by Tracy Wolff
“You mean they aren’t all the same?” I ask, a little surprised by the idea that wings are so different at the core. I guess I thought it was like anything else—hair, eyes, skin. They’re available in different colors, but when it comes down to important things, they’re the same. They’re all made up of the same biological matter and they all function the same way. The idea that wings aren’t like that is surprisingly fascinating.
Then again, judging by the look on Flint’s face, he’s even more surprised that I assumed they are. “Of course they’re different,” he says. “Dragon wings have to support a creature that weighs thousands of pounds. Pixie wings support creatures who can fit in the palm of your hand. And it’s not just about size—we fly completely differently, too.”
“What do you mean? Isn’t flying flying?”
“Not even a little bit. Pixies can hover over whatever they want for long periods of time. Dragons’ wings are built for speed and distance, while pixies’ wings are built for easy maneuverability. Because pixies are so much smaller and slower—even though their wings flap faster—they can change direction on a dime, while it takes us time to slow down enough to bank hard left or right.”
“So,” I say as we turn down a fairly empty hallway. “I have a question.”
“Will I help you learn to fly? Of course I will. It’ll be so much fun.” Flint grins. “Plus, we still have those pictures for Mr. Damasen to finish.”
“Oh, right. I’m sorry; I totally blanked on that.” I roll my eyes at myself. “Too much going on in my head, I guess. Maybe we can do it this weekend?”
“Yeah, sure. Just let me know what works for you.”
“Great, thanks. And I’m sure I’ll want to take you up on the flying lessons.” I mean, I still can’t believe that I can fly. Me. Under my own power. Because I’m a gargoyle, I mean. When the whole “I have wings” thing came up earlier, the implication of being able to fly was there. But to think about it, to imagine Flint giving me lessons on how not to die while doing it… It’s more than a little overwhelming.
Instead, I focus on something else. Giving the idea time to settle can’t be a bad thing.
“But speaking of flying, I actually had a different question,” I say to Flint.
He turns amused eyes my way. “Yes?”
“You mentioned pixies. How many other species are out there? Are there a lot of other creatures that aren’t at Katmere, ones that I don’t even know exist?”
“Definitely.” He grins. “More than you could ever imagine.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with that.
My surprise must show, because Flint lifts a brow at me. “Was that not the answer you were looking for?”
“I don’t know—I just… What other kinds of creatures are there? And why aren’t they at Katmere?”
“Because Katmere’s teachers specialize in dragons, werewolves, vampires, and witches,” Flint tells me. “There are other schools out there that specialize in other magical creatures.”
There goes my mind, blowing up all over again. “Like…?”
“Like in Hawaii, there’s a school that specializes in water shifters.”
“Water shifters?” I repeat.
“Yes,” Flint answers with a laugh. He must know what I’m thinking, because he adds, “Mermaids are real. So are selkies and nereids and sirens, among other things.”
“Seriously?” I ask.
“Seriously.” He shakes his head in obvious amusement. “You look dazzled.”
“I feel dazzled.”
“Vegas has Ceralean,” Hudson adds from near my head. “It’s a school for succubi, among others.”
Out of all the mythological creatures, that’s what you come at me with? I give an exaggerated eye roll. A creature known for its sexual appetites?
“Hey, I was just adding to your knowledge base.” The look he gives me is so innocent that I’m amazed he doesn’t have a halo sparkling…right around his feet. “You’re the one who asked.”
I don’t even bother to say anything this time. I just roll my eyes again…at least until I realize Flint is staring at me like he suddenly thinks something is really wrong with me. I’m proven right when he asks, “Umm, do you have something in your eye?”
“Yeah, I just got some dirt in there or something.” I rub my eye. “All better.”
“Really? Dirt in your eye?” Hudson makes a disgusted noise. “Nice to know where I stand.”
Somewhere below an eyelash and above pink eye.
He cracks up, and the sound of it nearly stops me in my tracks. For a guy who’s such a jerk, he’s got a surprisingly nice laugh.
Flint and I turn one more corner, and I’m so busy arguing with Hudson in my head that I don’t realize Jaxon is waiting by my classroom door until I almost run into him.
“You okay?” he asks at the same time Flint says, “Whoa.”
“I’m fine,” I tell them both a little heatedly, annoyed at the way they keep frowning at me in concern. They should try balancing multiple conversations at the same time—especially when one is in their head, where no one else can hear it or keep up.
“Let’s be real,” Hudson says. “It’s not like either of them would be able to keep up even if they could hear. The two of them are more brawn than brain, if you ask me.”
It’s so blatantly untrue that I don’t even bother to get offended. Instead, I poke him back because I can…and because riling him up is too much fun not to at least try. You’re just jealous because you don’t have any brawn at the moment.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m jealous of.”
There’s something fleeting in his tone that gives me pause, but it’s gone so fast that I don’t have a chance to figure out what it is.
Plus, Flint chooses just then to say, “I’ve got to get to class. But hit me up about those flying lessons soon. You’re going to need them for Ludares.”
I wave at Flint, then lean forward and slide my arms around Jaxon’s waist and smile up at him as he does the same. “Sorry I missed out on seeing you at breakfast this morning. I was so tired, I didn’t wake up until fifteen minutes before class started.”
He smiles back. “That’s actually why I stopped by. I thought you might want to meet me at the library after art. I have to make up a midterm from yesterday during lunch today, but I thought we could spend some time tonight researching how to kill the Unkillable Beast.”
“Awww, how cute. Little Jaxy-Waxy wants a study date.” Hudson sneers.
“Are you serious right now?” I demand. “Leave your brother alone.”
Jaxon looks over his shoulder at the empty hallway I’m currently yelling at and then raises an eyebrow at me.
I shrug and just say, “Hudson.”
Jaxon’s eyes narrow, but he nods. What else can he do?
Hudson leans against the stone wall, next to another huge tapestry depicting an army of dragons in massive metal armor soaring over a small village. It’s terrifying and exhilarating at the same time, and I make a mental note to look at it more closely after class.
“I’ve got a better idea,” Hudson says as he readjusts, crossing his arms and resting the bottom of his foot against the wall. “Why don’t you leave my brother alone for a little while? Watching the two of you make goo-goo eyes at each other is nauseating.”
“Give me a break. Pretty sure you need a body to be nauseated.”
Hudson shrugs. “I guess that just goes to show how disgusting the two of you really are.”
Refusing to be drawn in to yet another argument with Hudson, I refocus on Jaxon, only to find him staring at me with a frown on his face. “Sorry,” I tell him sheepishly. “Your brother has a big mouth.”
“That’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one,” Jaxon agrees with a nod of his head.
A ra
ndom thought occurs to me. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you… Why does Hudson have a British accent but you don’t?”
Jaxon shrugs. “Our parents are British.”
I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. Which says everything, I suppose. What must that feel like, to have had so little to do with your parents that you don’t even have the same accent? I can’t imagine, and it breaks my heart for him all over again.
“Of course. We should all feel bad for the boy not raised by the two most vain people on the planet,” Hudson snarks.
I ignore him, then change the subject with Jaxon. “I would love to meet you in the library after I’m done in the art room. Does six o’clock work?”
He nods. “Sounds perfect.” But when he leans down to kiss me, Hudson makes such an obnoxious gagging sound that there’s no way I can actually go through with it.
I duck my head and Jaxon sighs, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he presses a kiss to the top of my head and says, “I’ll see you then.”
“Okay.”
I watch him go, but the second he makes it around the corner, I turn on Hudson. “Seriously? Was the gagging really necessary?”
He resorts to the British stiff upper lip. “You have no idea how necessary.”
“You do realize that you are completely ridiculous, don’t you?”
Hudson looks like he doesn’t know what to say about that—or even how to feel about it. Half offended, half amused, all intrigued—it’s an interesting look on him, even before he says, “Well, that’s a new one. No one’s ever called me that before.”
“Maybe because they’ve never actually met you.”
I expect a snappy comeback, but instead there’s a contemplative silence for several seconds. Eventually, though, he murmurs, “Perhaps you’re right.”
I don’t know what to say after that, and I think maybe he doesn’t, either, because silence stretches between us—the longest silence there’s ever been, in fact, when one of us isn’t sleeping.
I do an about-face and head into class, leaving Hudson still leaning against the wall.
Something tells me the Physics of Flight isn’t exactly going to be the class I excel in, so I find a seat at the back of the classroom. I wait for Hudson to join me, but he actually does what I asked for once and leaves me alone.
Too bad.
40
Survival Is So
Last Year
“You should absolutely compete.” Class is nearly over, so I’m shocked when I hear Hudson’s voice next to me. “Thanks for saving me a seat, by the way.”
I’m sitting in the back of the room because the last thing I want is to draw attention to myself in a class I’m two months behind in—and definitely not because there are empty seats on both sides of me.
“Compete in what?” I mutter to him under my breath, but I’m not really paying attention to his answer. I’m too busy trying to scribble down notes that might as well be another language.
“Ludares. Although, it’s really just an excuse for everyone to try to kill one another doing really dangerous stuff.” He does a quick, “people are weird” eyebrow lift. “Most popular day of the year here at Katmere. Especially among the shifters.”
“Well, of course. I mean, when you put it like that, who wouldn’t want to take part in it? I mean, survival is so last decade.”
He laughs. “Exactly.”
I try to get back into Mr. Marquez’s lecture, but by now I’ve lost even the faint thread of what’s going on, so I decide to just snap a few pics of the lecture notes instead of actually trying to decipher them. If I can’t figure them out on my own later, I’ll ask Flint for help.
“Or you could ask me?” Hudson says a little sardonically. “I may be a”—he moves his fingers in the universal symbol for air quotes—“‘psychopath,’ but I’m a psychopath who got a ninety-eight in this class.”
“You took this class? Why?” A thought occurs to me. “Can you fly like Jaxon?”
“You make him sound like Superman.” Hudson rolls his eyes. “He can’t actually fly.”
“You get what I mean.” I wave a hand. “Whenever he does…whatever it is he does. If you don’t call it flying, what do you call it?”
“He’s got telekinesis. He floats. You know, like a blimp.”
That startles a laugh out of me. I mean, the description is awful, but it’s also kind of hilarious imagining Jaxon just floating around the top of sports stadiums like the Goodyear Blimp.
“It’s a good picture, isn’t it?” Hudson smiles slyly.
“It’s an absurd picture and you know it. Your brother is amazing.”
“So you keep telling me.”
The bell rings, and I pause our conversation long enough to pack up my things and make my way into the hall. It’s lunchtime, and normally I’d try to find Macy, but the thought of going into the cafeteria right now is too much for me.
Everyone staring at me. Judging me. And finding me wanting. At this rate, I’m probably going to have to repeat my senior year, too.
The whole thing sucks. It just sucks. And I think about getting it over with. Just walking into the cafeteria, standing on a table, and announcing to everyone that I’m responsible for Hudson being back. Oh, and by the way, the rumors are true. I totally make a kick-ass statue.
It would probably be better to just get it over with quickly, kind of like ripping off a Band-Aid. But I’m so tired right now and everything that’s happened is pressing down on me, making me feel like I might crumble at any second.
I hesitate in the hallway, my gaze meeting Hudson’s, and it seems like he doesn’t know what I should do, either. His uncertainty has me wobbling on my feet before I shake it off and turn in the other direction.
I grab a pack of peanut butter crackers out of the nearest vending machine and head out to the art studio to get to work on my painting that I’m behind on now. Hopefully, a few extra hours down there will help me kick my funk mood, too.
The rest of the afternoon goes by pretty uneventfully, as long as you count Hudson talking nonstop uneventful. He’s got an opinion on everything—even things no normal person should have an opinion on.
He thinks the art teacher looks like a flamingo in her hot-pink dress. And while he’s not wrong, it’s hard to focus on what she’s saying with that picture in my head now.
He’s convinced T. S. Eliot shouldn’t be included in British Literature because he was born in Missouri—I get an hour-long diatribe about that particular offense.
And right now…right now he’s arguing about the way that I mix black paint.
“I’m in your head so I know you’re not blind, Grace. How can you possibly think that’s an attractive shade of black?”
I stare at the color in question and then mix just the barest hint of blue into it. Partly because I want to and partly because I know it will upset Hudson even more. And after the last four hours, I’m all about pissing him off any way I can. Payback’s a bitch like that.
“It’s subtle and I like that.” I dab a little on my canvas, and it’s still not quite where I want it, so I go back and add just a touch more of midnight blue.
Hudson throws his hands into the air. “I give up. You’re impossible.”
Thankfully, I’m the only student left in the art room, so I don’t have to worry about other people thinking I’m talking to the stool next to me. “I’m impossible? You’re the one throwing a hissy fit about my painting.”
“I am not throwing a hissy fit.” I can tell he’s offended—all the crisp British syllables are back in his voice, even as he stretches his legs out in front of him. “I am merely trying to provide some artistic feedback based on my long history of art appreciation—”
“Oh, here we go again.” I roll my eyes. “If you bring up the fact that you’re old one more time—�
�
“I am not old! I’m older. Vampires are immortal, in case you’ve forgotten, so you can’t judge our age the same way you judge human age.”
“Sounds to me a lot like a justification for getting around the fact that you’re old as dirt.” I know that I’m poking a caged bear, know that he’s going to end up taking my head off if I keep needling him, but I can’t help it. He totally deserves it after everything he’s done to annoy me.
From the beginning, he’s had the upper hand during most of our arguments, and now that I’ve found something that bugs him, I can’t help rubbing it in a little. That probably makes me a terrible person, but I’ve had a psychopath inside my head for nearly four months, so I figure I can’t totally be to blame for this new mean streak of mine.
“You know what? Do whatever you want with the black. The fact that it’s dull and is going to ruin your painting is your problem—”
“I’m sorry, could you say that a little louder, please?” I put a hand to my ear in the universal “I can’t hear you” gesture.
“I said it’s dull.”
“No, not that part. The part about it being my painting. Mine. Can you say that again?”
“Whatever,” he huffs. “I was just trying to help.”
“Yeah, I know. What is it about guys that always makes them want to help—even when no one is asking for it?”
“Do what you want,” he answers, and when he doesn’t say anything else, I think maybe I’ve gone too far. But when I sneak a quick peek at his face, I realize he’s working almost as hard as I am not to grin. Which is absurd, I know. I want him out of my head more than anything, but I have to admit that now that he can’t take control of my body anymore, arguing with him is a ridiculous amount of fun.
With that thought in mind, I grab the darkest red I can find and mix a glob of it into my black. And then wait for the explosion.
It takes about five seconds, which is four seconds longer than I expected, but then Hudson all but screeches, “Are you kidding me with this? Are you trying to blind me?” and I know I’ve scored a direct hit. Another point for me.