Authors: Sara Beaman
“Adam, look,
I’m not going to get you in trouble.”
“Yeah, I
did. Once.”
“Were you
successful?”
“Yes.”
She grimaced. “All
right.”
“That’s
a problem, isn’t it?” I asked. “For the Consensus
or whatever?”
“Technically...”
She trailed off. “I mean, did you even know it was a violation
when you did it?”
“No. I had
no idea.”
“All right.
I’m not going to write anything down. Whoever it is, though, it
would be best if you don’t try to call them again. For their
sake more than yours.”
I frowned. What
did she mean by that? I felt for stray thoughts, but her mind was
like a blank slate.
She turned the
page. “All right. We’ve already filled out your lineage,
so all that’s left is your signature,” she said, handing
me the pen and pushing away from the table. “Print your name by
the X, last first middle, then sign and date below.”
I hunched over the
document and printed my name, Fletcher Adam Frederick, on the top
line.
“Hold on,”
she said. “You’re not changing your name?”
“What do you
mean?”
“Weren’t
you planning to change your last name?”
I almost laughed.
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Almost
everyone does. We each take our benefactor’s surname to signify
our inclusion in their branch of the family.”
“That’s
all right,” I said, shaking my head.
“Are you
sure? It’s not just symbolic, you know. It serves a practical
purpose,” she said. “It’ll make it a lot easier for
us to set up a new identity for you, in case you ever want to have a
credit card again, or an apartment, or a job...”
“I’ll
think about it.”
She closed the
portfolio. Leaving it on the desk, she walked into the sitting room
and perched on the arm of the lounge. I watched her from the doorway,
my arms folded across my chest.
“Mind if I
ask you a personal question?” she asked.
“Go ahead.”
“Why won’t
you eat?”
“You mean
food? Or...”
“Let’s
start with blood. You wouldn’t go into the seraglio.”
I looked away,
uncomfortable. “I... I’m afraid I won’t be able to
control myself, and I’ll hurt someone.”
“Is that
all?”
“Isn’t
that reason enough?”
She shrugged.
I found myself
continuing, not knowing the words until they escaped my lips. “It’s
just that... I hate the idea of it. It seems so... brutal, so...”
She nodded
thoughtfully and didn’t comment.
“I guess I
want to pretend I’m still human,” I said. It was close to
the truth without being true. It was too clean, too pat, too trite.
“Do you?”
she asked. “I mean, it seems that if you did, you’d want
to eat food and drink wine and pretend everything was normal.”
“Well...”
I chewed on my lower lip. “I don’t know.”
An awkward silence
fell over the room.
“So what do
you do here?” she asked, maybe just to fill the space. “How
do you spend your nights?”
Why was she asking
so many questions? I wouldn’t have answered if not for the
genuine concern in her voice—well, that and the fact that I
liked looking at her and I wanted her to stay.
“I don’t
do much of anything,” I said, trying not to sound melodramatic.
“Do you have
any interests?”
Drinking? Girls?
Recreational drugs? “I didn’t have time for hobbies
before. Not with my job and everything.”
“Yeah,
but... isn’t there anything you enjoy doing?”
“What do you
mean?” The question seemed almost laughable. “What about
being dead would I enjoy?”
“You’re
in a beautiful mansion full of art and books. The grounds are
incredible,” she said, standing. “If you asked for
anything, I’m positive Julian and Aya would get it for you. And
I mean
anything
.”
This gave me
pause. What would I ask for?
“Isn’t
there anything that you want?” she asked, approaching me.
I couldn’t
think of anything except Elena, but that was a dangerous idea, and
one I certainly couldn’t tell Haruko about, so I merely
shrugged.
“Everyone
wants something,” she insisted, her voice soft.
I looked up into
her dark eyes. She had an expression on her face that I couldn’t
decipher. Perhaps it was pity, or perhaps it was concern, or perhaps
it was simple curiosity.
“I’m
sick of what I want hurting other people,” I blurted out. It
was the truth, and I immediately wanted to apologize for it. I looked
away again, but Haruko put a hand on my cheek and guided my eyes back
to hers.
“You’re
way too hard on yourself,” she said. “It’s like
you’re atoning for something.”
“I probably
killed my fiancée,” I said, fighting to keep my voice
from wavering. “You know that?”
Her hand moved to
my chest. “Yeah, well, I’ve killed more people than I can
count on my fingers. And my toes. On purpose.”
“Is that
supposed to make me feel better?”
She smiled
crookedly. “I refuse to believe you’re all that bad.”
I smiled weakly.
“We all have
to have something that keeps us going, Adam,” she continued in
a low mumble. “A reason to live. Everyone deserves that.”
Looking down at
her hand on my chest, the shallow space between her breasts, I
decided to believe she was right.
She hooked a
finger into my tie and began to pull it loose. My mind raced—how
was this going to work, physically?—but it wasn’t a
question I wanted to ask. She pressed her chest against my solar
plexus, pressed her stomach to my hips, looked down with a grin as my
question answered itself.
I grabbed her hips
and pulled her to the couch, pulled her down on top of me, put my
hands in her hair and pulled her face to mine, kissing her on the
mouth. Her tongue was wet but cold. Her hands went to the hem of her
tank top, arms crossed, and then it was over her head and gone, a
utilitarian black sports bra underneath but it was perfect, it fit
her perfectly. My hands went to the front closure and then it was
gone too. She shrugged it off her shoulders.
“You’re
getting ahead of me,” she said, laughing, but I barely heard
her. My mind was full of her perfect skin, dark almond, soft and
cold. She fumbled with the buttons of my suit shirt as my hands
traveled across her skin, fingertips over her collarbones, her
shoulders, her little breasts, her stomach. Her thighs gripped my
waist and she rocked her hips against mine just once. I couldn’t
stand to wait any longer. I wanted to tear her jeans off.
My shirt came off
first, then my belt, then my pants and boxers. In the end, she took
the jeans off herself, standing as I sat watching. I leaned forward,
kissed her stomach, pulled her underwear down to her knees. It fell
to the floor. She stood over me then, just for a moment, naked,
another inscrutable expression on her face—contentment, or
nostalgia, or perhaps even affection—framed by the soft cascade
of her black hair.
{Kate}
I wake up with a
start, aroused to the point of discomfort. I should not—
should
not
—have
seen what I just saw. But I did see it, and feel it, and... and now I
feel jealous of Haruko, jealous it was her and not me.
I want to slap
myself. That was what? Twenty years ago?
God! Why do I care
how long ago it was? I don’t want to have sex with him. I
don’t!
I sit up and look
around. Aya is sleeping on the other cot, and Adam must be sitting up
in the other room; light comes in through the open door. I need to
calm down before I go out and see him. And I need to pray that he
can’t already hear what I’m thinking through these thin
walls.
I’m kind of
surprised that they can have sex like normal people. I’d
assumed that feeding was all they got in that regard, judging from
how Adam seemed so miserable all the time. Could he make a human girl
pregnant? Oh, weird. Can female revenants get pregnant?
I shove my hands
into my eyes. No. No no no. These are not things I need to consider.
Deep breaths.
I put my feet on
the floor and sit alone on the cot for minutes before I walk into the
sitting room, thinking of England, of giant squids, of anything other
than cold smooth naked skin and...
“Kate? It’s
the middle of the day. What are you doing awake?”
Can’t
sleep.
“Weren’t
you just sleeping?”
Yes, well. I
woke up.
I recall something
else from the dream. He was born in 1954? Oh, God. He’s old
enough to be my father.
“This
matters why?”
No. No reason.
Nothing.
I’ll be
damned if I don’t see the tiniest smile hit his lips, one of
deep amusement and satisfaction. He knows. I know he knows.
He forces a
straight face and shrugs. “I’ve been dead since nineteen
ninety two,” he offers.
What was happening
to me in 1992, I wonder? The passport said I was born in 1980, so I
was in elementary school, I guess. Shit. I’m thirty years old?
“Kate, are
you feeling all right?”
I slump down on
the couch and cross my arms over my chest.
I’m
fine.
And there’s
the little smile again. I look away and try not to blush.
Adam,
I think, knowing it’s not a great idea,
so,
you and Haruko...
“Yes?”
I make a face.
You’re
not still together, are you?
“No. Of
course not.”
But you were
together at some point.
“’
Together’
is perhaps too strong a word.”
I feel my cheeks
flush. God damn it! I’m so transparent.
“Would you
prefer we talk about something else?” he asks.
Yes.
I shove the heels of my hands against the tops of my thighs.
I’m
sorry I asked. I’m being rude.
“Don’t
be sorry. Ask me whatever you want.” That smile again. “You’re
not going to embarrass me, Kate.”
Never mind.
Let’s just... I don’t know, let’s recover one of my
memories or something.
“I can’t,”
he says, the smile fading. “I gave Tara a lot of my blood. When
I get much lower than this, I get... detached, and I start making
poor decisions. Then I start to lose track of things as they happen,
and... anyway, it’s a bad idea.”
Oh.
“I’m
sorry,” he says with genuine regret. “As soon as we get
on the road again—“
No, it’s
fine. I feel fine.
He says nothing.
Let’s
talk about something else,
I
suggest.
“Such as?”
I don’t
know. Tell me a story or something.
He laughs. “All
right. Do you care about what?”
I shake my head
no.
“Let’s
see...” He looks into the darkness of the guest room and nods
slightly to himself. “Let me tell you a story about something
important, in that case. Something you might want to know in the
future.”