“Thank God it’s Friday!”
I wish that was true. More accurate to say, “At least I made it through Thursday.”
Let’s take stock of the situation:
I went a little off the rails yesterday—understandable, but not sustainable.
I’m trying to lie low.
I need to sleep off a fanging hangover.
Heh, heh... a fang-over.
Focus!
Not trying to get murdered by a pissed-off watchdog from my past.
Also important.
The atmosphere in this apartment is... complicated.
Layla’s a good girl. At least I think she is.
But then, what would I know about that?
I can’t make sense of the jambalaya in the room. I basically hid from the girl all day yesterday. The wintergreen flavor that followed her around—as she followed me around—masked almost everything else.
Normally, I’d drink up that gratitude all day long, but I can’t sense Lupa coming if she howled at the top of her lungs and marked the whole hallway.
Plus, it’s not just the mint. The reflections that ambush me when I accidentally meet Layla’s gaze are—how do the kids say?—cringe?
The apartment is small but it’s not that small. She doesn’t have to brush past my arm as I pace from one window to the other, on the lookout for that steel-grey, furred silhouette.
Does she?
Pretty sure she doesn’t. She stops all that and keeps to herself when Tammy comes home.
I don’t remember fifteen, but I’m pretty sure that’s technically still a kid. I’ve got enough karma hunting me right now. Keep your reflections and your touchy-feely to yourself, missy.
Now it’s Friday morning. Tammy’s gone to work again, and I’m caught between Huff-n-Puff outside and Double-Trouble inside.
Again. I’m never eating Tex-Mex or chewing gum ever again.
I’m flexing my fingers into fists and releasing them over and over again. My feet trace the same ten feet between windows, my nerves wishing I had even a gas station coffee, in a cheap styrofoam cup.
A voice, not a flavor, snaps my head around.
“Thank you,” she says. Simple and vulnerable, like a mint gummy.
Uh, what? Please, do not be throwing real, genuine feels at me right now.
I’m looking at everything but her eyes. If I was jumping at shadows before, now I’m trying to merge with them.
But of course, she can’t leave it there.
“Rivera was a monster. I’m not even sure he was my dad. My mom died when I was young. I don’t know what you did to him, but thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, kid. I didn’t do anything, and it didn’t have anything to do with you.” I’m only half listening to Layla.
I see Tammy, on street level, walk around the corner of Prospect Street. It’s later than I would have thought. The sky is already purple going to black.
As I watch, a wiry figure in a short skirt and a long, black jacket approaches her. They exchange handshakes, and Tammy waves them across the street to a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop. Both disappear inside.
What are you doing, woman? Stop hanging out with strangers and get up here!
“I saw something when you grabbed Rivera. Your eyes looked weird, like little movies of the things he did to us.” The minty gratitude is still there but it’s colder now, like chewing on ice cubes. Some spice too, not like the were-dog’s burn, but detectable.
I flinch before I can lock down.
She saw that? She’s not repulsed?
She’s...
Thankful, scared, and a bit angry. That’s it?
I don’t need this distraction. The wolf is out there somewhere, and it’s getting dark. No way she just gave up.
“You should be more scared and angry!” I’m not using reflections on her. There might still be a chance to convince her that she imagined it.
Damage control!
“Gratitude will get you hurt!” I’m a little proud of my scary voice right there.
It must have hit right. Her mouth hangs open. The mint, the ice, the jalapeno... it all goes in a blender.
“You can tell what I’m feeling?” She taps her platinum bangs. “In my head?”
It’s making me dizzy. Fifteen or not, I’m about to send the fangs in to make it stop. Just to drain off the excess.
My fingers dig into Layla’s shoulders and...
A steel curtain slams down. Somebody cut the cord on the blender. The blades might still be spinning, but it’s dead silent.
She went null again!
Uh.
Hmm.
Well.
The quiet, the calm, the flavorlessness... is glorious. And disorienting.
Thankfully, there’s a couch under me when I go down. Layla plops down next to me, leans her back against my shoulder, feet up.
“Didn’t know I could do that, did ya?” A smile is in her voice. I’m looking at the floor.
“It’s a trick I learned with Rivera. He would still—you know. But it wasn’t as fun for him.” She shrugs. “It felt easier that way.”
Why is my face leaking? The fangs have never done that before...
Her head drops back, lands on my chest, looking up at me. My eyes snap shut. She’s too close.
“Aww, I didn’t mean to make Mr. Scary Voice cry.’
Of course, that would be the exact moment that the door knob rattles... turns... opens.
Tammy walks in, wiry stranger in tow.
“The fu—!”
That’s Tammy.
“MONSTER!”
And that’s Lupa, short skirt, long jacket. Full-on blazing habanero pepper spray.
You could be the purest creature on God’s little blue jewel, your face is going to look like mine. Feline with canary feathers between the teeth.
A gentle shove, and Layla hits the floor.
Why bother with explanations? Fangs out.
I find out immediately that Lupa, on two feet, is just as dangerous as her four-paw persona. Her black jacket hangs in the air like an abandoned shadow. It hits the ground at the same time she hits me. Red-painted nails claw for my face. The other shoulder slams into my gut.
Oof! That would have hurt more if I needed to breathe.
We both go down, tangled up together. I’m trying to protect my eyes and lock reflections with her at the same time.
She smells musky up close, not at all like wet dog.
So not important! Get your head in the game.
I have the fingers of both hands twisted up in dark hair, desperate to bring her eyes to mine.
The reflections have to give me something—anything. I can’t match her physically!
A lamp smashes, somebody screams. Tammy? Layla? Me?
Lupa’s clawing at my chest, ripping through shirt and skin. There’s blood, normal metallic scent mingling with sweat, hers and mine.
Lupa’s teeth find my shoulder. Now I’m sure it’s me screaming. I have to let let go of her hair and push against her chest, fighting for space. Buttons fly off the silky blouse like popcorn.
I don’t usually hit women. Hell, I don’t hit anyone. I’m not a fighter.
She’s trying to seriously injure me. Maybe kill me.
I’m not sure I can actually die that way.
Not taking chances.
My fist connects with her left ear, once—twice. Her jaw releases and I push hard.
Her head hits the glass coffee table. It stuns her as it shatters.
Scrambling backward on all fours, my shirt in tatters, I try to weigh options for damage control.
Tammy is edging around the room towards Layla. A string of curses flows from her lips.
Layla is still getting up from where I dumped her off the couch, shards of glass showering out of her hair. Her null is fragmented; concern etched on her features.
There are so many emotions, I can’t separate them. The mashed potatoes and gravy have spread into the green beans.
I look to the still open door.
I could run.
A hair-raising howl yanks me back to the room. Lupa’s shaking off the blackout and trying to come at me. Her burning hatred cuts through the haze. My eyes water from the spice.
Layla jumps her from behind, trying to hold her back.
She’s like 110 pounds! She’s not a fighter either. What is she doing?
The wolf woman stands and shifts her shoulders. The girl flies off, Lupa’s buttonless shirt clutched in her hands.
“The bastard has already defiled you, hasn’t he?” She has one bloodstained hand pinning Layla to the couch, by the throat. “He can make it feel like loyalty. It’s a lie! Don’t make me finish you, too!”
No more running. I didn’t intentionally save the girl from Rivera. But I didn’t take advantage of her either. I am not the monster here.
“LUPA!”
My fangs hover halfway across the distance between us. The yell gets her attention. Her head turns. I finally lock on some reflections.
Everything she imagines I did to Layla assaults my eyes. My stomach heaves, coats my tongue in bile.
Nothing I say or do here is going to mean a thing to her.
The fangs strike home. I reflect back everything she imagines, doubled. A high pitched whine trembles from both our throats. Pushing that poison back on her is corroding—rancid.
She drinks in the fangs that feed her prejudice. They go as deep as they ever did with the old man or Rivera, then break through and go deeper. She’s been carrying this hate around for a lot of years.
My body moves physically closer as the fangs drill down. Naked chest to naked chest, our bodies vibrate with the frequency of the shared whine.
I can feel Lupa slipping into darkness.
I’m slipping with her.
Goodbye, monster!
A slender pair of arms go around my shoulders. Layla’s forehead against my neck—her null wrapping me in cool oblivion.
Everything goes black.