by Alex Gates
Dakota adjusted her rearview mirror and glanced at me. “You look like shit, you know that?”
I nodded, holding my breath for fear of catching a disease growing in the vehicle. My living habits looked damn immaculate compared to this. “This is a different vehicle than the one we drove in the other night.”
“That was my undercover car,” she said. “This is my personal one. My baby.”
I inhaled, and a strand of hair found its way into my mouth. I struggled to pinch it and pull it off my tongue, trying not to gag throughout the process.
“All right,” Dakota said, turning over a sputtering engine, “before we take care of my errands, we need to take care of you. The descriptive information that law enforcement agencies have on you pretty much creates the picture of a homeless person. Dirty, long hair, beard, bad breath—”
“Wait,” I said, still feeling the strand of hair stuck to my tongue. I fought against a gag. “Don’t be making shit up. I damn well brush my teeth every other day. So, let’s not throw bad breath into the mix.”
Dakota smirked, cranking the car into drive and pulling into the street. “If we clean you up a little, we can at least avoid having a deputy spot you through casual observation.”
I pinched the stray hair from my tongue and pulled it from my mouth, feeling it slide over my lips. It was long and blonde and didn’t to me. Unable to control it, I coughed and gagged.
Dakota glanced at me. “You okay? You’re quieter than usual. I thought you’d for sure say something about the mess.”
Wiping the hair onto the seat, I looked out the passenger window and tried not to vomit. “What do you mean, clean me up?”
“Haircut, then we’ll run by a store and grab you an outfit that actually…” she looked me over and scowled, “works.”
I looked down at the clothes Xander had left out for me to wear. “What’s wrong with this outfit? Yeah, it might be a little baggy, but that’s to hide all my guns. It also makes for a nice surprise when I take a lady home. It’s like, ‘What’s really under those clothes? Is he fat, skinny, buff?’ It’s a fun game, and the women love it.”
“I’m going to ignore the last part of what you just said and answer your initial question. There’s a lot wrong with that outfit. First, you look like a little boy trying to wear daddy’s clothes.”
“Like I said, part of the surprise. Women love little boys with daddy issues.”
“Xander is what, fifty pounds heavier than you and a few inches taller? You’re swimming in those jeans. You’re either reverting back to your adolescence and revisiting the baggy, faux-gangster style, or you don’t own clothes and you’re wearing whatever you can get. And don’t even say it. Women don’t like either one of those looks.” She turned left without using a blinker, like a demon’s spawn.
Damnit. Too soon. Considering my shadow magic, I might be demon spawn.
“Thanks for bursting that bubble,” I said. “The stuff about Xander being way better than me hurt the most. At least I have hair.” The mention of the word hair reminded me of that loose strand that had wound up in my mouth. I nearly gagged again.
Dakota tilted her head and pouted. “I kind of think bald men are cute—when done correctly, I mean.” She looked over and winked. “And he’s doing it correctly. Muscular. Well-styled. Trimmed beard. Color me interested.”
I bared my teeth and curled my lips as my ribs seemed to squeeze too tight into my body. “Serious? Him? I mean, yeah, sure, he more resembles a superhero from an animated show than a real living human. And he has a stable job and a lot of money, and even gives some of that money to charity. But still, he’s Xander. Have you met him? He can’t hear the word ‘sex’ without turning tomato-red, let alone think about it premaritally. Any conversation with him is a practice in torture, as you have to suffer through meaningful topics like feelings and beliefs and values. And if you want to be with him, well, don’t even think about paying for a meal or having a career. He’s as Old Testament as they come. That man provides, and the woman does whatever women are supposed to do.”
“You’re right. Having a man care more about me and my emotions than sex sounds terrible.”
I moment of tense silence passed. It was weird feeling a little angry at Xander for doing nothing wrong other than being abnormally beautiful, and then hearing Dakota affirm that. I don’t want to say I was jealous, per se, but when it really came down to labelling my emotion, I was downright jealous. “You really like him?” I asked, wiping my suddenly sweaty palms on Xander’s baggy jeans.
“Why do you care?” she asked, stopping for a red light.
“I don’t,” I said. “You can like whoever you want to. I’m just curious, because I can set you two up.” I was all dry-mouthed and hot, and it felt like something was pulling out my guts. It’s not like I had a crush on Dakota. Yeah, I hear what you’re saying. She was smoking hot and super awesome, but that didn’t mean I wanted to ask her out to—
“After your haircut, we should grab lunch. What do you think?”
My muscles went a little weak at that proposition. “I, uh, don’t have any money. Like, at all. Not for a haircut or a new outfit or food.”
She smirked. “Well, I approached you at the bar the other night. Bought you a drink or two. It only seems right that I would buy your meal on our first date. I am, as Xander would say, the traditional male in this relationship.”
Did she just say date? Relationship? I had to act normal. But the inside of my throat itched like crazy. Was that a normal sensation? Could I just shove my hand into my mouth and hit the sweet spot in my esophagus? That ridiculous image made me think about my hands. They were just sitting in my lap, folded over my crotch. Was that weird, resting my hands there like I was hiding something? What was I supposed to do with them—where the hell did they go? When was the last time I’d spoken? Had we fallen into awkward silence again? Had I made this weird?
“Joey,” she said, chuckling, “I’m kidding. I’m hungry. I thought you might be, too. It’s not a date. And if you think you need to pay me back, we can add it to your tab.” Turning down a side street—sans blinker—Dakota pulled to the side and parked at the curb. “But first, you’re getting a haircut. Even if I have to pay for it. You look like an out-for-the-count Chia Pet.”
About an hour later, we sat in Dakota’s poster car for Hoarder’s Monthly and finished our lunch. I had a burger and fries, along with a water. You read that right. Water. My head still thrummed with a slight pain, and I chalked it up to dehydration and hangover. Dakota, on the other hand, had a double-patty cheeseburger with a large fry and—get this—an extra large coffee-flavored milkshake with whipped cream.
“You’re already looking better,” she said, wiping a dollop of ketchup off her lip with her tongue.
My stomach flurried. “Is ‘better’ code for sexy?”
Dakota slurped the milkshake through a paper straw and shook her head. “Nope.” She shoved a handful of fries into her mouth and said, “‘Better’ is code for you no longer fit the mangy description SSD and SPD currently have on Joseph Hunter. And remember, our sexy standard is Xander, not… this.” She gestured in my general direction with a wave of her hand.
I glanced in the side mirror to check my reflection. The barber had faded my sides, keeping the top of my hair a little longer for styling freedom—whatever in Hades that meant. He had also trimmed and cleaned my beard. Dakota had told him not to shave it completely off, as I might look like a thirty-year-old child. And she thought I should at least look a little like a man. We then went to a clothing store, where she picked me out a pair of jeans, a black T-shirt, and a hooded jacket, all of which actually fit me.
“I don’t know,” I said, admiring my reflection. “I haven’t looked this good since—” Callie is what I meant to say, but didn’t. I bit into my burger and mumbled nonsense with a mouthful of food.
“What?”
“Since my last haircut,” I said, thinking fast. I frowned, disa
ppointed in my stupid brain.
“Well, I don’t doubt that,” she said. As she reached for some more fries, her phone rang. Glancing at the caller ID, she silenced the call, allowing it to go to voicemail. “So, to my understanding, Nephil from the Underworld can’t offer pacts to humans. So, how did Hecate imbue Medea with power?”
I shrugged. “Illegally, I guess. That’s the thing about those criminal types, they don’t really care about rules and laws. You being a police officer wouldn’t really understand that concept.”
“How does she imbue Medea with magic? That’s what doesn’t make any sense to me. Hecate comes to this world and… what? Just randomly finds someone to make a pact with?” She took another monster bite from her burger, squeezing the juices straight from the meat. They dribbled down her chin. It was quite the show. I couldn’t tell if I was disgusted or turned on. Or both.
“I’m not exactly sure,” I said after a second of drooling. “According to your boyfriend, Xander the Incredible, Hecate can travel between worlds. Not just teleport, but travel between worlds. Medea probably had innate magical abilities that presented themselves at some point in her life and was recruited to a university. But she probably didn’t receive a pact. Bummed about rejection and her inadequacies, she sought out a Nephil like Hecate. Most of the time, when something like that happens, the Nephil will curse the seeker, granting them certain powers—immunity to natural death, strength, enthrallment—but those perks always come with murderous side effects. For example, werewolves are fast and strong and mostly immune to regular damage, but they’re bloodthirsty and without a conscience when shifted.”
“I understand that,” Dakota said, licking her fingers and reaching for her milkshake again, “but why could Medea use magic? If she was an Empousa, why couldn’t any of the others use magic? I mean, have you ever seen a Cursed tap into a power source like that?”
I thought back to that night. Medea had shifted into a Cursed Empousa and had not only used magic, but a powerful summoning magic that brought forth the Anemoi—elemental storm spirits. I couldn’t recall a single Acolyte or Sorcerer with enough juice to pull that off, yet she had—as a Cursed, in her Raven form.
I didn’t know the answer to Dakota’s question. Xander probably didn’t even know how Medea had used that magic. Scratching my chin, I said, “Only Hecate could answer that. Most curses negate any innate magical abilities. I’ve never seen a Cursed use magic—only Acolytes, Sorcerers, or Druids. Then again, I’ve never seen any of those types use such powerful magic. We have to go back to the source, right? Hecate offered her an Underworld pact, which is against Nephilim Law. If Hecate broke that rule, why not break a rule that prevents a Cursed from using magic?” I drank some water. “Why do you care so much?”
“I don’t know. I was thinking about my dad and that night, and that led me to you and the question that since Hephaestus stole your magic, do you even have the ability to find my father and detain him, now? Then I was thinking about Medea. You beat her without your magic, but she had hers. How did you do it?”
I wiped my nose and shrugged. “Since I still looked—in the words of Dakota Clark—like a ‘bum’ that night, it obviously wasn’t my good looks.” I glanced in the side mirror again. “You know who I look like after my makeover? That 50 Shades of Gray dude. And you’re still unimpressed.”
“I’m a hard girl to impress.” She shoved her empty fry box and milkshake cup into her bag, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into the back seat. “Like I said, I’m familiar with magic. I understand that certain humans are still born with it, even though it’s fallen latent as the world has progressed, and our need for it has diminished.”
“Like the tailbone,” I said, remembering one of my university professors comparing our current lack of magical ability to some of the traits humans have evolved away from due to obsolescence.
“Sure,” Dakota said. “Like the tailbone. Well, people like you—”
“That’s demeaning,” I said, shaking my head in disappointment. “‘People like me?’”
“People who have shown a propensity to use magic are tracked by Nephil universities and recruited, right?” Without waiting for my response, she continued. “While attending, they are trained on how to awaken and control their innate abilities, and from there, only a few are awarded with pacts and allowed into a deeper pool of Nephil power.”
“Thank you for reiterating that for me. I feel so enlightened now. Tell me, what’s it like for a man to piss standing up? I’m just curious, because that’s something else I’m well-acquainted with, but I’m looking for the expertise of someone who’s not.”
“Occasionally,” Dakota said, ignoring me, “innate magic users fall through the cracks of the universities’ seekers and the recruitment process. They’re known as Sorcerers, right? People who can use more powerful magic without a pact from a Nephil.”
“Yup,” I said, resting my face on my palm and staring out the window at the sunny afternoon.
“Okay, hear me out here, because I came up with this theory all on my own and I’m proud of it. Well, that’s a lie. I had a little—but it was mostly my own.” She waved away her rambling with a quick hand gesture. “Most innate magic users finish their stint at a Nephil university without a pact because their abilities aren’t that special, so they use their new knowledge and practiced power to further enhance their lives. They become doctors who can detect disease because they have an affinity to healing, or they turn to crime because they have an innate ability to blend into their surroundings or influence the behaviors of others—or maybe those are lawyers. Either way, do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I think so,” I said. “People who don’t receive a pact after their time at a university are technically Sorcerers, using their innate magic without a pact?”
“Exactly.”
“Without that well of power that a pact provides,” I said, adding onto whatever point she was trying to make, “those new Sorcerers dive into their own life energy. If they draw too much power trying to show off to friends or impress a date or get ahead in their careers—well, they can kill themselves from overexertion.”
“Sure,” Dakota said, reaching across the car and snagging one of my fries. “Then you have those kids who actually receive pacts—like you did. Say you hadn’t attended a university. How much innate power would you have had?”
I bit my tongue and thought about that for really the first time ever. I honestly didn’t know. Militus University had opened up my natural well of power, and Hephaestus had only allowed me to dive into his limitless pool. But I’d never tested my strength until recently. “I don’t know,” I said, thinking about how I’d killed Medea without really knowing how to use my new abilities. Even with my old ones—which I had down to a science at my peak—Medea would have proven a difficult fight.
“Well, it doesn’t matter.” Her phone rang again, interrupting her, but she ignored it again.
“You’re not going to answer that?” I asked.
“It’s my day off. Why would I take a call from work?”
“What if it’s a homicide and they need you at the scene?”
“There’s like fifteen other detectives they can call right now. We have bigger fish to fry today.”
I cocked my head. “Like sitting in your Prius, eating cheeseburgers, and talking about shit I already know?”
Dakota smirked. “You ready for this? The Nephil aren’t offering pacts to provide power to humans. They’re using their pacts to limit natural abilities.” She exhaled, exhausted and proud of her hypothesis.
I bit my lip, again thinking of my shadow magic.
“There, I said it. That’s my theory. Imagine if a Sorcerer went to a university and learned how to access their innate power and use it without the threat of killing themselves, of getting addicted, or going insane? You don’t think they could eventually work that power like a muscle, growing into something that could harm a Nephil? See, I think the
Nephil created the universities to protect themselves—and collect a few servants in the process. But as long as they hand out pacts, they can’t be threatened by their own power.”
I recalled fighting Hephaestus in his shop. I hadn’t even burned a hair off his knuckle. But manipulating the darkness around me with my untrained powers, I’d somehow fought and killed Medea, a powerful Empousa who had lived for centuries. What if Dakota was right? What if a Sorcerer’s innate power could not only threaten, but harm or kill a Nephil? What if that’s why the Nephil hunted down Sorcerers, why they created universities to filter out the weak and offer pacts to the strong? What if they were just protecting their own asses?
“To circle this all the way around,” Dakota said, “you killed Medea. A Cursed who had power granted by a Nephil. However you did it, you tapped into the dormant power that lives within you. Joey, you activated something that—in my opinion—could kill a Nephil.”
I swallowed, considering the implications of that statement. “Xander does this thing sometimes,” I said, “where he’ll talk a lot, thinking he’s being clever by setting up a big reveal. It’s quite annoying. You’re falling into that same habit—which really hampers your charm level.”
“You think I’m charming?”
“I never said charming. I said it lowers your charm level. You could be a two out of ten, and this conversation drops you to one. That’s still lowering a charm level, but it doesn’t mean charming.”
“Okay. Grade me then. What charm level am I? Out of ten—obviously.” She burped, smirking at me.
Though my heart still weighed like solid lead in my chest from witnessing Mel’s murder and knowing now that I could have saved her, I found that Dakota’s company eased my pain just a little. She was definitely a fifteen on a scale of ten. “I don’t know. Maybe a six.”
