. Her shoulders, her chest, did not rise and fall.

  She studied the metal latch, the only thing preventing her from getting in. Yet she didn’t try to break it, though she probably could have with little effort. “We will speak soon, Blessing. I have what you’re after. I have all the answers to your problems. I will find you again.” The girl pulled her arm back and, bowing her head, strolled down the walkway and disappeared into the waning sunlight.

  Blessing slammed the door shut. The summoning had worked after all. The spirit was under her control, obliged to do her bidding. It had come serve her.

  This, at last, was power.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tristan leaned against the counter as Mira cued up Prokofiev from an iPhone plugged into a speaker dock. They had danced to Tchaikovsky and Stravinsky for nearly an hour as rain tapped against the bay windows. Despite the closed windows, a shiver slinked up Tristan’s spine and down her arms. She shuddered.

  “Someone is walking over my grave.” Mami Treszka used to say it whenever she got an unexplained chill. As a child, Tristan had never given the rather morbid expression much thought, until that day in the hospital. The day her life changed forever.

  Mira glanced over her shoulder. “What?”

  “Nothing. Is the air conditioner on?”

  “No. We try to hold out until May, although it seems to get hotter earlier anymore. Are you cold?”

  “I’m fine. Just a chill.” Tristan bent her knees into a second-position demi-plié, feet apart.

  “You’ve still got great form.”

  “My teacher told me a lot of modern flamenco dancers study ballet. Rigid arms, straight back, all of that.”

  “Next time, you should show me how to dance flamenco.”

  Next time. She wanted a next time. Tristan switched to fifth position. She performed a clunky balancé in a bid to impress Mira and nearly caught the toes of her right foot on the heel of her left. At least she didn’t trip herself. Bonus.

  “I’m a little rusty. On both accounts.”

  “I think you’re pretty amazing, actually.” Mira grasped the edge of the counter with one hand, arched her back, and pulled her right leg into a graceful curve behind her. She repeated the stretch with her other leg. Tristan tried not to gawk, but the lines of Mira’s body were something out of sculpture, toned and athletic, a goddess shaped from gray cotton and crepe. Blue veins stood out in her arms and neck, crying out like liquor to an alcoholic for just one taste. Tristan licked her lips.

  “You’re beautiful,” she whispered, unable to help herself. Fortunately, Mira didn’t hear her over the music.

  “I mean, coming all the way from Canada, not knowing anyone… I’m from Cherry Hill—that’s in New Jersey, it’s like ten minutes away—so I’ve lived around here my whole life. Pathetic, I know. I couldn’t even go to school in New York or something.” Mira’s shoulders sagged a little, and she averted her eyes as she ran through a series of grand-pliés. Above the scoop neck of her leotard, her chest glistened with sweat. “I didn’t even apply. I was afraid of the competition. I’m good in Philly, but who am I in New York?”

  “We’re all afraid of something. That doesn’t mean you’re not good enough.”

  “You’re a wise woman for twenty-one.” Mira linked their fingers together. Tristan’s skin, acknowledging the electrical current flowing from her to Mira and back, tingled all over. “I’m really glad you like gay bars.” Mira laughed.

  “Who would’ve guessed ballerinas did, too?”

  She bit down on her lip. Something melted inside Tristan, gushed warmly through her limbs and her belly. “I really like you, Tristan, and I know we just met…”

  Here comes the inevitable. Tristan braced herself. It would sting at first, but she was used to it. And then life would go on as it had before Mira. “But…”

  Mira raised her eyebrows. “Why do you think there’s a “but?””

  “Wait… There isn’t?”

  “Not this time.”

  She closed her storm-gray eyes and pressed her breasts against Tristan’s. A bomb of ecstasy detonated in Tristan’s core, the blast wave rippling outward in a series of delicious shivers. Yet a se
ries of frantic thoughts competed for her attention: Is there anything stuck in my teeth? Did I even remember to brush them? I hope my breath smells okay.

  Mira tasted like spearmint gum and cigarette smoke and strawberry lip-gloss. The fireworks exploding in Tristan’s brain obliterated her ability to think of anything else. Mira had done plenty of kissing before or, like everything else, she was incapable of anything less than perfection.

  Tristan’s hands fluttered at Mira’s waist, uncertain of what to do but so eager to touch another human being that way. She wanted to slide them up her ribcage, over the small swells of her breasts.

  The lock on the front door clicked and opened, breaking the spell. Tristan licked her lips and savored the flavor of Mira’s on them.

  Mira pulled away and whispered, “Roommate agreement. No PDA.”

  A girl with long blonde hair flowing over her shoulders and whose legs alone claimed three-quarters of her body walked into the kitchen and set a CVS bag on the counter. Tristan didn’t get the ballerina vibe from her. Actress or model, maybe.

  “Hi, Sarah. This is my new friend, Tristan. She was helping me rehearse. She’s a dancer too; isn’t that great?”

  Sarah assessed Tristan from head to toe before shaking her hand. The quick, disapproving flash of her eyes did not escape Tristan’s notice. “Hi, nice to meet you. Just stopped home to change; I’ve got an audition in New York, and I need to catch the train.” She handed the bag to Mira. “Dinner is served. Chocolate protein shakes.”

  “Thanks. See you later.”

  Tristan waited until Sarah’s bedroom door closed, not wanting to offend further a girl who had already taken an inexplicable dislike to her. “That’s your dinner?”

  Mira folded her arms and rolled her eyes as if she’d heard it all before. “I eat one big meal a day—at lunch. I do have to watch my calorie intake, you know. Once a week I allow myself to splurge.”

  “Sorry for asking. Anyway, I should probably get going. But there are some things I wanted to talk to you about tomorrow, if you have time.”

  “I’ll make time. Is something wrong?”

  “No, I just… You should know some things. But thank you for today. For listening and…stuff. It means a lot.” Tristan trailed her fingertips over the back of Mira’s hand. “I’m not used to people liking me all that much.”

  “Well, I do.” Mira touched her lips to Tristan’s again, lingering until Sarah opened the front door and closed it behind her.

  It was happening too fast, the cynic in her argued; she was bound to screw it up somehow. So many things to hide. Her amplified senses. The things she did at night. The fact that drinking the blood of demons and dead criminals kept her fainting spells at bay. How do you tell your girlfriend that one without her running for the hills, and rightfully so? Or Blessing would ruin it. The thought of explaining things to Blessing when the girl hadn’t been acting right to begin with made Tristan a little queasy. Of course, Blessing was just nervous about the test. Who wasn’t? Tristan remembered acting a little nutty, too.

  But if she listened to her instincts, really listened, she knew the way Blessing was acting was different.

  Am I afraid of her?

  You’ve always been a little afraid.

  “By the way, Sarah is leaving for New York—permanently—soon, and Lauren is never here. I wanted to give you this.” Mira pressed a set of keys into Tristan’s palm.

  “Are you sure? I mean…thank you, but…”

  “You can’t stay up in Kensington. And don’t worry about rent until you get on your feet. I’m sure you’ll find something around here.”

  “Thank you,” Tristan said again, squeezing the keys like a talisman.

  “Gotta run to the bathroom. Don’t go anywhere.” Mira trotted down the hallway. Behind the door, a pill bottle opened.

  A newspaper lay on the coffee table. Thick black letters screamed the Philadelphia Inquirer’s headline: “Housekeeper Found Dead in Downtown Hotel.”

  Tristan’s heart double-timed its pace, terror-stricken by the victim’s name.

  Mirah.

  Tristan had passed the hotel, just two blocks away, on her way here.

  Even with the door closed tight, Mira’s violent retching beat against Tristan’s eardrums. Everything was falling apart, suddenly and all at once, and it was her fault for getting involved. For the contravention of all her training and doing exactly what she wasn’t supposed to do. She had to get out before it went any further.

  After a few minutes, Mira emerged as cheerful as ever, though her face had taken on the pale, waxy sheen of someone who’d just puked up her guts, and plunked herself beside Tristan on the sofa. She glanced down at the paper. “Totally weird, right? It’s not like it’s a common name, even if it’s spelled a little differently.”

  “Are you…okay?”

  “Fine, why?”

  “I… No reason. Yeah. This is weird. I should go and deal with that situation.”

  Mira leaned over and pecked Tristan on the cheek. “Bring your stuff later,” she whispered, her breath hot on Tristan’s ear. “And hurry.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Well, that had not gone according to plan.

  She supposed she ought to feel guilt over killing an innocent person with whatever she had called up. The woman likely had a family, friends. An average life. All the things denied to Blessing. But who was truly innocent? Perhaps the woman was a thief. Perhaps she abused her children. By causing her a momentary pain, Blessing might spare others years of it.

  Its intended target lived, however, and so Blessing consulted her memories of the time spent with root doctors and conjure women for a more powerful, more selective spell. Removing Mira was a temporary solution to a lasting problem. Tristan would see others and desire them, even when she knew the risks. She had grown so selfish.

  On a scrap of brown paper from a bag, Blessing wrote Tristan’s name seven times on black ink. She rotated the paper and wrote “LOVE ME OR DIE” in red ink seven times, until it had covered Tristan’s name. She pushed the paper to the side and grasped the John the Conqueror root she had purchased at a local occult shop. She wondered if she ought to use a different plant, since she directed her working at a woman; the John root resembled a man’s testicles. Blessing shrugged off the indecision and with a penknife carved a slit-shaped hole into the root.

  This root resembles a woman more than you do.

  Blessing nearly drove the knife blade into the counter. She steadied her hand and finished carving then tucked hairs from Tristan’s pillow and a sprig of her own hair into the hole. She packed it full of graveyard dust and Love Me sachet powder, which had cost her nearly an hour’s wages. Five dollars was a fortune to her once, but here it bought very little.

  Blessing carried the paper into the bathroom and urinated until she had saturated it. You don’t know how I suffer for you, she thought as she gritted her teeth. She pushed out each golden drop as if in labor. The paper must be wet for the spell to work, and if Tristan appreciated the pain that caused, perhaps she would not be so impetuous.

  Back in the kitchen, Blessing wrapped the paper around the root, pressing it to conform to the tuber’s shape and to keep the contents inside. Then she grabbed a spool of red thread and wrapped it around the paper until completely covered. She tied seven knots into the thread and left a length of it, the end of which she fashioned into a finger loop, dangling from the root.

  Blessing slipped her finger into the loop and swung it back and forth in a trancelike rhythm akin to the beating of ritual drums, or chanting. Now the true act of power, the speaking of Tristan’s name, the binding: “Tristan Marcsa, love me or die. Tristan Marcsa, love me or die. Tristan Marcsa, love me or die.”

  The root swayed in time to her mantra, in and out, back and forth, drawing Tristan ever closer to her. Love her or die. No options were left for either of them.

  “Blessing? Are you home?”

  In a panic, she swept everything on the c
ounter into the box and stuffed it into its hiding place within the closet. Tristan so rarely spent time there anymore; Blessing often left the box where it was easily accessible.

  “Yes. In the kitchen.”

  Tristan emerged from around the corner. Hair disciplined by a ponytail, traces of makeup on her face, clothes too girlish and impractical to be her own, she was someone desperately trying to fit in where she did not belong. “Hi. Glad you’re here. Listen, we should talk about some stuff.”

  Here it was at last, the admission of Mira’s existence. As if Blessing were some primitive beast unable to recognize the signs.

  “Yes, I suppose we do.”

  Tristan cocked her head a little. Not the response she had anticipated, clearly. “Yeah, so…I haven’t been around much except to hunt. And it isn’t anything personal; it’s just… Fuck. It is, kind of.”

  “I know about her. It is obvious, Tristan. I may be many things, but I am not an idiot.”

  Tristan raised an eyebrow and tightened her lips. “I never said you were. What is with you lately? Are you on something?”

  “What is with me?” Blessing squeezed her fists at her sides. “You’re the one acting like a lovesick teenager, neglecting your duties—”

  “I haven’t neglected shit!”

  “What about me?”

  “You’re eighteen, Blessing! And I’m sorry I haven’t been around, but it’s time for us to move on. You go your way, and I go mine. Everyone will be better off.”

  “And by “everyone,” you mean yourself and Mira. For three years we have learned from one another, been one another’s only family. Now, at the first opportunity, you want to leave me behind so you can chase after some whore—”

  “Don’t you dare,” Tristan growled. “You don’t even know her.”

  “What can you possibly gain from this little rebellion of yours? This stupidity? And why now? Do you think she will make you normal? Do you think she will stop the blood cravings, the need to hunt? She will die because of you, and you know it. It is why we leave our lives behind!”