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That race of nosy, upright orangutans was a complication waiting to happen, and the last thing anyone needed was widespread confirmation that Dracula wasn’t a product of fiction, and the walking dead weren’t just a TV show that didn’t suck.
As a bonded male, his female was the beating heart in his chest, and in the absence of his Wellsie, he was a ghost of who he had once been, form without substance.
“I got a gun,” the lesser yelled. “So take it out.” “My friends are coming for me!” “You don’t have any friends.”
In his descent, he let himself enjoy the idea that this was it, that the impact coming in a second and a half was going to be the end of his suffering. All he had to do was reposition his trajectory so he was in a dive, then not protect his head and let the inevitable happen:
Except killing the slayer wasn’t the point. Desecration was.
With her symphath senses, the three-dimensional structure of sadness and loss and shame was as real as any building you could drive by, look around, or walk through. Unfortunately, in this case, there was no fixing the damage to the supports, or the hole in the roof, or the fact that the electric system wasn’t operational anymore: As much as she experienced a person’s emotions as if they were a private home, there were no subcontracting workers to come in and repair what was wrong, no plumbers or electricians or painters for this shit. The homeowner had to perform their own improvements on
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“You sense but a portion of what I feel for you. Or perhaps you do not wish to acknowledge, for your own reasons, that I might wish to care for you.” In spite of the fact that the female was strung with weapons, she abruptly seemed vulnerable. “In your gruff self-protection, do not cut off avenues for us,”
“Why in God’s name would you want to do that?” The truth was as simple as four words, as complex as an entire language. “You are my daughter.”
As John’s hard stare met his own, Tohr had the sense, as always, that they had been in these situations together far, far longer than just the past few months.
If you allow yourself to rely on externals, they become weapons over you.
I don’t need you looking over my shoulder because I’m a female.” I would have done the same for one of the Brothers. Well, mostly he would have. So don’t push that feminist bullshit on me— “Feminist bullshit?!” You’re the one making it about your sex, not me.
I’ll tell you all you need to know about me. I’m an angel first and a sinner second, and I’m not here for long. I’ll never hurt you, but I’m prepared to make you pretty goddamn uncomfortable if I have to, to get my job done. I like sunsets and long walks on the beach, but my perfect female no longer exists. Oh, and my favorite hobby is annoying the shit out of people. Guess I’m just bred to want to get a rise out of folks—probably the whole resurrection thing.”
but this was John. This was… the son he’d once hoped to have.
Females, after all, were not just the fairer sex, but the fairly reasonable one. Which was the only reason the race had survived this long.
“Fine. Unless you agree to home it, we will rock the dance moves.” To prove the point, the moron linked his palms behind his head and started doing something obscene with his hips. Which was backed up by a series of, “Uh-huh, uh-huh, ohhhh, yeeeeeeeaaaah, who’s your daddy…”
Life’s meant to be lived blind—that’s how you don’t take shit for granted.
proof positive that when it came to the Scribe Virgin and the granting of mercies, anything was possible.
His Wellsie had been a female of worth, just like these other three—why hadn’t she been spared. Why the fuck wasn’t he like those other males, looking forward to the rest of his years. Why hadn’t he and his shellan been granted mercy when they needed it most.…
“Tragedy, like love, makes people blind,” he said, as if he could read her regrets.
“Hell is a place of many levels.
Closing his eyes, the room started to go on an easy little spin, as if his bed was right over a drain and everything was slowly funneling out.
Why couldn’t his memories bring her back? They felt strong enough, powerful enough, a summoning spell that should have had her magically reinflating the gown. Except she was alive only in his mind. Ever with him, always out of reach. That’s what death was, he realized. The great fictionalizer.
They had been yin and yang, and yet exactly the same: He’d been a sergeant with the Brotherhood, she’d been the general at home, and together, they’d had it all.… Maybe that was why it had happened, he thought. He’d had too much luck and so had she, and the Scribe Virgin had had to level that score.
Except, whatever. This… display… across the way? Not sure, not fine, not dandy. That kind of suffering was a canyon, a purgatory of its own for someone who had not died.
But, whatever, that was the beauty of representing reality instead of being in it: When you had the paintbrush in your hand, you were the god you wished ruled your life, capable of picking and choosing among fate’s catalog of wares and destiny’s deck of cards to your prolonged and sustained advantage.
Over at the closet, she opened the paneled doors, ditched her johnny, and changed into some scrubs—which, of course, were not her size, but male-sized. And wasn’t that a metaphor. As she struggled to dress with one hand, she cursed John, the Brotherhood, the role of shellans, females in general… and especially the shirt and pants, as she struggled to one-handedly roll up the bottoms that pooled around her feet.
“And if that bastard’s innocent,” Rhage spoke up, “I’m the fucking Easter bunny.” “Oh, good,” someone quipped. “I’m calling you Hop-along Hollywood from now on.” “Beasty Bo Peep,” somebody else threw out. “We could put you in a Cadbury ad and finally make some money—” “People,” Rhage barked, “the point is that he is not innocent and I’m not the Easter bunny—” “Where’s your basket?” “Can I play with your eggs?” “Hop it out, big guy—”
When he went to follow her, she pegged him with a hard eye. “If you’re coming after me for any other reason than to let me go after Xcor, you need to stop right where you are. Because you belong with this anachronistic group of misogynists. Not at my side.” Lifting his hands, he signed, It is not wrong to want to keep you safe. “This is not about safety—it’s about control.”
It was wrong. Disrespectful. Old-fashioned in a way that he never thought he could be. He didn’t think females should be sequestered, and he believed in his mate, and he wanted her… To be safe. Period.
Wasn’t that always the way, John thought as they parted. Almost as if it had been centuries of their knowing each other, instead of merely a matter of years. Then again he guessed that was what happened when you crossed paths with someone you were really compatible with. Felt like you’d been with them forever.
her manual labor the only thing that calmed her and imparted structure to her existence. How she had missed having a purpose.
she recalled her previous, younger self, the haughty daughter of a bloodline of means who had refused to cut up her own meat, or brush her own hair, or dress herself. What a waste. At least now that she was no one and had nothing, she was clear on how to pass the hours meaningfully: work. Work was the key.
The disrespect in that deep voice made her want to shrink away, but his unfairness gave her a backbone.
Whether you choose to believe me or prefer a delusion, that is not my doing—or my concern.”
“You’re pretty goddamn sure of something you don’t know shit about.”
“Are you willing to bet her eternity on your anger? Are you really that arrogant?”
Sex, like taking blood, was an inconvenient biological function, and he was far too smart to ever fall for that romance bullshit. If one was determined to go that route, castration was easier, less painful, and just as permanent.
Anger animated her, driving her forward toward… nothing and nobody. And yet nonetheless she surged on.
her numbness had melted away, revealing a fire of rage. There had been nothing to lash out at except for herself, however—and she had done that for decades. At least until she had come to realize the “why” of her fate, the purpose behind her tragedy, the cause of her salvation. She had been given a second chance so that she could be born anew into a role of service and humility, and learn the error of her previous ways.
And though her anger was an easy emotion to feel in the face of his unjust accusation, understanding and compassion were the harder, more valuable stances to take…
It was the very best that life had to offer anyone: a person to love and be loved by, with whom you carved meaning in the oak trunk of time’s perennial passing.
understand why you are in a foul way and quick to temper. It is in the nature of a wounded animal to strike out at even a friendly hand.”
Not exactly an opening for conversation. But it was time to clear the air between them, and as with the debridement of a festering wound, one could expect it to hurt. The infection must be wrestled from the flesh, however.
can’t believe you’re asking me this shit, and I can’t believe I’m answering.” She shrugged. “It is because you were cruel to me at the pool. You feel guilty, and I feel like you owe me something. The latter makes me bold and the former loosens your lips.”
“I am so sorry.” When he seemed a bit surprised, she shrugged once again. “How can I not offer condolences in the face of your loss? In truth, after seeing you both together, I don’t think I shall ever forget how much you loved her.”
she squared her shoulders, he thought that anyone who believed this female was weak had another think coming. “This face”—she motioned around her perfectly angled jaw and her rosy, high cheeks—“is not who I am. If people see it, they treat me with a deference that is inappropriate. Even the Chosen did so. I cover it up because if I don’t, then I am propagating a lie, and even if it grinds upon only me, that is enough.”
“You are all alone,” she said in a small voice. “I have my brothers.” “Do you let them in.”
I know they respect me, but they respect a mated male’s prerogative over his shellan more.
Text me when you want to see me again, he signed. I’m giving you your space, but know this: I will wait forever for you.
The temple of books was long and thin and tall, built rather on the dimensions of a folio standing on its end. All around, leather-bound volumes, filled with the careful strokes of generations of the Chosen, were set in white marble cases in chronological order, the stories therein nonfictional accounts of lives lived far down below, and witnessed upon water’s transparent screen.
