I: Rey
let's kill tonight
Morning. Rain, pattering against the ceiling – unfortunate, that our dorm's on the top floor. A rustling of the covers. A groggy sigh.
"It's four in the morning."
"It is way too early for me to put up with your complaining."
Slipping into loose shorts and a t-shirt. A hand combing through dark hair, minus the mirror. Lacing up tennis shoes.
"It's raining outside."
"If I melt, you can have my X-Box."
"That's my X-Box."
"After I melt, it is."
A jacket zipped. Granola bars, stuffed in my pockets. A cell phone lighting up. An iPod powered on.
"Classes start at eight."
"It's not gonna take me all day to run a few miles, dios mio."
An open door.
"No blood this time."
Silence.
Like always.
I love to run.
I love the way my feet pound on the ground, a steady rhythm that neither fades nor increases. I love the feeling of making progress, even if Point A and Point B are technically only a few feet apart from one another and I'm just running in circles. I love the head rush that I get every time. I love the ache in my legs and the labor of my breath and the pain that is most definitely real and here and now. I love the here. I love the present. I love existence.
I run past the Hilshire Dorm, which 1. is a girl's dorm that's very inappropriately named because 2. the shire is a place in J.R. Tolkein's Lord of the Rings, which 3. no girl at Abattoir Private School is intelligent enough to so much as look at, so 4. it should be the name of the boy's dorm instead, because 5. the boy's dorm is named Cady Heron Hall, which 6. is way, way more inappropriate. Next to the girls' dorm is a stop sign, and past that nothing for eight miles.
I run halfway down and then turn back around when I see the gnarled weeping willow on the four mile mark. I measured out the distances on the road back when I started to attend school here – over a year ago, now that I think about it – and if they're inaccurate, then there's no one to tell me so. I've memorized the grooves and scenery and the smells in the autumn rain.
The dead dog is new, though.
+x+
My name is Rey Cabrera and there are a few things you should know about me.
1. I like lists. Top tens, world records, country names, whatever. I don't know why. It's probably because 2. I like having control over things, only 3. I rarely do because I'm a sixteen-year-old whose parents aren't even ciudadandos del Estados Unidos. Speaking of my parents, they are 4. currently living somewhere in Chihuahua, Mexico, only 5. I'm not allowed to have any contact with them because 6. they were illegals and I'm a citizen and they officially gave up rights when they decided to leave me here in hope that I'd have a better life than I would with them. 7. This hasn't worked very well, because 8. I see monsters and 9. I also sometimes see the future.
When I say 'see the future', I don't mean that I can map out anyone's life ever; that would be too much power – I'd go insane. Occasionally, though, I get flashes. For example, I am 100% certain that Antoine is going to eat eggs for breakfast in exactly two days' time, and I'm also 100% certain that we will be separated but then meet again and this time there will be a girl with us. (I am not sure how this makes me feel.) The thing about the future, though, is that it's very volatile – it can change on a dime, so I can't get anything too far ahead because it's too whimsical, too unclear; I can only get things that will happen relatively soon.
I can't see anything related to myself, either. I think it's more to keep me safe than anything else, because knowing your future is never a good thing; you'll want to alter it to suit your needs and that never works. But the longer I spend with someone, the more I know about them.
And I think that is a great way for me to lead you into a list about Antoine, because he's kind of an asshole and you never want to meet assholes without some preparation beforehand.
Antoine is 1. my best friend in the entire world, and he has been since he was eight years old when 2. he ran away from his foster home and we met in an alleyway. 3. Technically speaking, he's half-French, but 4. he's never met either of his parents so 5. his accent is totally fake and not at all attractive. 6. He is a pretty average looking, despite the fact that 7. he has heterochromatic eyes, which means that they're different colors and 8. he uses them to creep people out and it always works. 9. I happen to be sexually attracted to him, which is bad because 10. Antoine is the only fake Frenchman who is completely straight. Also, 11. he drinks coffee black. I don't know why. He just does.
For the moment, I think that's all you need to know. There are other things, but…I'm not ready to talk about them. I'm barely ready to talk about some of the things I've already mentioned.
And just trust me on this one: some things are meant to be secrets.
+x+
The dog smells like mierda.
I wrinkle my nose at it even as I lean down to get a closer look. It's pretty clearly dead, from the way its intestines are strewn across the nearby ditch, but I don't see how – no hands could've torn it open like that, and I don't see any weapons nearby. I take a moment to give the forest a paranoid look, but Wynne, Arkansas isn't exactly crawling with large animals, especially not any with claws. I hesitate. Context clues, I think, but there's nothing to help me and I'm no detective.
According to my phone, I have exactly twenty minutes to get back and I'm still a mile and a half away. I snap a quick picture on the cell, stuff it in my pocket, hop over the decaying animal and continue my jog back.
Antoine's waiting with our books and a half-chilled omelet; I slow and take it gratefully, swallowing a good chunk almost automatically. "Geez, I might've vanted zat," he grumbles as I pop an earbud out.
"I'll be honest, I don't actually give a shit." I practically attack my breakfast, polishing it off within a few minutes as he watches with morbid curiosity. "Isn't it a little early for the faux French getup?"
"You're no fun," he pouts, but he drops the accent anyway as we start to walk to first class. Like I said, Antoine's pretty average-looking – sandy brown hair, a head or so taller than me, one eye blue and one eye brown, tan complexion and low cheekbones. I spend a disproportionate amount of time memorizing everything about his appearance, enough that I have to look away with a red face even now, with his eyes burning curiously into my neck.
He doesn't push it, though. Instead he changes the subject. "So I got a new rap started this morning," he tells me, dumping both the books in my hands so that he can twine his fingers behind his head. His tone is casual enough, but his eyes flicker to the floor and stay there. "Couldn't get back to sleep after your early-bird thing. Again."
"Sorry," I say apathetically. "What's the new rap about?"
And his eyes light up, like it's his entire purpose in life to tell me about his newest rap and if he doesn't do it he will absolutely die. Have you ever watched someone talk about something they're so passionate about they do it daily? Ever talk to an author about writing, or an artist about their art? If you haven't, you need to. It's eye-opening. It's beautiful.
He's beautiful.
And it's moments like this that I can see it and it hurts and we need to get off that track ASAP. I've seen some of Antoine's future. I definitely don't want to get romantically involved.
He talks for so long that I forget completely about the dog, but I'm fascinated anyway and when he stops, uncertainty painted on his face, I urge him to go on. I catch a glimpse of us in the glass door that's the entrance to the school – Antoine practically glowing and looking gorgeous, and me next to him, black hair, brown eyes, too short and painfully unnoticeable. I blend into crowds often. Antoine says it's my best quality. (He also tells me I'm the 'short and angry' type, which I don't believe, so don't take everything he says to heart.)
"So I've talked for long enough," he cuts himself off for the fourth time. "Any news on the running front?"
"Nothing much." I think for a moment and then it comes back. "There was a dead dog."
"What?"
I show him the picture and explain what I saw. He gapes for a moment and then sucks in a breath. "That – "
"Sucks, I know," I sigh, shrugging closer into my shirt as a pre-autumn chill settles.
"No, man, you gotta stop being so pessimistic. That's a mystery!" he grins, rubbing his hands together.
I look at him skeptically as we enter the school. "Alright, Sherlock, so what do we do now?"
He doesn't get the chance to respond; we both stop short at the same time, frozen like criminals caught in the act. He sniffs at the air, nose wrinkling, while my eyes glaze over and I scope the room out mentally. "Monster?" I ask.
"Demigod." His nose scrunches up. "Weird one, though. Smells…deader. Can you tell who it is? I can never hone in."
I search the room studiously – if he hasn't picked up his French accent again by now, something seriously dangerous is nearby. It only takes me a few moments before I see her – long brown hair and dark green eyes. I've never seen her before, but she's talking to a gaggle of girls as if they've been best friends forever. She's pretty, in a childishly round-faced sort of way, but something about her is dark and everything about her screams 'run while you can'.
"Her," I say, pointing to a girl I've seen in my visions eight thousand times – a girl whose destiny is so intertwined with Antoine's (and mine), I've actually learned her name from what I've seen. "Meg."
His entire face scrunches up, as if he's allergic to the name. "Should we confront her?" he asks tersely, prepared for whatever order I give. We've only run across a demigod once before, and they didn't seem to noticed us, distracted though they were with fighting the minotaur (and losing).
I open my mouth to respond, but before I can the glass doors behind us shatter; shards fly inwards and impale themselves in arms and legs. There is a moment of shocked silence before somebody screams and then there is movement everywhere, people scattering to escape something – and I turn to find her staring me straight in the face.
The first thing I notice is that she's quite possibly the sexiest woman I've ever seen in my life, as if she's a model who's walked straight out of the photoshop and into the real world. Her dress is tight and revealing, and her make-up is flawless.
Also, her hair's on fire.
I stumble backwards, and Antoine manages to catch me before I fall; I can hear him fumbling for a weapon and cursing himself for leaving his gun back at the dorm. "Um." My brain is short-circuiting. "Um. I. Que?"
She gives me a grin that's halfway between delighted and pained. "Hello, mortal," she purrs. "How are you?"
I gape for a moment before grabbing Antoine's sleeve, turning, and sprinting. "If you don't have a weapon," I yell at the girl – Meg – "I suggest you run."
She shakes herself out of her reverie, gives us a cursory glance, and then gestures for us to come closer. I hesitate skeptically – I've just met her, why would I trust her? – but Antoine, ever the optimist, drags me over anyways. She flips something open.
She has a switchblade. She has a switchblade that is clearly made of something that is not regular metal. Why is that lady not attacking us yet?
There's a crashing sound and I turn.
On this back of the most beautiful monster I've ever seen is a curly-haired man who's piggy-back riding her like it's a rodeo. He gives us a pained grin and a thumbs up. "Got it under control!" he calls. "Get to class!"
After taking a moment to realize that yes, this guy is just that stupid, I turn back to the girl and resign myself to trusting her. "How many of those you got?"
"Just two." She thrusts one into my hand and almost impales me in the process; she offers the second one to Antoine, but he just shakes his head. He has his own ways of protecting himself. She shrugs. "Suit yourself. Not on my conscience if you die."
"Everyone's a critic," he grumbles. "Alright. Game plan?"
"Wing it," I say.
"I sure hope you're stronger than you look," she tells us.
Antoine grins and gives us some jazz hands. "Let's give 'er hell."
And with that, we charge.
+x+
may your feet serve you well and the rest be sent to hell
where they always have belonged – cold hearts brew colder songs
they will play us out to a song of pure romance
stomp your feet and clap your hands
lets kill tonight
+x+
authors note
so you remember that thing that happened where I wasn't dead
yeah that's still happening
aND IM WRITING A NOVEL WHAT WOW AMAZING
so yes, this will be updating frequently throughout November, and by frequently I mean either every day or every other day. were doing this man. were making this happen.
I understand that im probably going to face a lot of criticism/lack of readers for adding three original characters, but I like to think theyre vaguely interesting so when you tell me whats wrong with them please be constructive instead of "OMGZ EVERYTHING ABOUT THEM SUX" please?