The Four Housewives of the Apocalypse

            The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (although these days they mostly drive sedans and minivans) meet every Wednesday afternoon at the local coffee house, about an hour before they all have to go pick up their kids from their assorted after-school practices.

            “How’s Cindy doing these days?” War asks Pestilence. “How did her audition for the dance team go?”

            Pestilence takes a sip of her free-trade rooibos, expertly avoiding getting her Burt’s Bees lipgloss on the china.

            “She made it of course – I never doubted all those ballet lessons would pay off, although she swears the deciding factor was the hiphop – silly, of course, technique is what really sells coaches – but I don’t know if I’ll let her join.” Her botoxed brow attempts to furrow. “They want her to get some vaccines before she starts coming to practices, and I don’t want to put those poisons in her body.”

            Death sighs over the double shot of espresso she’s nursing. Her long fingers are about the same shade of white as the cup.

            “The medical-industrial complex worms it’s way into everything,” she tuts. “I can’t tell you how frustrating it makes my job. I swear, I have to check my palm-pilot hourly to make sure the list of reaps hasn’t changed. One person will drop off because they went to the ER and another will appear because some pharmacist filled their prescription with a defective generic.”

            Famine pauses in reapplying her Estee Lauder lipstick, her skinny frap going largely ignored. “And they make our government pay for those complications, too! I swear, everyone just wants free hand-outs every which way!”

            “Did you hear they’re talking about slashing the military budget for this Obamacare boondoggle?” War offers up. “As though paying for drug addicts’ fixes is more important than national defense!”

            They all make accordant “hms” of anger.

            “This world isn’t for long at all,” Death says.

            They share small smiles as they all take sips of their drinks.

A Hard Conversation, draft two

"Is it really so bad that you need to do this?" Kayla's fingers dug into my arm. "Do you really feel so terrible?"

I didn't jerk away, but I found it a bit difficult to maintain eye contact. Her brown eyes shone with liquid, and her lips parted, corners down-turned.

"Yes," I said. If my voice broke, I didn't acknowledge it. "This is not what I want for myself. But -"

Kayla swallowed hard. I took a steadying breath.

"But this is a good offer," I continued. "You know what it's like to live every day of your life without pain, or even fatigue, regardless of which realm you're in. I only get that sort of freedom when I travel."

A tear escaped the bounds of her lashes and trickled down her cheek.

"They're offering me a chance to stay, Kayla. They're offering me so much freedom."

Her nails caught at my skin as she pulled away, crossing her arms over her chest. I knew better than to reach for her, even as my throat closed up and my stomach dropped.

"All you have to do is stay there forever," she finished for me. "All you have to do is leave everyone else in your life behind."

I closed my eyes as I felt my own tears break from my control. My voice came out in a strained whisper.

"That's the gist, yeah."

I Know, Draft Three

"I know."

I didn't look up from the program I had open in Netbeans, continuing to set up the various objects I needed to create a useful calendar for Dr. Nexus's extra credit assignment.

"Good for you," I drawled. "Give yourself a cookie."

"No. I mean, I know why you're always sick."

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes for a long moment, before slowly turning my head, one eyebrow raised sharply, to look at the cretin who dared to address me.

Derek Delphi, the mouth-breathing no-lube jack-off cretin in question, apparently took that as an invitation.

He swung out the chair at the spot next to me, flopping back into it and lacing his fingers behind his head.

"Yup," he repeated. "I know why you're sick."

"Oh?" My voice was dry and flat to contrast his self-satisfied sing-song. "Do share what has taken a platoon of medical specialists more than twenty-one years to fail to discover. And then share your methodology, because I'm sure there's a Nobel prize in your future."

Derek smirked and took in a deep breath that puffed out his chest. I'm sure he heard a drum roll in his head.

I stared at him balefully.

"You're... not human," he declared.

I felt the wings on my back - the ones that weren't really there and that no one could see - twitch, but I managed to control my expression.

Not so much the exasperated sigh.

"An interesting if irrelevant conclusion, Dick."

He dropped his hands and sat up, the back of the chair springing upright with a thump.

"It's Derek."

I turned back to my schoolwork.

"You sure?" I asked lightly. "I thought you knew."

I kept my eyes on my code as Derek huffed, stood up, and hovered over me, casting a shadow on my laptop screen. As far as I was concerned, this interaction was over.

"Snake," he spat.

I continued typing out objects in Java.

It was another few seconds before his shadow left my screen as he stalked out of the lab.

Faces, Draft Two

"Strip that face off," she commanded.

"Are you sure this is the right time?" I asked. My eyes darted, taking in the dark recesses of the concrete nook, the fluorescent light sharply intruding from down the hallway, the slash of my colleague's mouth. We were alone, but my heart continued to race. "I think they might notice if these two disappeared."

She hissed, a low, harsh sound, air against fangs.

"We have bungled this mission. These faces are compromised. We must abandon this strategy and utilize another tactic." Her tongue clicked angrily, three times in quick succession. "You are silly, Salah. It is foolish to become emotionally invested in a face."

I rolled my spine, extending the sharp bones that this face did not wear in embarrassed threat.

"We can still utilize these faces, Grear," I insisted. "Their leader cares for this specimen - " I tapped a claw against my cheek "- and will forgive our transgressions against their laws if I continue to wear the likeness of her mate. We can make this work."

Grear narrowed her eyes in the human expression of anger.

"No. There is too much risk in relying on human affections. I am invoking the Statute of Hierarchy. Strip off that face. Our resources are better expended in a new plan."

My muscles locked, but to dispute the Statute would be to turn traitor. I reached toward my jaw and drew a long, sharp claw down from my ear to my chin, skin separating smoothly from the hard protrusions of my exoskeleton.

Across from me, I watched my ranking officer do the same, the pale skin of the face she had stolen sliding free to reveal the silky green-black curves of her natural form, reshaped to mimic Homo sapiens skeletal system. She tugged as she began to peel the flesh away from her neck, pulling it free of the jagged spurs that had been holding it against her, until it puddled on the concrete at her feet. With a roll of her head and a satisfied chirp, she stepped free.

"Are you done?" she clicked.

I visualized the human leader's features, the shine of light on her too-soft cheeks and the sensation of vulnerably blunt fingertips running down this form's smooth back.

"You are the most beautiful woman in the world," she had breathed in my ear, her too-dull-to-damage teeth grazing my jaw. "You will save us all, Lily."

With a long, human exhalation, I pushed the face of her late lover free from the last spur on my toe.

"Yes, Grear," I clicked back. "I am done."

I tried not to look back as we slipped out of the concrete alcove and crept furtively through the fluorescents toward the exit.

The Innocence of Monsters

When I was younger, I didn't know any better than to be exactly who I was, and it confused me when this course of action rarely worked out in my favor. Why should I pretend to be something I was not?

I was very self-possessed, and extremely self-aware - I had confidence to burn. What I lacked was guile, and an understanding that others would happily build my pyre from the kindling I provided. I was a monster who hadn't yet figured out that she was to be feared.

My ignorance made me vulnerable.

I won't say I was cast out of Eden - I never lived in such a place. But, for a time, I was innocent enough to believe that I had a place there.

Worship

My claws are terrible and sharp,
Glinting gold in candlelight,
Darkened blood shimmering with slick, sick
       Promises.

Your lips part,
Gaze swimming upwards toward my eyes.
My fangs bared cruel white -
       Yes, prostrate yourself before me,
       Worship my gilded curves,
       Pray to that which disregards you -
I straddle your lap,
And look right through you.

I will dig my claws into your chest,
Hear your sharp intake of breath before you scream,
Take your vocal cords between my teeth,
Bite off your sounds before they echo,
Admire the harmonies of your gurgles
As liquid heat splatters my chest.

I will eat your heart someday.

You
       will love it.

Serpent and Child

I have been small -
miniscule -
staring down a serpent roughly seven times my size,
discussing with her
the nature of lies.

"Tell me a story,"
says she in my mind.
"Tell me a story
of futures and timelines."

"Truth is construction,
and your wings don't give flight.
You've been larger before,
smaller inside.
Don't tell me you've never thought you could fly -"
This serpent is honest as she spins her lies.

I've tasted colors,
pole danced for pixies,
slept with incubi -
"Don't tell me you've never thought you could fly."

I stare myself down,
Wonder why I'm roughly seven times my size.
I gaze up with trust and wide child's eyes -
"Please tell me you'll be my guide."

Burden of Proof

     Sometimes
I want to crawl out of my skin,
wrap myself around you,
purr into your ear -

It will be okay.

I can prove it to you
with the warm, wet embrace
of my conviction.

My tears are salt-lines on my face
because you are far away,
and there are little barbs
     hooking
me into my flesh.

I have only words to show you
how safe you should be.

That is something worth crying about.

Worst Case

"Tell me your story," she said, leaning toward me.

I blinked at her.

She was pretty, I suppose. Her t-shirt was wrinkled, the logo concealed in the folds, and her blonde, almost colorless hair was tangled and frizzing from the storm winds she'd walked in from. She hadn't bothered with make-up, but her attitude rendered the lack of cosmetics irrelevant. She had a calm that seemed to come from knowing that she liked herself, and that no one's opinion was going to change her own on that count. Besides, there's just something attractive about a woman who just doesn't give a fuck if her lips are chapped or if there's a zit coming in next to her nose ring.

"Well?" she demanded.

"Um...." I bit my own lip and watched my fingernails tap the white ceramic coffee cup. "What do you want to know?"

"Your story, doll," she huffed good-naturedly. "How did you end up here, sitting in this coffee shop, on a date with a woman you only know by a friend's description? No one ends up in that situation without a story of some kind."

Wow. She was forward.

I shifted uncomfortably, damning the combination of my flowy short skirt and the too-hot leather seat. I took a long draught of my coffee and winced. It needed a bit more sugar and significantly less heat.

I finally looked at her again.

Her eyebrows were raised, her lips pulled off to one side, slightly upturned. She rested her elbows on the table, arms open, palms up. Her iced chai sat square between them, sweating and puddling.

"I don't really know," I said. "I guess I was... bored?"

She nodded oddly, kind of scooping her chin forward.

"Yeah, bored," I affirmed. "No offense."

She backhanded the comment away with a limp wrist.

"None taken. Boredom can be a great impetus for adventure."

I caught myself looking at the table when I smiled, and I forced myself to make eye contact. I desperately wanted to avoid being rude.

"I'm not actually great with adventures. But yeah, I suppose. It'd been a while, you see. I broke up with my last boyfriend last fall semester...."

I paused, waiting for her to interrupt here.

Her gaze didn't waver. She made that odd scooping nod again, and settled one finger beneath a cheekbone.

I took a deep breath.

"There was just... something missing, I guess. The dates were fine. The sex was fine." I crossed my legs tightly under the table. "He was nice enough."

I settled my hands in my lap, pressing my skirt down my thighs, as I shrugged my shoulders.

"I thought it might get better after that. You know, since being single's supposed to be so much fun."

She chuckled at that. "Who told you that lie, sweetie?"

I found I liked the way her eyes crinkled.

I quickly involved myself in taking a sip of my too-bitter and too-hot coffee.

"Society, I suppose," I muttered, setting the mug back on the table with a clink that startled me with how loudly it rang through the coffee shop.

Was it quiet enough that people could hear our conversation? I eyed the young man at the next table over, his head dropped into his hands as he pored over a textbook. I took an unsteady breath when I realized he had long white wires dangling from his ears.

"I'm guessing that single-dom didn't turn out so hot," she prompted, gently.

"Uh, yeah." I tried to smile at her. "It was awful. I did single things. You know. I went to parties. I went to bars. I went to clubs. I had bad sex and worse hookups."

She scoop-nodded again, eyes intent on me.

I laughed a little, but it was more bitter than mirthful.

"It wasn't all that fun. The guys - " I held my mouth open for a moment, and then clicked my lips shut. "The sex - " I tried again, only to bring my hand to my lips as I faltered once more.

Her eyebrows rose. I probably blushed.

"It was... predictable," I concluded, dropping my hand onto the table, palm down. "It always went the same way."

Her finger moved from her cheek to her lower lip, and tapped once or twice. Her nails were unshaped and unpolished.

"How so?"

I sighed, and pursed my lips.

"I'd meet a guy. I'd think he was reasonably attractive, maybe even funny, or smart. If he seemed interested, I'd let him know I was down, but not, you know, locked down. I'm not an insta-relationship girl."

I found it easy to meet her gaze when I said this.

"We'd have sex or hook up or not. Sometimes I'd see him again after that, maybe two, maybe three times. But nothing ever really..."

I waved my hand vaguely above my coffee mug.

"Manifested?" she offered.

"Yeah." I bit my lower lip. "And it was boring."

"Huh." She tapped her lip with her finger again, shrugging with the corners of her mouth. "So, what made you think you might try a blind date with a woman instead?"

My laugh was reflexive. I felt warm coffee coat the side of one finger as I scrabbled at my mug for a sip.

She gave me a moment, taking a long draw of her chai through her straw.

I wiped my hand off on my skirt.

"Well...." My voice came out high-pitched. I cleared my throat.

"Well, I was just... ready for a change, I guess." I watched spilled coffee wend its way down the white ceramic to the table. I didn't want to see her react. "Jessa's always been more flexible than I am, and, um... she has fun, you know? Her love life doesn't seem formulaic at all."

I snuck a quick look at her. She noticed, and smiled encouragingly.

"So.... I dunno. I - I asked her if she knew anyone."

My skin peeled away from the leather seat as I fidgeted.

"And, well, you know Jessa...."

She grinned at me now. I hesitated, but smiled with her.

"Yeah, I know Jessa." Her hand dropped to the table, making it very easy to see how pretty that smile made her. "The phrase 'social butterfly' was coined to describe your roomie."

"Seriously," I agreed. "She was the kid that 'stranger danger' was meant to scare to safety."

When she laughed at that, her chuckle moving up to a note high enough to be a hiccup, I really did grin at her. She was cute.

"But, yeah," I continued. "Of course Jessa knew someone. She started telling me about this marvelous person."

"Yeah?" She leaned back a little.

"This marvelous person who likes to go white water rafting and mountain climbing and is up for trying just about anything once and wants to be a history teacher and makes plate armor on the weekends...."

A small blush crept into her cheeks and she briefly pressed on hand to the nape of her neck. The folds of her t-shirt shifted, and I saw that the logo was the ship Serenity.

"Oh, yeah," I said. "She just went on and on describing you, telling me all these things that you like and do and dream. Like, she told me that you volunteer at the animal shelter repairing fences because you can't have a dog in your apartment, but miss being around animals. All this detail. And I was... mesmerized."

The pitch of my voice dropped on that last word.

We smiled at each other over our drinks. In tandem, we both took sips.

I didn't notice or care how bitter the last dregs of my cooling coffee were.

Our empty cups clicked as we set them back on the table.

"Anyways, Jessa waited until I was all but set to marry you, sight-unseen, before she slipped in, 'Oh, yeah, and she's a girl.'"

"Yeah?" she asked. Her tone was light, but she was watching me very carefully. "Did you freak?"

I smoothed my skirt down again, recrossing my legs.

"A little," I conceded. "But... I dunno...." I laughed, sincerely this time.

"I guess you just sounded like such a wonderful person, I... didn't really care. I wanted to meet you. And... I figured - " I threw my hands up into the air beside my head. "What the hell? Worst case, I don't like you and you don't like me, but at least I did something different."

She rolled her lower lip into her mouth, and looked up at me through her lashes, slow and smoldering.

"Now that's a story, doll."

"I mean.... I guess."

"So.... Is this the worst case scenario?" She eyed me sort of sideways with the question, kind of rocking side to side in her chair.

"I-" My words got caught in a smile, and I bit my lip closed, glancing toward my shoulder and then back at her. "I don't think so."

I reached across the table and lightly touched the back of her hand, just the tips of my first three fingers resting on the tendon of her index finger. Her skin was soft, and warm, and just a little bit damp from the condensation on her cup.

"I don't think so," I repeated.

Maybe

Maybe you know me -

Maybe you don't.

Maybe this could be something -

Maybe it won't.

Do I want this?

I'm not sure yet.

But let's not pretend

That patterns aren't ever-present

And play like the past

Can lose its resonance.

But for sure,

This experience is something 

I can't forget -

The past was once the present.

Fairy Tale, Draft 5

"Holy screw monkeys in a stocking!"

"What happened?" Sarah called from the hotel bathroom, the clatter of makeup products being unpacked abruptly ceasing.

"My books!" I replied, fighting back the burbling edge of panic that was gathering forces for an attack on my throat. "My books are missing! Someone stole my books!" I wailed, collapsing on my knees before my suitcase, open on the far bed.

It was admittedly a rather melodramatic reaction.

"Oh, chill, 'Dia," my best friend responded, poking her head into the room. "No one stole your books, okay?"

"But they're gone," I insisted. I rocked back and forth, hands shaking in front of me. I wasn't quite sure what to do with them. Normally, in such a state, I'd occupy them with holding a book, but that was, in this case, obviously not an option.

Sarah stared at me, unmoved by my hysterics.

"Yeah, uh-huh," she said, voice wry and flat. "Someone broke into your suitcase, which was locked underneath the bus, in order to steal your copy of Pride and Prejudice."

"Exactly!"

She shook her head slowly, her shoulder length red hair swishing with the motion.

"Kennedia, I know summing up situations in pithy little sayings is your deal, but you read too much and it has addled your brain."

"Has not-"

She continued over the beginnings of my protest.

"First off, all the other people on this trip are male. Even if they could get under the locked bus, dig your suitcase out from the bottom of the pile, open it, remove your books, then return your suitcase to its former position, unnoticed, all while the bus was constantly in motion, what are the chances they'd leave your corsets untouched? Not a single one of them wants your books. They don't even want to read them. Their principle occupation in literature is praying that they are never tested on a novel from the Victorian period, especially not a novel from the Victorian period written by a woman."

I paused, the stream of indignation and drama temporarily halted. She had a point.

Seeing that she was getting through to me, Sarah moved into the room and perched on the other bed.

"Furthermore," she went on, "this is supposed to be a social event. It's a conference, not a weekend of sitting in the corner with your nose in a book in between debates."

I grimaced, leaning back on my heels. The carpet ground beneath my toes, abrasive and cheap. I knew where she was going with this.

"So, really, it's a good thing that you don't have your books, which you merely left at home. Consider this an opportunity for learning and growth. No book means that you might actually have to talk to people."

Her lipsticked smirk seemed much too satisfied from my vantage point.

The vanguard of panic that I'd been holding off took advantage of that moment to rush into my throat, sealing off the passage. I could not breathe, let alone speak.

I rolled off my knees onto my side, using the slight force of the impact to jar my lungs into a squeaky exhalation.

Sarah's facial expression did not become any less smug.

My voice, when it came, was small and high, perhaps even a bit whiny.

"But I don't like talking to people."

People didn't like talking to me.

My best friend finally moved from her position on the bed, proffering a hand to help me off the floor.

"There, there, 'Dia," she said, hauling me to my feet. "You're good at talking when you forget to be self-conscious. You're a great debater, and I might go so far as to say that you should try your hand at drama club." Her tone took a dry twist as she patted me on the shoulder. "Besides, if you talk to them, people aren't going to eat you."

~*~

As I looked around the ballroom, my arms were crossed tightly across my stomach, the soft material of the dress I was wearing an unfamiliar sensation on my skin. Sarah had insisted that I looked great in it, and had refused to let me wear anything else.

A Heart Worth Breaking (draft 4)

"You're one of those people who could get your heart broken and never even notice."

She cringed inwardly, feeling tears gather in her lashes, but her face remained impassive.

"You're a cold, hard bitch, and immoral to boot," he continued, not angry, but as calm as fact. "I don't understand the appeal, personally, but there are plenty of poor saps who fall all over themselves for you."

Her lips twitched violently to one side. But she quickly replaced the facade.

"And you just don't care," he marveled, shaking his head at her. "You go on with your life, collecting hearts, breaking them, then tossing them over your shoulder. And you dance and smile all the while."

His face turned ugly, the plastic smile broken by a sneer.

Anger boiled up to just below her throat, tasting of copper. What did he know?

He leaned over her, and she could smell the acid scent of accusation in his sweat.

"You're the worst kind of girl," he spat.

She sat silent, tears and anger meeting in her vocal chords, muting her as they struggled with each other for control.

There was only so much a girl without a heart worth breaking could do.

She kicked him in the shin, forcing him back. The resulting epithets were ignored; they were nothing new.

With a furious calm, she stood.

"A minor point of correction," she said, her tone mild. "I'm one of those people who could never get my heart broken because I only ever notice."

Carnelia Bellis, Chapter Three, Draft 9

Ms. Ferrous talked right up to the bell, leaving us poor students to scramble to get our things in order if we wanted to take advantage of the valuable social time between classes.

I scooped my notebook up as I stood, slinging my messenger bag onto my chair, and calmly squeezed the binder between two others. I left my pen behind my ear. I didn't have that far to go.

"Hey, Carnelia."

I glanced up to see none other than Zachary Hicks standing across the aisle from my desk, thumb hooked beneath one strap of his book-bag.

Hm. Imagine that.

I pulled my bag across my body and straightened.

"How fare thee, Zachary," I said as I began to make my way toward the door. "Were you amputated over the summer?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice coming from just behind my right shoulder.

I sighed and paused as I cleared the classroom door, waiting for him to catch up. I may as well get it over with.

I'd expected him to take far longer than this to approach me: a week, at least.

It took him all of six seconds to draw even with me.

Zachary Hicks stood slightly taller than I did in modest heels, putting him at about 5'10". He kept his brown hair cropped close to his scalp, and was only nominally clean-shaven. He suffered the predominately male affliction of CFTLF (Clothes Far Too Large for the Frame syndrome), making him look smaller than he physically was.

"Your other body," I clarified, gesturing to his hip. "Are you experiencing phantom limb syndrome?"

"Uh...."

I rolled my eyes. Must I say everything?

"Rena. Do you mean to tell me you weren't actually physically attached to her?"

He blushed, shifting from foot to foot. He knocked into a passing sophomore, who gave him a reproachful look as she continued on her way.

He got over both quickly.

"Nah," he drawled, assuming an odd smirk-grimace that I suppose was meant to be a confident smile. "I was never that in to her. She just couldn't keep her hands off of me."

Said the guy who'd all but begged Rena Dalton to go out with him at the end of freshman year and hadn't been seen without her since that minute. It had been scandalous to suggest they actually slept in separate beds, even separate houses.

He read my disbelief in the arch of my left eyebrow.

Well, possibly in the accompanying laughter as well.

He sagged.

"Okay, yeah. We broke up back in June," was the concession. "But," came the recovery, "I'm totally over her now, and I want to take out the most beautiful girl in the school."

I looked left. I looked right.

The halls were almost empty.

Well, there went that hope.

"Awww.... Flattery will get you everywhere you don't want to go," I purred, sweet as poisoned Swedish Fish. "Try a girl who doesn't know all the sordid details of your... performance."

Poor Zachary went pale.

I turned and started down the hall to Ms. Cane's classroom.

"I'll tell Rena you said 'hi,'" I called back. "I'm sure she'll laugh herself silly."

~*~

Ms. Cane's classroom was unchanged from the previous year. There was the same fluorescent lighting smothered into dimness by the dragon posters that papered the walls, the same area rug reading "Here There Be Dragons" at the center of the room that one should never step on under any circumstances, and the same angular horseshoe of desks surrounding it. Say what you will about Ms. Cane, but you could count on her classroom to be consistent.

Matthew had saved me the seat at the corner of the bottom of the horseshoe, as far away from the Cane's desk as possible while maintaining a view of the board. I deposited my bag and slid into the chair just as the late bell rang.

Matthew pulled off his glasses to polish them and shot me a disapproving look.

Dead-pan, I leaned in conspiratorially.

"'Did anyone ever tell you you're kind of a fuddy duddy?'" I intoned.

My friend paused, but I saw the smile, quickly concealed, begin to grow on his lips.

"'Nobody ever seems to tell me anything else,'" he replied, slipping his glasses back into place.

"'Did anyone ever tell you you're kind of a sexy fuddy duddy?'" I continued.

He couldn't help himself. His smile burst free across his face, making his burnished skin assume a friendly glow.

"'That part usually gets left out,'" he finished the lines from "The Dark Age." "'I can't imagine why.'"

I grinned back at him, and reached out to hug him before he could remember that he didn't approve of smiling, fun, or humanity in a school environment.

"Y'all are so cute," Rena Dalton's sweet Southern voice drawled, causing me to jerk and poor Matthew to sputter when I accidentally choked him. "I'll never understand why y'all don't date."

I settled back into my chair, realizing that, in my haste, I'd overlooked the ash-blonde in the desk kitty-corner to mine.

"Rena," I chided lightly, "for shame. Now you've embarrassed Matthew. He'll never forgive you."

"Doesn't take much to make that one blush," someone muttered darkly.

My eyes darted to Elec in the seat behind Rena.

Great. Stuck near him for another class. Time to ignore him. I didn't hear him; I didn't see him. Right.

"Sorry, Matthew," Rena was saying. Matthew nodded, eyes pretending to be magnets attracted to the North Pole of his desk. "I really just don't understand it, though. Y'all even like the same sort of things." She brushed one silky tendril back behind her ear as she rested her forearms on her desk. "I don't understand half the things y'all say."

Elec leaned forward so the heat of his breath would hit the shell of her ear as he stage-whispered honey to her.

"That's because you're far too genuine to want to spend hours exploring obscure sub-cultures. You're more concerned with understanding regular people."

He kept his position and made eye contact with her when she rotated to look at him, giggling and blushing. I nearly gagged as he held her gaze and smiled slowly, turning Rena's cheeks a deeper shade of pink.

He was so transparent.

Although admittedly good at reading people.

"'Nelia and I aren't suited," Matthew said calmly, opening his notebook as though most of that entire interchange had not taken place. "She would chew me up and spit me out faster than a cannibal would spinach."

Rena's attention snapped back to us, her nose wrinkling.

"Ewww! Thanks so much for that image!" She shuddered.

"SNACKRIFICES!"

The class jumped as one, refocusing on the seemingly innocuous older woman standing, hands folded, in front of the whiteboard.

She smiled ever-so-sweetly once she was sure she had us.

"I hope that none of you have virgin minds or that's what you'll be," she continued at a normal volume. "To get through this course intact, you're going to have to be an enthusiastic and expert learner. Enthusiasm will not make up for a lack of expertise, nor will expertise compensate for a dearth of enthusiasm."

Her smile became sinister.

"I'm Ms. Cane," she turned to the board, her disguise of Sweet Old Lady, so glaringly incongruous with her personality, back in place. "Let's get started."

I grinned as I pulled out my binder.

There was a reason the Cane was my favorite teacher.

I couldn't help but notice that Elec was grinning, too.

A Challenge (Elec's Excerpt #4, draft 3)

I'd like to fight with you to a finish, fall in time and climb back to a pause. I want to feel music curl in our mutual pulse, turning simplicity into intricacy, turning moments into eternities. There are parallels and ironies in our every little exchange, delicious and tantalizing, satisfying but never quite enough. Fighting is loving and the battle sets us as both opponents and allies. Banish the white flag to a distant melody that hardly matters anymore - there can be no surrender beyond mutual accord.

The Post-Modern Narrative (Elec's Excerpt #3, draft 3)

Since WWI, the traditional third-person omniscient narrative voice has fallen from popular use. Authors reason, "Life doesn't have an all-powerful voice revealing new and interesting facts to us - why should literature?"

Thus was born the occasionally confusing but indubitably realistic concept of narrative unreliability.

Just as people can lie, mislead, and get their facts wrong, so, too, can first-person narrators. Emily Bronte was massively ahead of her time with the idea when she filtered Heathcliff's story through Nelly. Faulkner pushed it to its limits when he recounted Addie's death in As I Lay Dying. Modern literature teaches its readers to distrust the ostensible story line.

Cut to the Post-modern era. Authors know their first-person narrators are inherently unreliable and, more importantly, readers know to question the stories such narrators convey. However, rarely do authors provide multiple perspectives for readers to compare with each other and thus deduce the true tale.

How, then, are readers to look beyond the filters of their narrators to the truth?

To start? Readers must remember that, as in life, the more frequently a speaker insists upon something as true, the more that something should be questioned.

Identification (Elec's Excerpt #2, draft 3)

People excel at labeling. And no, I don't mean boxes, although those, too, occasionally get tagged and classified.

More than anything else, people excel at labeling people.

Innocent. Liar. Drama Queen. Man-whore. Popular. Rich. Charming. Dangerous. Smart. Geek. Holy Roller. Bitch. Witch. Asshole. Dick.

The best thing about this labeling mania people have is that it's self-inflicted and self-enforced. Labeling is as integral to giving ourselves a place as it is to putting others in theirs.

Actually, those two functions are the same thing. Holistically, we call it "identity."

Loves Her... (Elec's Excerpt #1, draft 4)

She's the light at the end of her tunnel, head-lamp of an oncoming missile. She's headed straight for destruction, on down the tracks to pain. She crashes, burns, tries again, plucks the petals from a daisy. But every bloom claims "loves her not," and she's so silly - she believes them.

The ring of truth sprouted faeries, and that kicked her to the dust. The sensations are back again - they never really left. Her eyes regard the midnight sky, envious of stars. For once in an "upon a time," she held herself high, and there she was, if not a goddess, at least a human.

And now she wastes away, alive but dead upon the ground. Half-asleep and never noticing, she waits for the ending chime, but it never comes, it never sounds. (After all, if there is no start, there can be no finish.)

She knows those stars were once her friends, and she knows she might join them once again, but does she try? No, never once does she lift a finger except to grasp another stem. Left up to luck, her gamble's gone, and now she knows the answer. She crashes, burns, cries again, plucks the petals from a different daisy. And every bloom knows "loves her not," but that's the question that she gave them.

Carnelia Bellis, Chapter Two, Draft 7

"Carnelia Bellis?"

"Here," I replied, my mind much more on scoping out my classmates than on the ritual mutilation of names.

Kayla had cut her hair over the summer, perhaps looking to cut ties with that guy from the private school she'd just broken up with. Rena Dalton seemed to be over her split with Zachary Hicks, and looking to move on, judging by the way she was eyeing Cameron Kilburn. That'd be a mess for me to deal with in terms of Zachary, but good on Rena! Cameron would be so much better for her than Zachary ever was.

Then again, even Elec would be better for Rena than Zachary ever was.

Thank God, the public usage dildo didn't actually seem to be in this class, contrary to what Matthew had (claimed to have) heard.

"Elec Jonquil?"

"Here," the incubus himself sang out as he sailed through the door, flashing Ms. Ferrous a cocky grin. "Sorry I'm late, ma'am."

Damn. It.

Ms. Ferrous pursed her lips disapprovingly, but made no move to put him back out in the hall, pointing him instead toward an empty seat - right next to me.

You're probably familiar with the saying "fight or flight." What you probably don't know is that it's misleading. There are actually three different instinctive responses to danger, the first of which is to freeze in the hopes that the Big Bad won't notice you. That's why the deer will stand petrified in the headlights rather than bound off the road or bite the car. It's also a major reason why human beings tend to find themselves in awful/awkward situations.

Situations like having to sit next to Elec Jonquil for an hour and a half every day for the next 180 days of the school year. Let's see... 90 times 180 equals roughly... 16,200 minutes of hell.

Okay, a little bit less since he was late today.

All because, instead of raising my hand and telling Ms. Ferrous that I'm allergic to man-whores or just getting up and moving to a different seat, I froze.

And Elec, all six-feet, blond, muscled, demonic, three-inches of him, sat down next to me.

He even had the nerve to smile.

I glared at him, and his smile widened.

I flicked my gaze back to the other students. If I ignored him, he'd go away, much like syphilis.

"Miss me, 'Nelia?"

Exactly like syphilis.

I let my eyes roam over the walls of the lab, assessing the posters with a mind to the implications for the class. They were all somber colors, spread liberally about the room, stacked double and over-lapped. Few pictures and lots of words indicated that Ms. Ferrous was strict task-mistress and tended to lecture. I mentally added 30 minutes of studying to my homework to compensate for my visual learning style; I don't do well when lots of words fly at me, and I'd need the extra book time to get a top-shelf A.

"Pssst! 'Nelia!"

I gritted my teeth.

"Cara Zapping," Ms. Ferrous concluded, almost not pausing to recognize the tall blonde's "here" before moving on to distributing a set of green papers.

I accepted my sheaf and pretended to peruse it.

A kick rocked my desk.

"Carne-e-e-e-elia...."

AP Chemistry Syllabus, I read, 2nd block, Jean Ferrous.

I jerked as someone (guess whom) jabbed me in the ribs.

"What?" I hissed, determined to feed him his teeth.

"Hey," he drawled.

I turned my head to slit my eyes at him, my jaw jutting forward.

He was reclining in his desk, his long jean-clad legs at full length. His large hands laced behind his blond curls in a typical male power pose that highlighted his pecs and triceps simultaneously. His red "I bite" t-shirt practically caressed his broad shoulders and chest. His lips pulled to one side in a self-possessed smirk. His green eyes met mine.

"You managed to fight your need to stare at me for an entire two minutes. You've improved your time considerably."

Arrogant prick.

"That's because the novelty of your misfortunate appearance is wearing off," I replied loftily. "Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of the repugnance of your personality."

"Unfortunate, indeed," Elec replied, unfazed in the least, smile-smirk still in place, "Then you'd be out of excuses for denying your deep and abiding love for me, and then you'd be al-l-l-l mine."

I snorted.

"If you remove both of those items, there is no you and thus no yours. Come again soon." I began to turn back to face my desk, but paused. "On second thought - don't."

He grinned, and his arms dropped down to his desk and his legs pulled in as he leaned toward me.

"I'll let that little Freudian slip go, delicaie," he whispered, his low voice sliding under Ms. Ferrous's explanation of the syllabus (when had she started talking?) with ease. "What classes do you have this semester?"

I returned my gaze to the front of the classroom, where our esteemed teacher had pulled up an itinerary for the grading period on the SmartBoard and was going over it item by item, but left my body shifted into the aisle, leaving the conversation open.

"Afraid I'm going to pull farther ahead of you in class rank?" I taunted, my volume matching his, although, I fear, with much less effect. "I can't go much further up than number one, M. Numbre Deux."

"I'm absolutely terrified," Elec replied, not sounding so in the least. "But mostly, I just want to know how long each day I'll have the combined privileges of drinking your venom and gazing at your gorgeous... face."

I nearly gagged. Did he really think such transparent comments worked on girls?

I considered his popular status as school sex-god, and decided that, yes, he did think they worked, and perhaps the misconception was not entirely unjustified.

"Shove it through your heart, Elec," I whispered. "That comment doesn't even warrant me doing it for you. I've got French 4 Honors, this class, English 4 Honors with the Cane, and then Critical Analysis. If God loves me, this is the only class where you'll get your privileges."

I carefully made a note to set up an appointment as Ms. Ferrous pointed out that her desk was near the door and that all makeup work should be directed there within three days of any absence unless other arrangements were made with her. She probably already had my paperwork, but I found teachers were always more understanding about the side effects of my

condition when I spoke with them personally before they saw them first hand.

Warm breath tickled my ear and I jumped.

The infernal incubus chuckled.

"You and I aren't in the jurisdiction of the God of which you speak, Carnelia, so don't take it personally that I get privileges for the rest of the day, for the rest of the semester."

My face went slack.

I slowly rotated my head to stare at him, eyes wide.

He sat back in his chair, a satisfied smirk looking right-at-home-and-very-comfortable-thank-you-ever-so-much on his angular face.

"Come again soon, delicaie, and that's no Freudian slip."

Carnelia Bellis, Chapter One, Draft 10

If I had it my way, I would grow up to be Joss Whedon.

Of course, that isn't going to happen. For several reasons, not the least of which is that I'm female while Joss is packing penis. Plus, it's just one of life's ironic duhs that one can never become one's hero. Not unless you are your own hero, but narcissism is not a sin most of us like to admit to.

But I would like to grow up to make movies, tv shows, books, scripts, phenomena like Joss does. I want to make people laugh, make them think, poison their entertainment with education. Or maybe it's the other way around.

Whatev. It doesn't really matter, because my future does not lay in the film industry. I've got a destiny - and it's not even something as cool as being a Slayer! Or a slayerette, or a Watcher, or a Champion of the PTB (that would be the Powers That Be, for those of you not current on your Angel Acronyms). No, my destiny fucking sucks - literally and figuratively!

Sorry. I'm jumping ahead of myself. Last I checked, narrative was supposed to be clock-bound. So, I'll start way back when I was... well, not normal, but at least not aware that I stick out like a stripper's hips. Or even of how much a stripper's hips actually stick out.

~*~

"Carnelia!"

I turned, grinning.

"Tamara! Hey, girl! Happy hell-bound day!"

My best friend laughed, snaking her arm around my waist.

"You bitch!" she giggled. "Don't remind me that we actually have to go in there."

I laughed, tugging at my Dr. Horrible messenger bag to let my skirt tumble down from where it had become bunched.

Tamara let go and I got my first good look at her outfit.

Most would have been screaming "faux pas!" in a frilly, lime green skirt with a handkerchief hem and a lavender off-the-shoulder top, but Tamara, with her ultra curvy build, pale Indian skin, and wild mane of curls, managed to pull it off. Of course, she knows her unique fashion situation intimately, and carefully cultivates her outfits to underscore that she's the only one who can wear them. Let's not even get started on her exercise routine and parasol collection.

"Nice," I acknowledged with a nod. "Properly festive."

She scanned me and pursed her lips.

Obligingly, I rotated on the spot.

I had chosen to wear a simple tea-length paisley print skirt in purples and pinks, paired with a black graphic tee emblazoned with the burgundy-pink slogan, "Love me! (Then I'll bite you.)" A black lace choker, oversized pastel moon and star earrings and pink satin with black lace mules finished the ensemble. I had made a special effort for the occasion.

"Hm," she muttered. "A little heavy on the season four Willow for my taste, but it'll do."

I stuck my tongue out at her.

All my outfits are a little heavy on the season four Willow for Tamara's taste.

We linked arms and strolled into the outer courtyard.

"'Nelia-bell! Tamara!" James waved from our traditional spot by the fountain, looking extremely odd with bleached tips on his spiked brown hair.

I dumped my bag on the ground before giving him a hug.

He turned to hug Tamara too, but she stopped him with an outstretched index finger.

"No. Not until you either give up on the peroxide or go full Spike. This half-ass look is not working."

His smile crumpled into a pout.

"Carnelia thinks it's cool!" he claimed defensively. "Isn't that right, 'Nelia?"

I deliberately looked elsewhere.

"He-ey! Just because my name's James doesn't mean I have to look like Marsters!" he protested.

"More's the pity," I murmured, grinning wickedly.

"Yeah, you could start with something better than the hair," Tamara finished, correctly interpreting my thoughts.

James folded his lanky arms across his still boyish chest.

"You guys are bitches," he complained.

I kissed him on the cheek.

Matthew came up as James blushed desperately.

"I've got schedules," he announced, unfazed by such inconsequential social conventions as greetings. "'Nelia, you and I have English together third block, but you're on your own for AP Chemistry. Told you you shouldn't have taken it." He flashed a smile before continuing. "James, you and I are golden for band first block, of course, and while 'Nelia is suffering in isolation during second, the rest of us are all partying in AP Bio."

I accepted the printout from him, scanning it for myself. Yay, English with Ms. Cane again this year!

"What about lunch?" Tamara demanded. "We've got to be together for lunch."

"I couldn't tell," Matthew admitted, pushing his glasses back up his nose, the gold rims gleaming against his dark skin. "They mentioned something about having changed some of the classrooms to different lunches."

"Figures," James said bleakly, having finally recovered. "Dragons would eat them if they kept things simple."

"Dragons don't eat demons, silly," Tamara admonished, swatting him with her schedule. "I thought we established that last year when we tried to feed Elec to Ms. Cane."

"The guy's an incubus, not a demon," James argued.

"It's the same thing," I said, rolling my eyes at their antics. "An incubus is a type of demon."

"I don't much give a damn what Elec is," Matthew broke in with a snort. "As long as he's not in any of my classes. Which," he turned to me with a slightly evil gleam in his eye, "I heard he's taking AP Chem."

"Oh, Joss," I breathed. "Please, no."

"Told you you shouldn't have taken AP Chem," he answered.

"You suck," I said earnestly.

"No," he replied much too chipperly, stooping to scoop up his book-bag. "But he does."

The bell rang, sending us all scampering off to class.

Hello junior year - day one.

The Violet Round (Chapter One, Draft Four)

"Well, this is unprecedented."

Ametrine broke off the kiss with a groan, not bothering to open her eyes, only hoping the mood wasn't broken.

"Fuck off, Maerks!"

She tugged at the boy's hair again, but, unfortunately, he resisted. Balls. Of course her fun would be ruined.

Her eyes reluctantly flickered open to see Caleb edging back to across the circular couch while Devlin Maerks smirked in the doorway.

"Maybe I should go..." the younger witch muttered, tugging awkwardly at his clothes as he stood up.

"No need to rush off on my account," that despicable blond in the doorway drawled. "I was enjoying the show. I had no idea that our upright, perfect little war heroine could be so..." He shifted his smirk to Ametrine, who glared back.

"Naughty." He drew the word out like honey. "Honestly, using our living room as a rendezvous.... Tsk, Dracaena."

Caleb blushed crimson, his eyes glued to the carpet.

"Too much of a hurry to bother with the bedroom, I suppose. I can't say I entirely understand you, Brackner, but desperate times, and all...."

Ametrine finally accepted that her itch was not going to get scratched tonight and sat upright, curling against the side of the couch. All the better to glare with.

Three words: Hell hath no.

She smiled sweetly at her suite-mate.

"Just because I prefer an actual person to Maxim is no reason to be upset, Maerks," she all but purred. "No offense. I know how attached you are to your hand."

Silence reigned for a few long moments.

Caleb, the poor schmuck, took the opportunity to escape.

"Um... Excuse me?" he squeaked.

Maerks didn't even look at the other witch as he strode briskly into the room, moving towards his own dorm.

"Don't let me catch you in here again, Brackner. I will give you a detention."

The two doors clicked shut within moments of each other, a gunshot and its echo.

Ametrine tossed a glossy curl over her shoulder and crossed her arms over her chest with a loud sigh.

There went that relationship.

***********************************************

Devlin stomped straight through his room to his shower, grateful, once again, that although he and Dracaena had to share a living room and a kitchenette, they had separate bedrooms with their own personal bathrooms. It would be very embarrassing indeed if she suspected that he was taking a cold shower on her behalf.

It was just that he hadn't expected to come across her like... that. With a guy. Brackner, of all guys, but still a guy; her moans just audible as he kissed her.

After all, Ametrine Dracaena wasn't like the rest of them; no one was supposed to think of her like that. She was the smart one, the heroine, the Witch Who Figured Out How to Save the World and then bothered to come back to school to finish her education. She was supposed to be above silly things like sex and hormones. She was not supposed to be the hot girl who made your mouth go alternately dry then too wet as you watched her shift to drape her arm across the side of the sofa.

Devlin shivered as the water ran over him, leaning against the cool cream marble while he thought.

He'd been delighted when he'd learned that the remaining seniors would get separate suites with their own rooms this year due to the large influx of transfer students. He had looked forward to having his own space to shelter in, away from everyone else.

Of course, his perspective had changed a little when he'd seen that the suite-mate he'd been assigned was Dracaena. He even almost wished that he'd had the ill fortune to draw one of the last stubborn few Speakers.

But they were now a few weeks into the semester, and aside from the initial snarls and a small incident where she'd come across one of his copies of Maxim, the cohabitation had been going surprisingly well. The war seemed to have matured her, and rather than sniping at each other at every opportunity, as they had in the past, the two merely glared. They said as little as possible to one another, ignoring the other each night as she curled up on her strange, round couch and he sat poised on the edge of his leather swivel chair, before silently stamping off to their respective rooms.

It had been far too good to last.

*********************************

"Ametrine!"

Hope made her turn and wait for him, let her grin as he panted a little when he caught up with her.

"Caleb! What's up?"

The tall brunet blushed and tucked his hands into the pockets of his khakis, folding his shoulders in on himself.

"I just wanted to apologize..." he mumbled, his gaze caressing the flagstones.

Her smile vanished.

"I just kind of freaked out, you know?" His brown eyes briefly brushed past hers. "I mean, I shouldn't have left like that, but, you know, he's a TA and a senior, and it's his suite, too, and c-could give me a detention if he wanted to, or worse, and he's kind of intimidating anyways, and I just don't want you to be mad at me, you know?"

"Oh...."

A pack of juniors made their way past them from the cafeteria, talking over each other about their post-breakfast plans. Only one boy among them followed along, listening quietly, and drew Ametrine's eyes.

He seemed to have a spine.

She brought her attentions back to the junior who had once approached her with an easy smile, and a fresh picked flower.

"So, what are you apologizing for again?" she asked.

His blush spread, turning what she could see of his throat a vibrant red. A corner of her mind ironically compared it to the plumage of a male robin's chest, proudly displayed during mating season.

"Nevermind." He ran the words together, turning away as he said them "I'llseeyouaround."

Ametrine didn't stop him from walking off.

Breakfast was more important.

However, when she sat down and bit into a piece of the French toast she had gathered onto her plate, she found that it tasted like ash.

She bit again.

Nope, still not as delicious as she knew it should be.

Her lack of appetite did not go unnoticed.

"It's not poisoned," Danielle reminded her, glancing up from one of her many romance novels. "You can eat it without grimacing after every bite and feeling around for tacks."

The young heroine set down her fork and sighed into her palms.

Danielle put the novel aside expectantly.

"Maerks walked in on me and Caleb last night."

"Ooh!" The blonde girl recoiled. "And he's going to Dr. Tomasi with it?"

"Psh!" The possibility hadn't occurred to Ametrine, but it didn't worry her now that her friend mentioned it. She had enough on the prat to retaliate in such an event. "No. But now Caleb has revealed that he is, in fact, a sniveling coward."

"Oh...." the younger girl put a sympathetic hand on her knee. "I'm sorry. I know you hoped he was..."

"Different?" the Student Minister finished with a wry half smile. "Yeah. But then, I always do, don't I?"

She pushed away from the table, leaving her dishes, and progressed from the hall with her hair a curtain between herself and the world.

******************************************

"Ametrine?" Aiden queried, reaching out a hand to touch her as she brushed past him on his way into the caf, but drawing back before he made actual contact. "What's wrong?"

Her silent back offered no response as she continued on as though she hadn't heard him.

Gary grasped his arm.

"Just let her go," he advised. "There probably isn't anything you can do, anyways."

Aiden glanced at Kelsey, who shrugged.

"Okay," he bit out, shaking off his best friend. "I'll be good."

He all but stalked into the hall, his glower deepening when he saw long golden-blonde hair.

"I'll bet you know something about that," he snapped as he took Ametrine's vacated seat.

Danielle glared coolly across the top of her book, lips pressed tightly together.

Gary and Kelsey exchanged wary looks as they sat across from the pair.

"Well?" Aiden demanded. He wasn't used to people disregarding him, especially those who were in his social circle. Even if the person in question was his best friend's friend whom he'd gladly see at the bottom of the lake.

She slowly turned her head to face him. A beat passed, then two, before an arsenic sweet smile split her face.

"Aiden, I will tell you what that was about once, and only once you grow a pair of balls."

She ignored the affront of the Golden Boy and returned her attentions to her romance novel.

Gary looked amused.

Kelsey studiously admired the fruit she'd heaped on her plate.

Aiden resembled a thundercloud, his grey eyes glowing with fury beneath his dusty brown hair.

"Why, you..." he growled, unable to think of something bad enough to call her.

"Or you could ask Ametrine, the one you're so concerned about," the infuriating woman suggested, condescension dripping, not bothering to glance up. "That would be innovative."

Gary smothered a suspicious sounding cough with his elbow.

Kelsey took the opportunity to turn and wave at someone at a table behind her.

Fine. They were just as bad as she was.

Aiden shoved away from the table and stalked from the room, muttering darkly.

That horrible, awful girl was making his life miserable.

Back at the table, a small smile played about Danielle's slight lips as she stared at the book, but did not read, as she had not throughout the entire exchange.

************************************************

"Varens."

She stopped cold on the spot, a tension that had previously been absent tightening the tendons in her neck as she slowly rotated to face him. The effect was not unpleasant.

Devlin thought, not for the first time, that it was a shame she had become so involved with Dracaena and the rest of the Armed Doves since her transfer from Glorbixon Academy; though they were currently powerful, that wouldn't last forever, and Varens was a member of one of the Founding Families, and pretty, too. She was tall, slender, with breasts just slightly too large for her frame, with long wheat-blonde hair and skin bronzed from the Southern sun.

It didn't hurt that she wore her shirts slightly tighter than was strictly necessary.

"Maerks," she greeted less than warmly, her southern accent doing nothing to belay the chill of her attitude. "What do you want?"

He made sure she saw his eyes rake up her body and smirked.

"Well...."

"Oh, please." She rolled her eyes, tossing her head. "Yeah, you stopped me to tell me you think I'm jack-off material. Duh. Old news." Varens gave him a smirk nearly as good as is own, coupled with a disdainful scan of his own body. "What do you really want?"

Devlin found a new spark of respect for the girl. Enough for him to be earnest with her.

Coming to a decision, he turned slightly and offered his arm.

"Walk with me."

She eyed him with suspicion, but slipped into a comfortable escort position with him, her fingers cool against his bare skin.

"So..." she started.

His lips tugged up at the corners.

"So?" he couldn't resist taunting.

Varens gave him a bored look, fanning the spark of respect.

"Whatever it is you want, I don't have to help you, you know," she informed him flatly. "In fact, I probably won't."

He shrugged as though it didn't matter as they strolled through the large double doors out onto the lawn, the sunshine washing over them. It was a lovely Saturday, although hints of storm clouds could be seen at the edge of the lake.

"I know. But I won't be certain until I try, now will I?"

She nodded grudging acknowledgement and fell silent.

Devlin drank in the sunshine, the nature, and the students studying and playing ultimate as they promenaded past, but Varens's eyes remained locked on his face, her expression perturbed.

He was much more interesting than another beautiful day.

Only when they came to a rest on a dock on the lake, far from the other students, did Devlin finally speak again, his gaze somewhere across the waves.

"I need you to help me become friends with Dracaena."