Authors: Jarod Davis
They paid and left and no one said anything on the way back to The Verge.
Timothy stood in the hall, right outside his door. He had his key out with every intention of being a good guy and going back inside. It was cold and standing there made him look like an idiot, but then he heard their voices carry. He didn’t need a superhero’s senses to hear them down there. It sounded like they would break up because intimacy might have actually been necessary for a relationship to work.
“Please, just tell me the truth,” she pleaded. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I just don’t like talking about myself.”
“Why not?”
“No reason.”
“C’mon. Please.” Timothy couldn’t tell if she was begging or demanding.
“No reason,” Terrance repeated like someone trapped against a wall or a pack of angry wolves. Remembering how Jenny’s voice simmered with anger, that accompanying shiver of fear, Timothy couldn’t figure out which would be worse, the pack or the girl. Jeremiah said something about that once, how sweet girls were even scarier when they grew their claws.
Jenny had her claws, “Why are we together?”
“I care about you.”
“Why am I with you?” There wasn’t any hostility there. “Why? I don’t know you.”
“Don’t we have fun? Don’t you feel something for me?” Timothy stopped, like he thought he heard something. He turned back and looked down at them. And he didn’t know what he saw. If he stared and squinted, everything on trying to understand the image in front of him, he still didn’t know what it meant. Lines of light, blurred and barely there, like just three or four pixels on a screen. White, yellow, blue and crimson, he thought they could’ve been a part of Jenny. He didn’t remember the hue of red. But then he blinked and it was gone, like it had been destroyed or absorbed.
Terrance glanced up and Timothy made a point of going back to the door of his apartment. But he could still hear them.
“Fun?” Jenny said with a shake of her head. “Sure, but there has to be something else.”
“You don’t feel that way.”
“I think I do.”
“You don’t feel that way,” he said. “You know me. You want to know me. You love me, the same way I love you.”
“I don’t think I do.” Jenny hesitated. “I don’t think I can.” Eager to distract himself, Timothy concentrated on her with his demon soul and saw a flare of blue and white. Trying to look invisible, he heard her say, “We’re done,” and that’s when Timothy disappeared behind his door.
Jeremiah was on the other side, reading something. “For class?” Timothy asked, unsure if he should tell his roommate the good news. A streak of guilt cut across his mind. Their breakup shouldn’t be good news. Jenny was probably hurt, maybe even crying; that could never be good, no matter what it meant for him.
“Never,” Jeremiah answered. “I learn what I choose.”
“Some would call you narrow minded.”
“That’s because I’m not narrow the way they want. Find me a class where I can study Paddington ambushes, critical analyses of curricula vitae, Kathy Kane, or Reina Del Cid. In the meantime, I’ll be a great student who never reads while I study whatever I feel like. Seriously dude, don’t you ever wonder about the connection between emotions and conscience?”
“No,” Timothy said. “I really don’t.”
“Get over your girl and it’ll be easier for you,” Jeremiah said.
“I’d rather not, thanks.”
“She’s just a female, one of about three billion. She can’t be that special. I mean, she’s not even very attractive.” Timothy spun on his friend; a flare of anger rushed through his fingers. Holding up his hands for peace, Jeremiah reminded him, “Dude, just looking at her from a detached perspective, she’s not that hot. Most guys wouldn’t go for her. She’s your average brown haired girl with brown eyes, nothing special.”
“It’s so much more than how she looks.”
“Three billion girls. Couldn’t you find one of them?”
“She’s different. Unique,” Timothy said.
“We’re all different. All completely different, yet pretty much the same.”
“You’re feeling cynical today.”
“And you’re sounding bipolar. What happened?”
Timothy dropped himself into one of their seats and asked, “You ever hide stuff from the women in your life?”
“Sometimes. I try to be vague.”
“Why?” Timothy asked.
“Usually because I know there are components of my personality they aren’t going to like. Few people can really appreciate the humor inherent in bukake.”
“Interesting.”
“Why?”
“Jenny’s boyfriend just lost her because he wouldn’t tell her anything about himself.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing but how much he cared about her.”
“Interesting,” Jeremiah said. “I’m surprised he didn’t know how to lie better. It’s not hard. Anyone who has a secret learns to lie pretty quickly. It’s like breathing, something we all know how to do.”
“What about people who feel guilty, the people who can’t do it very well?”
“Lack of practice,” Jeremiah explained. “That or there’s an emotional block. They’re told all their lives that secrets are bad even as they forget all of those stupid little conventions that necessitate keeping certain aspects of their lives to themselves. A good liar loses that distinction and recognizes that everything’s there, but we pick what we say. That’s why I’ll rule the world.”
“Sure.”
“Just wait. One day you’ll get to say you knew the Emperor of the World. But in the meantime,” Jeremiah set his book aside, “Have you gone after her yet?”
“Dude, they broke up like five minutes ago.”
“Is she attractive?”
“Yes.”
“Is she single?”
“I guess.”
“Then there’s some guy after her right now. Give her another twenty minutes, and she’ll be in a long term relationship.” Jeremiah spoke like an expert. He made it sound like there was no way he could ever be wrong.
“You’re not serious.”
“No,” Jeremiah said. “Not really, though my arguments stand. She attracted you, right? What makes you think you’re the only one to see her true beauty? Who admires the glimmers of her soul? Dude, if Terrance wanted her, other guys are going to be chasing her too.”
“She needs time. Right?”
“Time for what?”
“To get over him? Wouldn’t I just be a rebound?”
“Only if she’s healthy, but what are the chances of that?”
“Jerk,” Timothy mumbled again before going back to his bedroom.
When he picked up a textbook and started reading, Timothy wasn’t thinking about missing a lecture tonight. He wasn’t thinking about the connections between witchcraft and popular culture or anything else from Anthropology. He wasn’t even thinking about what Jeremiah said; Timothy thought about the fear that his roommate left, the little anxiety that itched at the bottom of his stomach. Timothy got up, paced his room, sat down, tried to read, turned on his stereo, and ignored the music. Every second and he wanted to move, wanted to see her again.
He could go see Jenny, ask how she was doing. Something felt wrong about that. He didn’t want to look like someone pouncing. She wasn’t a wounded gazelle. He got his laundry and went outside. Jeremiah laughed at him when he glanced up from his reading. Timothy ignored him. Down the stairs, through the cold of eleven at night, Timothy blinked when he saw the laundry lights were on.
Inside he noticed someone stuffing clothes into one of the machines. Jenny. Of course the universe put her there where he would find her. Timothy knew he should’ve been surprised, but this made sense. If she didn’t want to talk to someone, this was a good place at this hour. If she wanted something mindless to do with her hands, this was another good place to be.
“Hey.”
“Hi,” Jenny said and glanced up long enough to tuck a bang of hair behind her ear.
“How’d it go?”
“We broke up.”
Timothy couldn’t read her tone and didn’t know what to say. “How much do you need?”
“A lot,” Jenny said, looking up at him. “I want to know who he is. I want to know who my boyfriend is. It can’t just be him watching me, can it? Isn’t that kind of broken?”
“A little,” Timothy said, dropping his stuff next to her pile of clothes.
“But I feel different now that we’re not together. It’s strange, like I’m thinking differently. The world, it just feels different.” And she sounded hopeful.
“That’s happened to me before. I fell in love with this girl a long time ago, and then everything was about her. We broke up and then I saw that there were a lot more people out there.”
“I don’t know if that’s what I’m feeling.”
“You’re not very good at the whole feelings thing, are you?” Timothy had to ask. And it took a few seconds to realize those words could get him in a lot of trouble. Jeremiah would have enjoyed watching his roommate squirm. Timothy could win, but only when he was stuck in the friend zone. Defeat would follow right when she was free. That sounded like Jeremiah’s style of comedy.
But Jenny laughed a little, enough for her to glance down because she knew she should’ve been insulted, “No. Not really I guess. There was just something about him. Something different.”
“Are you sad?” Timothy asked.
“No,” she said. “More like refreshed.” She gathered the last of her clothes to head back outside. “It’s a shame though. My roommate really liked him.”
“I’m sure she’ll get over it.”
“Or date him.”
“Isn’t that against the rules?”
“What rules?”
“I don’t know,” Timothy shrugged. “The rules that say you’re not supposed to date your friend’s ex.”
“I don’t think I’d mind.” She got to the door. Timothy went back to doing his laundry and making sure he didn’t stare after her. Jenny was free and Timothy was free to ask her out. Half of his attention was somewhere else, starting to poke at the right words for that kind of question. But then he heard her ask, “Timothy?” half way out the door.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. Again, just thank you.” Then he was alone, trying to calculate the chance of just being a friend or becoming everything more.
Five
Laundry in hand, Timothy jogged for the stairs. The cold pushed him faster. His heart pounded a little harder and he couldn’t remember how it felt to be tired. This was his chance. She was free. He could ask her out and he had all of these plans, different thoughts about the best way to do it. Now he got to worry about flower shops, the cost of fine chocolates, and where he could take her.
Eyes on every step in front of him, he didn’t notice the shadow coalesce from darkness. Timothy didn’t hear someone take careful, unnoticed steps. But maybe rage dulled the need for strategy, because Timothy heard from behind him, “You really messed me up tonight.” Timothy stopped and turned around to see Terrance standing there, a knife in hand. It was long, sharp, and clean, everything he saw a couple days ago when Darkor tried to gut him.
“That knife?”
“A part of me,” Terrance said, “But you can’t have her. I don’t know how you did it, but you cannot, will not, take her from me. Her soul is mine.”
“But you’re different.” It was the same knife, the one Darkor created. This one was the exact same. Fused to his hand, the same as Darkor’s. In the same moment Timothy remembered Isis was a shape shifter.
“Are you serious?” Terrance came closer, his blade pointed at the ground. He watched Timothy like a predator who longed to hack and slash, to tear into Timothy and rip him apart. “You don’t know? You can’t see it?”
“You’re a demon. You’re Darkor,” Timothy said as he relaxed his sight. Then he could see it, and with Terrance striding for him ready for a fight, it was easier to see. Red sparks of demonic rage sizzled from his skin, a storm of power just beneath the body’s surface. Before, when Timothy saw him with Jenny, he thought those energies belonged to her. He couldn’t see it very well and never tried to explain the red. Now he saw it, swirls of simmering energy around his body, rings of strength and power.
“Clearly.”
“You’re a demon, and you want her soul.” Timothy summoned his shadows, really nervous for the first time because he had time to think about this. If he lost, Jenny would die.
They’d fought once already, and Terrance came so close to winning. Trying to remember what happened last time, Timothy searched through different strategies, different plans to give him a chance to survive the next few minutes.
No, Timothy realized, this was more than survival. He had to make sure Terrance didn’t win. Timothy didn’t matter, but Jenny did. If dying is what it took to keep her safe, Timothy knew he’d do it.
“Again, that should be obvious.”
“Who’s your leader?”
“I have no band. I’m too young.”
“How old are you?” Timothy asked. Time probably wouldn’t help, but he could hope it might give him a chance to learn something, maybe realize something that would give him a better chance of winning.
“Eight months.”
“Eight months?” Timothy asked. Now he understood why Terrance didn’t have a past. He was too young to have a real history and too cautious to lie.
“I formed from the hatred of a young woman.”
“What happened?”
“She got hurt. It happens. She lost herself in pain until I was created. By the time I became conscious, she had let her sorrow and depression consume her. She hadn’t eaten, hadn’t moved, in days. So I waited a little longer and made my own body. But if I can capture the angel’s soul, I’ll have everything I need to join Maria Despada’s clan. And I was close. Very close to getting the angel’s trust, but then you appeared, the little college boy who somehow carries a demon soul. Tell me, how did you get one?”
“It was an accident.”
“Well, your death won’t be.” Darkor made it sound like a decision.
Darting forward, Terrance cut down with the blade. His first swing had all of the force needed to cut right through Timothy’s arm. But a fast step back and Timothy had a few inches between him and the demon’s blade. Timothy threw out his palms, the tendrils flying across the gap, but Terrance dodged one. Timothy yanked it back, his second tendril slicing Terrance at the side. Same as last time, he didn’t bleed. Touching the wound, Terrance said, “It’s good being pure. See, I heal better than you.”
But Timothy ignored him and pulled his tentacles back. It was late, twenty hours since he had a chance to sleep. Work and skipping classes and rolling third wheel meant he didn’t have much left. Everything he had was the strength of his demon soul and the adrenaline of his human brain.
Think about Jenny,
Timothy told himself.
She’s all that matters
Terrance stabbed out as Timothy spun to one side, avoiding the blade’s edge by another inch. But Terrance was fast, quick enough to slash up. Timothy shot one tendril down. The coil of shadow wrapped around the demon’s wrist, though it wasn’t strong enough to stop the blade. The tip came up, awkward, but enough to dig a shallow gash across Timothy’s stomach. Pain flared and he hissed against it. Still, pain is energy, strength that fed the shadows. Timothy pulled again, this time strong enough to twist Terrance’s wrist a few inches.
The dagger was attached to his palm, so Terrance couldn’t drop it. But at that angle, it was worthless. Timothy didn’t expect Terrance to reabsorb the blade, to just pull it back into the palm of his hand. As he watched, Terrance recreated it in his other palm, the one that wasn’t locked in Timothy’s grasp.
Cutting up, a smooth motion blurred by speed, Terrance aimed for Timothy’s throat. Only an X of his shadowed tentacles had enough strength to block.
But it came with a cost, because that dagger’s tip burned, ripping through the tendril. Timothy felt it, felt his demonic soul convulse and shudder as the blade sliced through. Stumbling back, Timothy tried to heal the wounds, but this wasn’t something he really understood. Most of this was instinct. The tendrils acting without much thought on his part. He wasn’t a black belt or a soldier. He’d never even taken a self-defense class. He was a college student who didn’t even have a major yet.
“You’re fast,” Terrance said. He didn’t need to breathe hard. The gash at his side didn’t seem to matter much to him. Instead he spoke like someone enjoying the kind of mild challenge a gamer would expect from Pong.
“Sometimes,” Timothy answered, sending his tendrils back for another fight.
They stabbed down, even stretched the six feet between Timothy and Terrance. Those tips were sharp like a demon’s teeth, the natural defense for something that shouldn’t even exist. Despite their speed, Terrance blocked one, his forearm Timothyed. The second he dodged dropping to one knee, only to jump back to avoid its return.
Timothy rushed forward, his hands a few inches from his sides, his palms out as he let the tendrils attack his enemy. He didn’t think as they lanced down, only to get blocked against every attack. Eyes tight, Timothy searched for some trace of fear on Terrance’s face. There wasn’t any, just concentration as he jumped, dodged, and ducked, blocking every attack.
The demon rolled down, leaping back to his feet, one fist aimed for Timothy’s stomach, the blade pointed for an upward thrust to his chin. Without dexterity or cunning, Timothy fell back, the feel of a breeze against his throat. That’s when he acted and threw a punch. It wasn’t much as it connected with Terrance’s stomach, just enough for there to be the splash of air. Timothy’s tendrils tried to capitalize on the moment, shooting down and ready to drill into Terrance’s spine. The demon didn’t have shields, but he didn’t need them as he leapt forward, his palms planted against Timothy, knocking them both into the pavement.
The demon’s hands clutched Timothy by his throat. Terrance had speed, but not the strength or knowledge to easily snap Timothy’s neck. Or he just wanted to strangle Timothy the old fashioned way. The pressure burned in less than a second, all of his weight stopping air, and in a couple more moments, Timothy felt his vision start to blur, a fog of darkness crawling at the distance.
Fear made him cheat. Timothy got one hand up, his fingers prodding for Terrance’s eyes. He ducked back, trying to get away from Timothy’s hand, unwilling to give up his hold on his enemy’s throat. But he lost some strength as he stepped back, and that’s when Timothy’s tendrils struck down. So close to winning, Terrance forgot about the tendrils, those wisps of shadow that had the solidity to tear down and impale the demon.
One ripped through heart, the other cracked through his spine.
Terrance lost his grip. Timothy chugged the air like the greatest oxygen ever.
A second later, convinced he had won, Timothy shoved Terrance off and got up. The demon should have been dead. No one was supposed to survive those kinds of wounds. Timothy felt Terrance’s spine sever, but he still watched him, the demon’s blue eyes continued to move.
“You are kidding me,” Timothy panted, still fighting to refill his lungs. This couldn’t be happening. Terrance couldn’t still be alive, but he rolled over and forced himself to one knee. Then on wobbling legs, he got his weight to his feet.
“I’m still—still alive.”
“Not for long,” Timothy said.
“But I’m stronger than you.”
“Doesn’t matter if I win.”
“You won’t, and I’ll get her back under my control.”
“Back under?” Timothy asked.
Panting, Timothy matched Terrance, and they circled like wolves. Somehow Timothy didn’t feel like a predator as he faced this demon. Terrance didn’t have any fear because he had the knowledge that he required Jenny’s soul as an entrance fee to Maria Despada’s clan.
Terrance smiled, “I have some nice abilities. I’m fast. I heal. I create these wonderful knives. And I know how shape emotions.”
“That red, the red I saw on her.”
“My influence.”
“That’s why she thought she loved you.”
“What is love but an electrical impulse?” Terrance asked with an obnoxious smirk, and Timothy felt the shadows along his hands speed up, minnows of darkness swimming fast enough to look like lines. Terrance didn’t drug her. He didn’t need to. The tendrils grew stronger with every second, and Timothy should have waited, but he didn’t bother.
He threw out his hands, fast as he could, the tentacles blasting out. They were fast, though again Terrance threw up one hand and blocked a tendril with his palm. That demonic flesh was soft enough for the tendril to rip the skin and tear a new hole in Terrance’s hand, but it wasn’t the kill strike Timothy might’ve wanted. Sliding to one side, his body angled away from the tendril, Terrance avoided the second strike.
Despite the rage, despite the knowledge that this fight was for his life just as much as Jenny’s, Timothy felt himself slow. His motions got sluggish and clumsy. The intuition of shadow could only go so far, could only push so hard.
“Tired?”
“Screw off.”
“Right after you’re dead. Tell me, who’d you kill for that shadow.”
“Cipher. He was in a fight. I tried to help him.”
“And you killed him, ate his soul. Funny.”
Terrance charged him again, one palm held out. It grew another knife, and Timothy saw the flash of pain, the crack in Terrance’s façade. Fatigue bit at him too. His wounds were draining him. Timothy tried to fortify his tentacles, somehow sure this would be Terrance’s last attack. Death or win, the demon wouldn’t give up again. Timothy threw out one tendril.
Terrance blocked it again and swiped at Timothy with his blade. Acting without thinking, Timothy stretched his tendrils. They looped back, aimed for Terrance’s shoulder blades. They dug into the demon, and Terrance didn’t stop, even with two tentacles lodged in his back. Instead he had the blade held level, still moving for Timothy’s throat. Terrance wouldn’t stop until he killed Timothy, no matter the cost.
Grabbing the demon’s wrists, Timothy felt the weight of pressure and hunger and muscle as he pushed the blade closer, every second eating the space between skin and blade.
Timothy pulled his tendrils back. They stabbed again. His spikes ripped fresh gouges into the demon’s back, but it wasn’t enough. Even with that hit, even with having these wounds pricked to his back, Terrance didn’t stop. He didn’t falter or shudder, and Timothy saw the blade get closer, felt his arms weaken. He’d never been much of an arm wrestler.
“I’m dead,” Terrance whispered. “But you’re coming too.”
Timothy had his lips tight, breath held as heat rushed over his face, and his muscles went taut to keep that blade from getting to him. “But I’m still going to kill you.” Timothy tried again, fresh wounds for the demon. He went for the legs this time, pummeling and breaking the demon’s body. He was probably right. He’d be dead after this, but he’d make sure Timothy died too.