Those of My Kind

by Loring, Jennifer

  Let Tristan have her morality. Let her be their slave.

  The boy broke into uncontrollable tremors as his erection grew harder and more inflamed, until Blessing believed it would split open. Instead, he blasted a white fluid onto the front of Anasztaizia’s dress and collapsed into her arms.

  “Oh, he was a strong one,” Anasztaizia said against the boy’s lips. His head dangled limply from his neck, his life force exhausted. “But there is no point in letting him linger.” She grasped his head between her hands and twisted. Blessing thought she meant only to break his neck, a quick and clean death. Yet Anasztaizia kept twisting as if re-enacting some terrible memory from which she had shut Blessing out, her expression grim and her lips pressed together so tightly as to virtually erase her mouth from her face. She twisted until his head faced backwards. She twisted until the flesh tore like yellowed paper, until veins burst and muscles shredded and the blood, so much blood, re-consecrated the dilapidated church in shades of scarlet.

  She released the head without another glance, and its body thudded to the floor in a plume of pink brick dust. “Let us seal our bond, Blessing. Taste his essence. Only through me will you truly know God.”

  Blessing approached the altar, as she had when she was a child. Because Papa Joe had built the church, it was the nicest building, aside from his house, in the village. He stood at the altar and commanded those who asked Jesus into their hearts to come forward and receive His salvation. The fat pastor spoke at length of his own conversion, how he turned away from the gods of his youth, who were the Devil in disguise.

  But Abassi and Atai lived alone in heaven and took no notice of mankind anymore.

  Anasztaizia opened her mouth. Despite her dead-flower lips and her blackened teeth, the scent was like the ocean, salty yet pure, an entity vast and intimidating and ultimately inscrutable. The essence and giver of life, another’s life, infusing her with its potency.

  Blessing closed her eyes. Her lips parted, and she extended her tongue to receive Anasztaizia’s gift. Electricity prickled along her skin. Her blood thrummed as each molecule of his spirit danced through her, replenished her. But something else wriggled down her throat and burrowed into her heart, a plump black worm that gorged on her antipathy. It was easy to feed when she found nothing left in the human race worthy of redemption. When she hated them all as much as she hated herself.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Tristan woke up alone. A scrawled note lay on the bedside table: At class for 3 hrs, let’s get lunch at Cosi.

  A good sign, the return of Mira’s appetite. For the past couple of weeks she’d appeared as healthy as the day they first met. And with that pleasant turn of events, they crammed into mere days what most couples did in months, as if the sand in some cosmic hourglass slowly but steadily drained away their time together. Tristan hated to think of it like that, but the frenetic enthusiasm with which Mira threw herself into their daily activities smacked of desperation. Turnabout was fair play, after all. Tristan had gotten no closer to revealing her own relationship-ending particulars.

  Mira showed her around Center City one exhausting day; on another, they visited the art museum, and Mira all but dragged her out of the Arms and Armor gallery. The Pennsylvania Ballet held no performances in April, but they caught BalletX’s Proliferation of the Imagination at the Wilma Theater on a rainy afternoon. “A scouting mission,” Mira called it, with her trademark chuckle. Yet another excursion, via subway, brought them to the stadiums at the edge of town so Mira could pick up her tickets for a Phillies game. Afterward they ate family-style king crab legs at Chickie’s and Pete’s. Tristan found more and more of her invisible shell, which was hard to maintain when Mira sat across from her bathed in Old Bay and butter, breaking off.

  Most nights they stayed in and watched movies. Tristan silently reveled in the promises Mira’s embrace contained, no matter the nagging apprehension. She was almost positive Mira had received her test results and chosen not to share the bad news. In the grand scheme of things, however, that was no worse than concealing one’s half-demon ancestry or the great Calling to go out at night and stab things to death.

  This could not go on forever. Something—instinct, her inextricable link to Blessing, or Shapa’s whispers into her subconscious, told her Blessing’s absolute silence these past few weeks must not be ignored any longer. It was much too good to be true.

  Tristan lay in bed for a few more minutes. She could easily spend the day there. Especially with Mira, both of them snuggled under the covers and fucking like bunnies. The Hunt was supposed to fulfill those kinds of hungers—and had, in its own way. She supposed it always would have, if she’d followed the rules.

  Something would go wrong and end the charade. It had to. She was already looking over her shoulder for whatever demon Shapa or the powers that be dispatched to do away with Hunters found in dereliction of duty, already forcing smiles to conceal the nameless dread that, for the first time in her life, made her fear the dark. One of them had to break the stalemate.

  ~

  “I’m so glad we took the fuckin’ El,” Mira whispered. She glanced up at the obese woman wedged between their seats and the aisle. The woman’s gigantic ass, which resembled nothing so much as two pillowcases stuffed with pebbles and crammed into Spandex, crowded most of the already minimal space in which Tristan and Mira sat. Tristan nudged her in the ribs.

  “This is our stop.”

  “Thank God.”

  They squeezed past the woman, who barked something Tristan didn’t catch over the noise of the outbound train on the other side of the tracks, except she punctuated it with a passionate “Bitch!” just as the doors scraped closed.

  Once they emerged from the station, Mira wrinkled her nose at the decaying row homes and abandoned factories that littered the street. “Suddenly I remember why no one ever comes here.”

  “This way. It’s not far.”

  “Good. I feel like I’m about to get shot any second. Wait…you were a fuckin’ squatter?”

  “One of the many things I meant to tell you.” Tristan opened the front door. She expected Mira to express her distaste at everything, from the peeling paint and the cockroaches to the shattered stairs and the smell of backed-up sewer lines. But Mira stayed quiet, unwilling, perhaps, to announce their presence if Blessing happened to be home.

  Tristan took it upon herself once she opened the door. “Blessing?” she called out to no response. She waved Mira into the house.

  “What are we here for again?”

  “I just need to pick up some stuff. I sort of…collect something. I’ll explain later. Make yourself comfortable. As much as you can.”

  “Ugh.” Mira walked into the kitchen and opened a rolled up bag of Fritos. She sniffed once, twice, and wrinkled her nose. “These smell funny. I thought Fritos were one of those foods that never go bad.”

  “Throw it out,” Tristan said as she opened the bedroom door.

  The mattress had been heaved to one side of the room, against the window, to make space for a circle drawn in salt upon the floor. A candle marked each of the four cardinal directions: yellow in the east, red in the south, blue in the west, and green in the north. A black candle, larger than the rest, created an ominous focal point. On the eastern side, a doorway-like space interrupted the flow of salt.

  “What the actual fuck? Mira!”

  “You rang?” She jogged up behind Tristan and propped her chin on her shoulder. “Whoa.”

  “It’s witchcraft.”

  “Sure looks like it. Wicca?”

  “Wicca doesn’t let her kill people,” Tristan mumbled.

  “The black candle. Let me guess. Death?”

  “Actually, it’s for banishing negative energy or to increase the power of a spell. And for endings. So technically, I guess that could mean “death.” Which I’m betting on, unless “banishing negative energy” also translates into “trying to kill us.””

  “She’s really pissed at y
ou, huh? And how do you know all this shit, anyway?” Mira’s breath tickled Tristan’s ear. Tristan considered flipping the mattress back into place, crushing the stupid circle, and going at it right there. That would banish some negative energy all right. But temporarily at best, being the source of the problem in the first place.

  “Magic was always her strength,” Tristan murmured, momentarily disregarding Mira’s presence in the room as she tried to work out how she could have been so blind, so stupid. The answer, of course, stood right behind her. Something was always fated to call her back. Humans may have had no design or purpose, no watchmaker, but they were her puppet masters. And if she didn’t return to her mission, she’d live the remainder of her days, however few, with a death sentence on her head. For the sole crime of trying to be like them instead of serving them. It was brilliant, really, giving so much power to those forever enslaved by it. A magnificent, premeditated irony of which she wanted no part. Because no matter her choice, she was going to die.

  “But I didn’t think she’d let it come to this. Not this. God, it was so obvious.” Tristan smacked the heel of her hand against her forehead. “First Nigeria, then when she sneaked off in Georgia… She was doing it all that time. Learning black magic. All that crap about magic being ethically neutral…it was just an excuse.”

  “Black magic? Nigeria? Georgia? What’s the deal?” Mira lifted an eyebrow. Even the tiniest indication she had potentially mislaid her trust sliced through Tristan like a cutting loop. “What are you not telling me?”

  “It’s a long story. A really long story. I’ll tell you everything when we get home. Although I’m not sure you want to know as much as you think you do. In fact, I’m positive you don’t.”

  “We should stop at the liquor store on the way. I want to be prepared. Have you ever tried chocolate wine?”

  The doorknob twisted. Tristan contemplated fleeing out a window, but within a few seconds, any opportunity to do so vanished. She slipped a furtive hand inside her hoodie.

  I forgot the knife.

  Blessing entered the apartment, and when she discovered them standing by the bedroom—even worse, that they had unearthed her secret—her stare imbued the air itself with ice.

  “You must be Blessing,” Mira said. “I’ve heard…a lot about you. I’m Mira.” She started across the living room with her hand extended before Tristan could stop her.

  Blessing curled her fingers into fists.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Get out,” Blessing snarled. “You are not welcome here.” She glared at Mira with murder in her eyes. “Neither of you.”

  “Mira, wait for me on the stoop. I’ll just be a few minutes.”

  “Are you sure—”

  “Yeah. It’ll be okay.”

  Mira’s gaze flicked from Tristan to Blessing and back again. “All right.” She sighed and stepped outside, closing the door behind her. She’d listen, of course, and she wouldn’t have to strain much to hear anyway, thanks to the broken windows.

  “How dare you bring her here!”

  “I can do whatever the hell I want. Besides, I knew you were up to something.”

  “Is this what you call your duty, spying on your own kind? You cannot pretend to be like her. Like any of them. You’re not, and you never will be. Who are you? I do not even recognize you anymore.”

  “Don’t lecture me when you’ve lied to me for three years!”

  “Lied to you? About what?”

  Tristan cocked her head toward the bedroom. “That shit! You’ve been studying black magic at least since we met.”

  An almost imperceptible smirk of superiority infested Blessing’s smile. It was the worst exploitation of her power, the kind done not in service to humans, but in spite of them. “You knew I was adept at magic. Has it ever been a secret? But I never lied. You simply did not ask.”

  “Whatever happened to that housekeeper, I know you meant to hurt Mira.”

  “I have been called toward a different path, Tristan. One celebrating my power instead of restraining it. You will do well to reconsider your own journey, in more ways than one.”

  “What did you see that night when you followed the wolf?”

  “Something wonderful. Something that led me to truth. Everything up to now has been a lie. Everything you believe and say is meaningless.”

  “I’m going to ask again: what did you see?”

  Her glassy eyes reflected nothing. She had been the picture of innocence once, a child who suffered an all-too-common fate in her part of the world. Now Tristan recognized the malice one might mistake for hunger or even apathy borne of years of abuse, which gleamed in her eyes.

  “Her name is Anasztaizia. You would only see her as a demon, because you are enslaved. But I know the truth. She’s an angel, and she was sent here to free this world of its despair.”

  Tristan rubbed her arms. The temperature had plummeted. “Blessing…this is your test. Isn’t it obvious? You know what white wolves are.”

  “I do now.” She glowered at Tristan with an intensity that truly could have killed. “You may go. And be thankful for my mercy.”

  “Your mercy? You fucking bitch…” Tristan counted slowly to ten and released her fingers, which had formed a fist with every intention of rearranging Blessing’s face. The scar no longer aroused her pity. She felt nothing for this girl, this…thing. Blessing was no Hunter. “Fine. But watch your step. And don’t let me catch you anywhere near Mira.”

  “You don’t frighten me,” Blessing called after her even as she shut the door. “Nothing does anymore.”

  Tristan wished she could say the same.

  ~

  Tristan and Mira said little on the way home. Now and then, Mira tossed a distraught glance her way. It wasn’t a conversation to have on public transportation. Anyone might be listening. She didn’t need to get locked up in the loony bin. Or kidnapped by some secret government project. A healthy dose of paranoia helped Hunters through more nights than knives or magic ever did.

  Mira unlocked the door. “Lauren?” she called out, jingling the keys in her hand. No response. She twirled the key ring around her finger once more, and this time they tumbled onto the carpet, right beside the couch.

  Shit.

  It’s dark under there. She won’t even notice. She doesn’t have your eyesight.

  “I got ’em,” Tristan said, but Mira was already on her hands and knees.

  “Hey…what’s this?” She reached under the couch and groped around. Tristan’s pulse galloped. She could do nothing.

  Mira pulled out the knife and immediately dropped it on the floor as if it burned. “What the fuck?” She turned her face up to Tristan. “Do you know where this came from?”

  Her throat clogged by her own heartbeat, Tristan forced out the words, “Yes. It’s…mine.”

  “You’re keeping weapons in the house? No. I’m not having it.”

  “It’s part of what I have to explain to you. Let’s go to your room. If Lauren comes home, I don’t want her to hear it.”

  “You better tell me everything.” Mira’s lips trembled. Tristan, unable to stand the heartache engraved in Mira’s expression, averted her eyes and led her down the hall.

  ~

  “God, this all sounds so stupid. Why does it even matter, eh?”

  “Because I want to know who I loved.”

  Tristan tried to force down the lump in her throat, but it wouldn’t budge. That word, finally, but already past tense. “I…I’m a Hunter.”

  “Which is…?”

  “A woman born after her mother was…raped. By a demon. But it gets worse. We have to drink blood to survive.”

  Nothing registered in Mira’s gray eyes. She didn’t even blink. She’d seen too much to doubt her anymore, which was perhaps the only relief Tristan could take from the conversation.

  “We maintain the balance between good and evil. This is the year Blessing is tested to prove her worth. And she’s failing. It’s my fault
. I have to do something about it.”

  A calm veneer shrouded Mira’s face, as if Tristan had merely related what she’d eaten for breakfast. Practiced, maybe, in anticipation of something like this. “So…what happens if you die?”

  A Hello Kitty wall clock, incongruous given the gravity of the situation, ticked away seconds, minutes. An uneasy silence shrouded the room. Long shafts of late afternoon sunlight, like gold ingots, fell across Mira through the blinds.

  “I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.” Mira crinkled her nose. Stretched out on the bed, she propped herself up on her elbows. “Tristan, you know how this sounds. People hear you talking like that, you’ll end up with a nice hug from a straitjacket. You’re lucky I don’t call Fairmount myself.”

  Tristan winced. “I wouldn’t believe it, either. But I’m not crazy, Mira. Although the two people who could vouch for me are dead, and the third really is crazy.”

  “Prove it.”

  “Prove what—my sanity?”

  “No.” Mira cracked open the door just a sliver, peered into the hallway and, once satisfied Lauren had not come home, closed it again. “Prove that you do what you say you do.”

  “You want me to kill someone?”

  She let out a loud, exasperated sigh as if dealing with a particularly stupid child. Tristan hoped, for the sake of those potential children, Mira did not take up teaching after all. “No, Tristan. I want you to drink blood. In front of me. It makes a normal person sick, so if you need it like you say you do, you should have no problem with it, right?”

  “It probably sounds cool and romantic in the books you read, but—”

  “You’re asking me to accept an awful lot based on nothing more than your words. You want me to be okay with the fact you’ve kept all this, whatever this is, from me. That’s not good enough. So…let’s find you some blood.”

  “Again, that usually involves killing someone. But…” Tristan inhaled deeply through her nose and caught a strong scent of iron. Life essence, worshipped by countless cultures through the ages. Not her own, sadly, who considered anything below the waist unclean. “You’re having your period.”