| THE HUMAN CONDITION |

Chapter XXIII: Shit's Creek

"We are all capable of doing every terrible
thing that we are capable of doing."

Mokokoma Mokhonoana


THE DOOR EASED ITSELF ajar upon my push, the lock clicking open with just a little twist and pull from the key Billy gave me. The lights were shut off, my fingers mindlessly feeling around in the darkness for the switch. After several tries with no luck, my fingertips grazed a bump on the wall. I froze and backtracked, finding a switch was the origin of the bump, my mind a jumbled mess of the possibilities. I tossed a finger up decisively.

Fluorescent light spread through the room, every object from the cabinet desk to the file stacks over under the windowsill under fire. I let the door shut behind me, but it kept open with a creak, disobeying my mute order.

Secretly, quietly search was the agenda, no witnesses was the safety measure. I kicked my foot blindly backwards, the breakable wood emitting a loud slam that made me wince. Good thing old places like this kept old. No security cameras. No one wanted to break into an archive, anyway.

I tucked my key into my back pants pocket and set to work.

Out of the window came daylight, shining like a candle in a sealed room. It was a treasure as I got to sifting through documents. My greedy hands went straight to the aged desk drawers, knowing they were most likely for Archives entries. Written thoughts were almost sacred to an archivist—history in the making if I aimed to flatter.

I was shit out of luck there. The only useful information I found were leaflets for the reserve's history and a journal that, upon thumbing a few pages, revealed itself to be a self-made dictionary translating Quileute from English, English from Quileute. There were no folders containing journal entries from any time period, not Arcus's time or the decades before. I searched through the next three drawers and I expected a different outcome; nothing came out of my pursuit.

Truthfully, I expected to find what I was looking for in that first drawer. It was a disappointment that unsettled me when expectations were met with the opposite.

"Goddammit, you old asshole," I muttered to myself, taking out my frustration on the air. I wandered over to the far wall, feet from the windowsill, where I again used my fingers to go through a cabinet of files. "Where'd you put your files if they're not at your stupid desk?"

Obvious answer: he'd hidden them.

The obvious answer was the in-your-face answer, and usually it was stupid. This one ticked the mark excellently. Why would my father, the council emissary and seasoned archivist, hide entry journals when he had to write his own every day? When he was checking back to compare this generation to the last?

I scoffed. Why is nothing easy?

After digging through a stack of files he had stuffed in a cube, I gave up. I went to his desk and took a defeated seat at his chair, slumping deep into the velvet cushion. There were so many questions this venture had the ability to answer—where nothing else ever would.

"Alissa, what are you expecting to accomplish?" Arcus asked from the corner he'd been standing in the entire time.

Ugh, I was living just fine without him speaking.

My arms sunk into the chestnut desktop and my cheeks fattened against my palms, I looked over. "What are you doing here stalking me?" I retorted. "Didn't you say you'd come back on the next full moon? Today's not that day, you tool."

Arcus made to lean against the bookcase behind him, and I snorted when he stumbled through it, disappearing into the room over.

Seconds passed without him reappearing. I felt no concern whatsoever.

Then a flustered face popped through the shelf, Arcus's dark, lustrous hair falling in his eyes as he less clumsily returned. "I'm still getting used to this," he said sheepishly.

I eyed him up and down. "Yeah, I see that."

He ignored the disdain dripping from my words, getting over his stumble with grace. I returned to facing the desk when his feet began moving in my direction.

He stopped a few feet beside me. His footsteps were unheard, but I did look over when I felt like something was directly behind me. Indeed, there is something, I thought upon seeing his grizzly, friendly mug.

"Why are you here?" he asked me softly, his translucent hand hovering above the back of my chair. "What do you seek from raiding your father's papers?"

"Something happened to Dad when Taha Aki healed him," I said, knowing Arcus didn't have the luxury of a human host; he couldn't run to those closest to me and disclose my deepest, darkest secrets I chose to confine. He was a safety net; what I threw, he couldn't throw back. No potential ricochet I had to account for. "I don't know what yet. I thought I'd find something here, but…"

Arcus wasn't a fool. "You wanted to come find any potential records of a healing circumstance," he finished for me.

I nodded.

His expression pinched, like he was deeply thinking. "Many of my entries have slipped my mind, as many years have passed since I penned them. I had them in my drawers, but I can't be sure where your father would think to do his own organizing. Try again. They're here somewhere, Alissa, and they may have what you seek."

He disappeared without even a pop. I stared at the empty spot he left but quickly pulled myself together, standing up to do as he said and try again. Until something caught my eye.

was written in poorly carved bold letters on one of the journals Dad apparently had been using when he last came to the office.

I went still, a ball forming in my throat.

While one hand went to shakily take the journal, another hand went to sweep off all the miscellaneous pens, pencils, erasers, maps, leaflets, and miniature journals from the desktop. I evaded the lamp settled on the northern-east end, my eyes entirely focused on what my left hand held.

It was a vintage-looking journal, void of dust but smelling distinctly like an abandoned house. It was encased in leather with two or three staples keeping the back attached to the inside pages. I went fast in untying the little burlap rope circling the middle. There was nothing telling me how to do it, what to do so my fingers picked a page and went to it. The middle—a good place to start for anything, right?

My eardrums pounded with the imagining of a rapid heartbeat, but it's like they stuffed with cotton at what I found. The entire middle section of the journal was ripped out. One tear had a single word dipped in blue ink I could just make out: "perspirations."

"That's helpful," I said aloud, so low that only I could hear. There was no one around. I was still paranoid, afraid that anything could happen. Safety measures, safety measures, safety measures…

No witnesses.

The door to the office came open with a swing that hit the residing shelf and blew my entire composure to smithereens.

It was Dad.

Richard.

He stood with ram-rod posture and his eyes were in slits, only for me, staring straight through me, painful.

'Perspirations' came to mind. I was perspiring here and now, with sweat.

I hastily hid the journal in my shirt. "O-Oh hey, Dad, what are you doing here? So crazy… seeing you here. I thought you were bedridden?"

Without uttering a word, observing me coolly, he lifted his shirt. The skin on his chest, scarred from lesions but otherwise intact, was meant to taunt me. That's how I took it.

I swallowed, pulling my gaze back up to meet those hollow brown eyes of his. "Awesome. Sue did an awesome job. Can I leave now?"

"Hand over the book, Alissa," he said instead of giving me his blessing. He was in front of the desk before I could take the deep breath I desperately needed to smother my anxieties. This felt like a horror movie, but I had a record to fulfill of me making dumb moves like the idiot blonde girl. I stubbornly kept the journal covered by my shirt, defiantly staring death in the eyes. All until his look went tauter and deadlier. Cold like a tombstone. "Now."

Wordlessly, I pulled it out and reached as far as I could get without exercising my limit in stretching. Our fingers touched. Feeling startled, I jerked my hands back into my bubble.

My hands went to fiddling with the ridges in my shirt, as I did when I really, really hated my situation. I did it a lot in Mr. Meadows's office. "What are you doing here?"

He eyeballed me, the question apparently a stupid one to ask a man who spent most of his days in this office. "I'm here for a portfolio."

"On what?"

There was something unnerving about his tone when he said, "Tribe meetings."

Additional to being the connection between our ancestors and their descendants, he played scribe at council gatherings. He had the faster hand when it came to writing.

He's like you, you know… he isn't friends with any of them. He's an outsider.

Outsider…

That's what we were. Out of the norm, complete anomalies on a DNA strand, running parallel where the pack went in circles.

I could feel a burden of frustration wash over me, and anything I wanted to say, the words just rung around my head in a smog chamber. There wasn't any throbbing impulse that'd die before those words went unsaid. I didn't know what to say.

"Huh," I said, glancing down at the journal now in his possession. He carefully wrapped his fingers around it like a new leather glove would on a hand, as though he saw where my eyes were directed and he had to deter me from stealing the journal back. God, there was that unanswerable question dogging my mind: why were the pages ripped away? Who had the incentive to do that? Why?

He had something to hide. Open books didn't paste stone charades over easy posture. Not that he ever had that to begin with. The tense shoulders and curled upper lip made me nervous—and being nervous made me suspicious.

I narrowed my eyes at his silence. "You gonna apologize for choking me or what?"

That was not exactly what I first intended on saying… yeah, no.

His expression jumped. I watched in bemusement as it fucking melted into a written apology made of facial features. Like it wasn't there in the first place, it shifted back to a stone-made resolve. "You overstepped," he said.

I gaped before bursting out laughing. "Really? Really? Going that route is just asking for trouble, Richie. You putting your hand on my throat and me telling you you're a shit father are two totally different situations. You're pushing your own luck saying that bull."

Nothing, not even a frown or a flinch. "Sue's released me from her care," he said, tersely turning around. I stiffened and stared at his back where muscles rippled at his shoulder blades. "I'll be driving."

"Um, repeat that for me," I said. Bewildered, that's what I was. He'd be driving? Where was that in my begrudging agreement he could have Arcus's journal back? Yeah, fucking nowhere, thank you.

He peered over his shoulder, eyes at a deep, threatening slant. "It's my car, is it not? You're only borrowing it."

"And you're only alive because Taha Aki wanted your stupid ass to be. Funny how the world works," I told him, my survival instincts shot to Hell. I didn't appreciate him waltzing in and picking whatever instances he wanted to play father. A full-time job was a full-time job; the fucker fired himself.

Dad, Richard, whoever he was gave an incline of his head at the door. "I'm not going to play this game with you. Give me my keys."

I got out of his chair slowly, leaving an ass stamp where I'd just been sitting. Ha, ass stamp; I like that. I had to bite my lip to keep it from twitching, a laugh bubbling at the back of my throat. Dad was impatiently standing at the door, one hand holding the journal and another held out, quivering as it waited for the car keys.

Tempted to book it while I still could and leave him stranded, it took several seconds for me to work up the restraint that kept my paltry ass from doing so. I let him have the keys.

Don't get me killed, I thought warily, knowing he was capable of it.

I kept three feet back the entire way to the car. Even at the distance, I still felt like I was in a sickroom, attacked at all sides by death itself.


Somehow, I lived to see another day.

After getting home, I hopped out of our Cavalier and ran for my room, ignoring the borderline criminal behind me. Dad had his own devices to get back to; I was a little afraid being in his presence would get me into another chokehold. Certainly, he'd not enjoy my tongue whippings that came at wrong times in wrong places. I didn't hold back around people who'd slighted me at one time or another; this asshole had done it quite often these past couple months. I was a suicidal daughter on a mission to find answers. It appeared now he was the obdurate boulder in my way.

I would have preferred him stay bedridden. That'd decrease my chances of losing a limb in my search of Arcus's journal and his guidance.

After a few hours mulling over my disastrous life, he arrived at my door demanding the Archives key from me.

I stared at him, processing the demand at a sloth's pace. "What?"

His cold eyes skimmed over me. I'd shimmied into a pair of matching red plaid pajamas while waiting for exhaustion to finally hit, and I knew he probably thought I'd still be dressed by now considering the sun hadn't even set yet. I usually found it hard to sleep, recent events especially ruining my timeline. I was banking on today causing an environmentally induced retraction of my insomnia.

"Key," he said. His angry eyes went marvelously well with his even angrier frown. "Who gave it to you, first of all?"

I crossed my arms and leaned on the door frame. I'd left the Archives key with my jeans I carelessly discarded next to my bed. My room was teeny-tiny and a cluttered chaos; no one but me, who took meticulous care in putting everything where it had the ability to belong, could effortlessly find anything.

"Why do you need it?" I asked, evading the question.

He stepped closer, permeating my personal bubble like a porcupine. "It's my office," he said. He enunciated every word. "The key rightfully belongs to me. I know Billy Black gave it to you."

I was a bit bewildered. I thought, beforehand, that the key was a master key every councilmember was given. It never occurred to me that he'd given me Dad's key, his personal one. There wasn't a name on it so I assumed what I knew was the whole truth.

He's lying, I thought. It came out of the blue—a silent accusation that rocked me.

My feet stepped back without my prompting, taking my body with them. "Oh, I didn't know it was your key," I said strongly. I glanced over my shoulder where my favorite pair of thrifted jeans were lying, the key in one of its back pockets. "I thought it was Billy's master key."

He shifted in front of me, drawing my attention back. There was an emotion I didn't know, a tick in his jaw, that had me feeling like he truly was lying through his teeth. It was gone before I pick it clean.

"I'm not a patient man, Alissa, and you know that," he said, holding out his hand expectantly. It was the same gesture and the same steeled tone as when he wanted Arcus's journal "returned" to him.

My nostrils flared, my inner brow denting, every neuron in me wanting to refrain from handing over the key. There was something in that Archives other than Arcus's journal that could tell me what happened to make my father an impenetrable concrete wall. Knowing that, I also knew he wanted my options limited for a reason. This had to be the reason: he knew I was looking in the right places.

Watch me, bitch, I thought, narrowing my eyes at him. I'll search your fucking room back to front when you least expect it.

That wasn't a threat, either. That was a cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die promise.

My dignity in a puddle, I marched over to where my jeans were haphazardly tossed and crouched down, finding the key in the first pocket I stuck my hand in. I came back over dragging my feet and slapped Billy's key in the bastard's hand with brute force.

His fingers individually crossed over it like an intricate spider web. My mistrustful eyes didn't know where to look: his hand or his face.

"Goodnight, Alissa," he said, and I settled for his face. I watched his own eyes go to my neck, where his last and only attack had healed. There was a tightening of his crow's feet, gone before I could blink. Regret, that's regret. He regrets hurting me. The most unexpected of things came from his mouth: "I'm sorry for hurting you. I haven't been myself since waking."

I almost snorted, but that'd blow my cover.

I forced a smile. "That's to be expected. You did get your entire ribcage crushed."

And Taha Aki performed what had to be a satanic ritual to resuscitate you…

Yeah, wrong way to think. Definitely not helping.

Dad murmured an, "I love you," I found to be a cover-up for his evil intentions and left for his bedroom like a fire was lit under his ass.

I leaned out of the open doorway and stared at his backside until he disappeared down the hall. A blob was in my throat. Something about this situation wasn't sitting right with me, as it hadn't for over two weeks.

He was lying unlike he ever had before. Not to say he never lied; that'd be a lie in itself. He did lie and danced around the truth and said half-truths occasionally that sustained our flimsy trust.

This lie was a terrifying one.

With him here in front of me, it was like two completely different people were battling for dominance and neither coming out without the other's struggle made apparent.

Put simply, he wasn't himself. At least not fully.

After I shut the door, I turned to get a jump-scare and a half: Arcus was standing right fucking behind me.

Performing a jump that left my ankles rattled, I karate-chopped through his head, getting a good wallop of chills in return. Untouched Arcus stared at me in bewilderment. God, reminder to never touch a ghost or a spirit again. Those fuckers were cold.

"Jesus fuck—don't do that, ever," I snarled, cradling my hand like that'd take away the feeling of a phantom ice-bath. "Why are you even here? Don't you have a home back in bardo land?"

Arcus shrugged, putting his hands in his spirit pockets. "As you may know, vampires do not sleep. The same could be said for us stuck between life and death."

"That's a bummer," I said. "Guess that makes stalking easy for the predators you have over there."

Not funny. Actually kind of alarming. Now I was compelled to find ways to destroy souls for the off chance I ever got stuck in the same predicament as Arcus.

Speaking of Arcus, he looked displeased by my joke. I remedied it with a quick, "Not that they're going anywhere that isn't Hell... if Hell exists."

Arcus nudged his head at the door I just closed and blatantly ignored what I said. "You're a smart girl and I have yet to see you lose your wit around him. Am I correct to assume you know Richard's lying?"

"Well, obviously," I said, propping a hand on my hip. "That key isn't his and he didn't actually go to his office for a portfolio. He's just full of it today… more than usual."

"I have to tell you something, and I urge you to keep it to yourself," Arcus said in a low tone. I had no clue what he meant. Why was he speaking quietly? Was he scared of Dad overhearing him? I leaned closer anyway, intrigued. Arcus dropped his voice further: "Technicalities make it partially true to say he was healed but disregard them when I tell you my side. It wasn't wholly an act of healing Taha Aki performed on Richard to save him that day."

"Okay… that makes no sense," I said, backing away. He had to be on some sort of spirit juice. It made him crazy like Beetlejuice. To be fair, Beetlejuice was an entirely different breed of crazy, but Arcus's conspiracy wasn't far off from that direction. "Do they have drugs on the other side? Hallucinogens?"

Arcus rolled his eyes. "Be serious, Alissa."

"O-kay," I said, drawing out the first syllable.

He went over to a wall in my room that was bare, save for a wooden shelf lying on the floor in a perch. He pointed at a place in the wall. "Pretend this is Richard. He was hit in the chest, right?"

I couldn't see where he was going with this. "Uh-huh."

Arcus took his finger, pointing it at a different spot at least a foot away. "And this will be Dakota." Another finger, the spot a midpoint between the last two places he touched. "And this is Taha Aki."

"Okay, we've got that out of the way," I said, bypassing his point completely. "Can you tell me what this is all about or…?"

Arcus gave me an unimpressed glare. He turned back to his miniature presentation, taking both hands and dragging a finger from Dakota to my Dad and from my Dad to Dakota until the two fingers intersected. He circled a finger around Dad's chest. "Richard was protecting you, and by protecting you, Dakota took all his rage and frustration out on him instead. His intention to kill was retargeted as a result. By being emotional, Dakota's walls collapsed. By being afraid and in pain, your father's powers reached a peak."

"I thought powers are at a peak when it's a full moon? Or is that situational?" My eyebrows were raised to the sky.

Arcus shrugged his shoulders. "That is when control is easiest to come by, and with that, power follows. Now." He took a finger and put it on the imaginary Taha Aki, dragging it quickly at Dakota's invisible figure. "Taha Aki was released from your father, a wonder in itself as advisors usually do not manifest as physical guardians for their advisees."

So what he was saying was that guardians and spiritual advisors were separate. I could understand that.

My eyes widened at this information that should have made sense, as every "guardian" I ever released was a nameless wolf.

Arcus smiled. "Yes, Taha Aki was the only force powerful enough to put a dent in Dakota's armor, even while his emotions had him vulnerable. And your father and him hatched a plan to take his memories. A plan Richard should have informed you, had it not backfired."

"And yet you're saying that he didn't take his memories."

I wasn't foolish enough to ignore that word he used: backfire.

"Yes and no," Arcus said, turning to look back at his wall demonstration. "You see, what Taha Aki did was more than a simple memory extraction. He took from Dakota any dark essence he had within his mind. From memories to feelings to perceptions to scars to the outcomes of brainwashing that taint the cerebral lobes—all of it was taken."

"And by taken, you don't mean 'erased,'" I said, feeling an unease creep up inside me. If he said the word 'erased,' I wouldn't feel this way because then I could assume Taha Aki removed Dakota's darkness and erased it from existence. 'Taken' was a different word with an entirely different meaning. It meant Taha Aki still had Dakota's darkness when he—

Arcus had a grave look to him that just made my anxiety's horizons broaden. "I can see what you're thinking and I'm afraid to say you aren't far off from the truth. Taha Aki performed what we would call a 'soul rendering.' He had the darkness in Dakota transfer to his spirit. It is why Taha Aki was drained so easily. It took all of his power to consume Dakota's darkness and even more of it to keep his darkness contained. And in taking his darkness, it made him a split-being, made of light and Dakota's shadowed essence. When Taha Aki went to save your father, he accidentally performed another soul rendering using what little of Dakota's soul he couldn't keep contained. And this—"

"—transferred to Dad," I finished. My body went cold and hot at the same time. "So what, Dad has Dakota's memories now? That doesn't make any sense. I have some of his memories and in case you haven't noticed, I'm not a fucking basket case parading around like a prowler."

Okay, that was a little bit of a stretch. Anyone with eyes could see I was a basket case—otherwise, I wouldn't be seeing Mr. Meadows at least twice a week.

Arcus shook his head. "There's one part of Dakota that takes one hell of a caging to keep from spreading, and that's his ambitions, Alissa. Your father has Dakota's ambitions."

Trying to keep my composure, I crossed my legs. My toes were in constant movement in an attempt to take my concentration, focus it on something that wasn't unleashing my rage. I had my eyes on Arcus, but my mind was far away, little of me able to fathom what Arcus was telling me. "How would you know this?" My voice came out skeptical.

My grandfather turned to look at his demonstration, his finger lightly tracing where Dakota was meant to be. "I know that look in his eyes," he said. "It's the same look Dakota had when he killed me."

"I thought you killed yourself," I said, remembering what Dad himself told me. My thoughts zigzagged with all the new and false information I was given, the truth never discernable from opposite sources.

Arcus sighed. "No, no… it was murder. But you could say it was like suicide. I did ask him to kill me."

I stared at him in bewilderment. Okay… so you're crazy.

He saw my look and smiled—sheepish, it looked like. "There's a lot you have to learn, Alissa. It's a good thing I'm a patient man."

Yeah, I could see this turning out badly.


Just when things looked like they'd be getting worse, they did indeed get worse.Thankfully the worse was associated with my normal teenage life, opposed to my supernatural witch bitch life.

Kristine, Kallie's airheaded best friend, decided to transfer in the middle of the semester. Due to that, I—the only kid in the entire class left working alone on our end-of-the-semester project due to the uneven amount of students and my own decision (upon Mrs. Johnson's unsympathetic prompting on what I preferred) to do it solo—was stuck taking Kristy's old partner under my wing. This was entirely not up to me, left to Mrs. Johnson speaking in place of me; she decided to put me with the guy now that we had an even count. This wouldn't have been a problem, or caused massive outrage in me and in everything I stood for, if Kristy's old partner…

Wasn't Jeremiah.

It went a little like this:

We all noticed Kristy's absence. She was a pretty girl with a frivolous personality. Laughing and smiling and chattering on about miscellaneous useless things. Trivia that Mrs. Johnson would undoubtedly scowl herself to death over. An uninteresting, but important fact about her was that she never missed; she was that one chick that would miss only if a natural disaster courtesy of a butterfly flap in Europe occurred. So when the bell rang and all of five minutes passed without her showing, any of us that actually paid attention were a little more than shocked. Even more shocked when Mrs. Johnson took role, skipping entirely over the J's where Kristine Jones was meant to make an appearance. Then she regretted to inform us Kristy moved to Canada to live with her distant family. For a brief little second, I pondered how Kim was taking the news.

I looked over at Jeremiah, finding him with a flat, expressionless face. There wasn't a way of telling if he was disappointed or angry. I knew exactly, without having to raise my hand, what this spelled for me and him both.

Jeremiah was a guy I liked to pretend didn't take this class with me. It was easy enough to do, the guy being all the way on the other side of the room and never raising his hand to ask questions and going undercover as just some random guy in a hoodie. Harder to ignore Erica and Kallie, but Jeremiah—his presence was as unassuming as a strip game of tic-tac-toe. He occasionally appeared and I'd take great care averting my eyes; that one day when I was slumped in front of his locker, debatably the effect of my hateful, overworked mind needing something to bitch at. Though I knew if that were an actual memory, Jeremiah would be a hair bristle away from strangling me where I stood. I did accuse him of having a micropenis.

Knowing Mrs. Johnson, she was none-the-wiser to mine and Jeremiah's history—but she'd take the simple and easy, exact-opposite-of what-I'd-like-to-happen option; pushing me, the loner chick, into a student-to-student project relationship with Jeremiah, the loser asshole.

She did exactly that.

"Jeremiah, I know you'd prefer to work alone like Ms. Cameron over there, but we're even numbers now," she said, not even looking at me. "I'd prefer the two of you work on this project together from now on."

I raised my eyebrows, appalled at her obvious favoritism. She'd be on a first-name basis with Gap-Tooth Boy over there, but call me by my surname?

And since when did this Umbridge wannabe speak nicely to anyone? Last I checked she was spite incarnate, every word out of her mouth like fucking lakes of fire. This lady had two personalities: Hellraiser's assistant and Little Miss Spice.

Jeremiah didn't go against her word, but I saw the hesitation in his responding nod. He disliked me as much as I disliked him. I was the probable cause for why Paul Lahote knocked his tooth loose, after all.

Myself at the back of the class, sitting at a table all on my lonesome, Jeremiah was nicely asked by Mrs. Johnson to sit with me as my newly designated seat buddy. Oh boy, oh joy.

I inched away upon his bottom drop. Disdain: known, discomfort: hell of a physically prevalent statement.

Jeremiah noticed. "What, you hate this as much as I do?" he asked. There was a scoff for good measure, on his end.

"Oh yeah," I said automatically. Mockingly, I added my own little scoff. "I'd take fucking John Doe over you for company."

Jeremiah's eyes were incredulous. "The box guy?"

"Ah, an arrogant twat of culture," I said. "Beats clueless swine, I guess."

Just another side conversation amongst the quiet chatter circling the room, Mrs. Johnson taking her sweet time to write due dates up on the front chalkboard, no one paid us any attention.

"Impressed?"

"I'd be more impressed if you called him the 'Envy' guy," I said, admiring my chipped, unpolished nails. I spared a side glance in his direction. "You know, since the 'box guy' would be the guy with the famous quote. Brad Pitt's character."

Jeremiah nodded, and I felt a sting from how normal this conversation was compared to any others I had with him. With anyone, for that matter. Recent events had made me into a little bit of a cathartic wreck. Everything I said, everything I did was all just some attempt at feeling better. Most times I did indeed feel a smidge of relief, but it was at the expense of others and their feelings and their reciprocation of my outbursts. Some would call it parasitic. Toxic, even. That was me, Alissa Cameron, resident parasite just itching at the dermis to lock onto another host.

Last conversation we had, I was a little bit of a bitch. I left before he could return the heat. Knowingly a spitfire, less than amiable around anyone these days, and undergoing a chronic case of uncontrollable rage, I felt—for the first time in a while—guilt. Guilt the size of Neptune. For a guy that called me a "virgin slut," the oxymoron of the century.

There was just something about him and our situation that told me I was reading too little into him, our interactions, all the things we'd ever said to one another. It was an idiotic decision to put a lid on my untouched resentment of him; that'd give rise to little old reliable, my rationale. That fucker was about as useful as an empty keg.

"You're giving me off a vibe," I said suddenly. Jeremiah was writing down Mrs. Johnson's due dates; I was doing nothing of the sort. "I dunno what the vibe is, but it's not… right."

"You expecting us to brawl it out in the middle of art class? With Mrs. Johnson breathing down our necks?" Jeremiah asked, his eyes trained on his paper. "Sorry to disappoint you. I'm not in the mood."

Not in the mood… huh.

I pursed my lips. "Paul's not here. He can't hurt you."

"That's not what I'm talking about."

"I really don't know what you're saying, then."

Jeremiah looked over. Our eyes clashed in the most anticlimactic of ways. "Don't you get sick and tired of this?"

"Sick and tired of what?" I had an idea of what he meant, but I wanted him to say it.

His hand was moving at a fast rate, jerking his pencil up and down. A tapping that had my mind spinning. "All you do is argue and pick fights. You're turning more into your asshole boyfriend every day. When do you plan on stopping—after you've run and got on steroids?"

"Oh, wow now," I said, letting out a laugh. The laugh was as short-lived as my calm demeanor, becoming defensive in one swift transition. "Yeah, don't pretend you know me or Paul. It's insulting."

"And it's insulting you think you know me," Jeremiah said, leaning in until we were nose-to-nose. I hadn't noticed us getting close to begin with. "You ever stop to think you're not the good guy?"

"No one's the good guy. I know for an absolute fact I'm not," I said. I wasn't the good guy, but he wasn't either. We were both assholes fighting to be the better of hot garbage. I did indeed refer to him as "loser asshole" in my mind, but on a totem pole rating who was the bigger asshole, I was actual miles below him.

"That act of yours won't get you far, Cameron," he hissed. I looked away, over at his hands, and I felt alarm upon seeing his once copper-toned skin turning white. He was holding his pencil with the same intense grip a killer would use to strangle his prey. "This project, us working together, it's not gonna go on long if you keep doing that shit."

"Listen, onion-breath, let's get one thing straight: I'm not acting." My voice was raising and I knew it was only a matter of time before Mrs. Johnson overheard us arguing. "You're just a misogynistic, big-headed piece of shit and no offense but I'm done letting your kind walk all over me."

Jeremiah cocked his head. I could visibly see his self-control waning. "I was thinking of all the ways I could apologize for what I said to you that day, but now I just want to fucking transfer to Canada too. You're a real piece of work, Cameron—"

"Mr. Miller, Ms. Cameron, I won't hesitate to sign you both detention until the end of the year," Mrs. Johnson said in a loud, frightening tone. The two of us shut up instantly. We turned to face the front, getting a nice eye-full of everyone staring. Our formidable teacher's eyes were in snake-like slits, hands on her hips like she was a mother ready to discipline her child. "I've been onto you before for flirting, Ms. Cameron. Save it for after class. Didn't writing lines teach you anything?"

I sputtered in disbelief. "What—me, flirting? With him? I'd kiss a frog covered in motor oil before I'd even think about putting the moves on this Muppet poser!"

"'Muppet poser?' What does that even mean? Are you supposed to be Miss Piggy?" Jeremiah fired back, looking just as pissed off. His dark brown eyes had fury burning bright. "No, that's too much of a compliment."

Being compared to Miss Piggy was not a compliment. I let Jeremiah know that when I reached out, flicking his nose.

"Ow! What the fuck—"

We were sent out of class faster than either of us could protest.

"Great going, Marco Dildo," I told him, kicking imaginary dust. Like the world had been waiting to throw more karma my way, my foot rammed right into a nearby locker. What did I do in response? I yelped and a lovely rainbow of curses left through my food hole.

Jeremiah scowled at me but ignored the sailor's mouth hurl. "Do you think you're funny?"

"Yes," I said. I gave him a strained smile. My foot hurt like a bitch. "I think I'm hilarious. No one is as funny as me."

He walked ahead of me, and I had to jog to catch up. Being sent out meant we had a long walk to Mr. Meadows's office. Both of us. I had to admit, having a second person with me was a first.

"I can think of thousands of people," Jeremiah said drily.

"Oh, just thousands?" My pace was outmatched by his, a curse of being short in stature. "At least it's not millions. That means I'm hilarious to some extent. Ahead of the middle pack."

"Can you just shut up? This is humiliating enough," he snapped.

I frowned but listened to him anyway. The temptation to prod and agitate him further was suppressed, overtaken by my rare empathy saying, That's enough.

The rest of our walk was quiet.


Interestingly, Jeremiah wasn't a newbie to Mr. Meadows's office. Quite the contrary—he was a regular.

"I didn't think I'd be seeing you so soon, Alissa," he began when I was the first to walk in, but he stopped dead in his vocal tracks at Jeremiah's awkward entrance. His eyebrows rose to the top of his head, dragging his eyelids with them. "Oh. Jeremiah. I didn't think I'd be seeing you today either."

I looked between the two, my interest peaked. "Wait a second…"

Jeremiah hit me hard in the forearm. "Shut up," he hissed.

The next twenty minutes in his office were the most nerve-grating of my sixteen years in existence. I came out of there no different than I entered, but curious. Very curious. Curiosity-killed-the-idiot curious. Jeremiah kept sending Mr. Meadows looks anytime he came close to asking him something personal while in my presence. We were chastised for our in-class spat and Mr. Meadows warned me that they'd have to take legal action if I kept being a walking disturbance. My words, but he sure as hell implied that's what the school board thought of me.

Jeremiah… man, there was something about him that had me ready to pry.

Like me, he was a regular in Mr. Meadows's office and that could mean one of two things.

One: he was just as problematic as me, which had to be unlikely considering we had several classes together and he was pretty tame in all of them.

Or two: Mr. Meadows was the only resource he had for a personal issue.

I'd bet all my nonexistent funds on the latter.


At lunch that day, I launched into a rant about Mrs. Johnson, Jeremiah, Mr. Meadows, and the overarching theme of today that was "Karma for Alissa Cameron."

Paul stopped me midway-through, after his face went through a series of changes. It stopped on anger. "Alissa, what the fuck? You couldn't tell her 'no'?"

"Yeah, Paul, I'll refuse a teacher," I said, rolling my eyes at him. "Mrs. Johnson doesn't listen to anybody and I'd die before I groveled at her feet. It's whatever—"

"Jeremiah's a creep," Paul snapped. Cutting me off for the umpteenth time. "You think he won't try something again? This is the same Jeremiah that called you a slut, right?"

"'Virgin slut,' but yes," I said. "He won't try anything else."

Paul was understandably confused at my change in behavior. Any other time I'd be an unbottled blast of rage, but I had an agenda outside of justified anger and it included finding out why Jeremiah was one of Mr. Meadows's "patients."

Paul would just have to deal with it.

Like he'd deal with my mood swings, my petulance, my stubbornness, my grudges, my lying, my—

Wow, you're a toxic fucking mess.

I was a cantankerous bitch. It got worse every day.

You can worry about reinventing yourself when you're home and not around for anyone to see you sulk…

My brain was right for once.

Anyway, lunch had occurred with me and Paul sitting secluded from everyone for once: Jacob and Embry sat at the table Kallie and I usually frequented before our friendship went to shit and Jared had his girlfriend off at another corner. Things would eventually go back to us as a dysfunctional sort of togetherness; that day was not today. Tomorrow was more probable. Most of everybody was still cross with me after Saturday's events. I couldn't really fault anyone for that. I did withhold vital information that could have potentially gotten someone killed. We'd have to let bygones be bygones sometime, someway.

Soon after I left the cafeteria, bidding a displeased Paul adieu, I was accosted by Kallie at my locker.

I didn't know she was behind me until I was turning my rarely-used lock this way and that, a combination of numbers I only remembered after a long, hard think. It took eons for my memory to jog.

"I can't believe you!" she yelled.

Forgetting the next number, I turned to look at her. She was standing in the same clothes, same demeanor as the one in class earlier that day. Her curly brown hair was left long, her ears and neckline accentuated by colorful jewelry that looked handmade. I offhandedly looked her up and down. She was a really pretty girl that didn't deserve me admiring her good looks.

I raised my untrimmed eyebrows, smiling at her audacity. "You know, Kallie, I wouldn't try fighting fire with gas. You'll get burned."

A furious glare was all I got in return. She lowered her voice, catching the different stares of departing lunchtime-attendees aimed in our direction: "You know I have a crush on him, I've had one for forever! Why are you trying to ruin my life?"

"I wouldn't have to ruin your life if you weren't a petty bitch hellbent on making everyone else think I'm a horrible excuse for a human being," I said heatedly. I stepped forward like I intended to hit her; she flinched back.

Wow, look at you, hypocrisy galore. When are you ever going to own up that you're more awful than the people you're villainizing?

I clenched my jaw. Like I hadn't already been hating myself from Day One.

Every day, all the time, whenever my brain's active.

"You're parading Embry around in my face," Kallie said, regaining my attention. "I thought you were better than that, but I guess not."

"You've been going around telling people I'm a bitch and a whore, and you're better than me. Yeah, that makes perfect sense," I said back. I squinted at her. "What is it really? Are you jealous? Is that it?"

"You were never honest with me, Alissa, and I'm seeing that trend again. Whenever I needed you, you weren't there. I was always there for you. I've never lied. I told you everything! You keep things from me and there's been so many weeks where you don't show up to school, no note to the teachers and no text to me. I try helping! You just don't want it!"

"Oh, really? You've been notified several times when I've been bedridden. You should see the scars in my mind and on my body from the shit I've been through. Anyone else would have gone insane," I said scathingly, trying my hardest not to yell. "You're a lucky bitch and acting like I'm rolling in privilege. Get the fuck off your high horse."

Over Kallie's shoulder I saw Embry leaving the cafeteria. He seemed to spot me instantly, his body freezing upon noticing Kallie's distinguishable back. She was the only person on the reserve that wore color religiously.

My lip curling, I didn't know what was best to do in this situation. I could hurt Kallie and in the process hurt Embry. Or I could take the high road, hurting myself.

I'm already the secondary antagonist in everyone's story…

I brought my gaze back to Kallie and stepped until she had no choice but to be in my bubble, breathing my same air. "I don't know what's gotten into you lately, but you sound desperate. Embry's my friend and we used to have the same talks, laugh like me and him do; fuck, Kallie, we were best friends. What the fuck happened to us? What made you start cutting me out? God, I'm done trying. For you, for what's best when it comes to you. And with how self-absorbed you were after I almost fucking died, going to meet someone that could have very well killed you if I gave him the chance, I don't think you deserve Embry. No, you don't deserve anything to do with us. You deserve a drop-kick to the vagina, but that's about it." It was bad to admit I felt no guilt. "Fuck you, Kallie. If Kim's the kinda friend you want, then go pick flowers with her. I'm done letting you drag my name through the mud."

Kallie saw me look back over her shoulder, at Embry. She stiffened and turned to see what I was seeing. I could see the air knock itself out of her, at the sight of her crush. Knowing he heard every word.

When she looked at me a final time, her entire face was crumbled. Again, I felt no guilt. "I hope you're happy," she gritted out.

And she ran off.

Embry was next to accost me. "What—why did you say that to her, Alissa?" he asked in a low, angry voice. His shoulders were just as stiff. "She's jealous! It's the imprint bond making her feelings all muddled. You didn't have to humiliate her like that."

I rolled my eyes. "I meant what I said. I know her better than you do. If the imprint bond's making her an irate, jealous beast, imagine what's it doing to you—"

"No," Embry said, effectively interrupting me. "It's like you and Paul. We liked each other before the imprint."

"Yeah and guess what, Embry, it's not the imprint bond that made her betray our friendship. She was angry at me for not telling her what was going on when Dakota was around, and she was ignoring me for spite," I said. It took all my control to keep my voice contained, only heard by the upset shifter in front of me. "Sorry. I didn't ruin your chances with her or anything, she'd drop dead before refusing you. Something's gotten into her, and it's not the imprint bond. She used to be the sweet one."

"So talk to her, don't insult and degrade her," Embry said. His shoulders were shaking, indicating he was going to snap if I continued being flippant about his imprint's feelings. "I can feel it, Alissa. I can feel her hurt."

It was happening again, someone prioritizing another's feelings over mine.

I glared at Embry. He was the only person of two I'd eventually forgive for it, but that didn't mean I liked seeing history repeat.

"Whatever," I said brusquely. "That's her problem, not yours or mine. All of you need to get a fucking grip."

Yeah, tell other people what you should be telling yourself.

I fled.


I played God in people's lives far too often.

Going outside with my key ring hanging off a finger, I found my car at the back of the lot. Dad called as I was halfway across.

History repeating itself…

I pulled my Motorola out of my pants pocket and put a finger over the green call button.

"Hello—"

"I won't be home," Dad said. No greeting or even a little kindness from his side of the receiver.

I paused. I was caught completely off guard.

He continued, "Order take-out."

He hung up without another word.

Reeling from today's events, I wondered how a simple day at school could be so fucking hectic.

After I got home, I ran to my bedroom, a new, unused number already having been dialed. It was a number I'd memorized since I last saw the caller, getting it from his card Dad had from his debut visit. I knew I'd need it someday, not envisioning today would be that day.

The phone rang for several seconds. I got to my room in record time, finding the crackle-pop enter my ears from where I had my phone propped between my head and shoulder.

There was an unrecognizable murmur from the other side before the person seemed to get a grasp over himself. I quickly replaced my hand under my phone, disconnecting my head with my shoulder.

"Hello?" he said, and I struggled to decode if it were Roman or someone else. "Um, this is Dakota speaking. Roman Hamilton's assistant."

My face grimaced without my meaning to. Dakota… So engrossed in my disgust, I didn't even notice Dakota tacked on a last name for Roman.

"Why do you have Roman's phone?" I demanded.

Dakota seemed to hesitate over the phone, probably wondering who the fuck I was. "Roman's… occupied. Who is this?"

"Someone who's getting real sick of talking to you and not the owner of this number."

He paused again. "Name?"

"Ugh, just tell Roman it's urgent! It's Alissa, if that'll get him over here faster—"

"Oh! Kota, I—just give me the phone, dammit. It's not her I was worried about. Fuck—hello, Alissa," another voice came over, this one noticeably Roman. I was confused; didn't Dakota just say he was occupied? Roman must have read my mind from wherever he was because he followed his greeting up with, "I wasn't occupied. I merely told Dakota to use that excuse so I wouldn't find myself answering back an unlikable caller. I have one or two outraged customers with a vendetta against me from my last show…"

"So I'm likable? Thanks," I said, flattered. It wasn't every day you had a handsome, bleach-blond vampire say he liked you. "Nice to see he didn't kill you and run off. Is he behaving himself?"

"He's more oblivious than I was as a newborn," Roman said. I could hear clattering over the receiver. "He's like a six-week-old pup with a little more awareness. Now common knowledge, he falls short. I've been integrating him into my business as best I can. As you heard, I've given him the position as my assistant, taken over from Elaine. Elaine, you'll have to meet her someday. She's wonderful. Ah, where was I? Oh. Given the circumstances I think he's fairing well."

I nodded to myself. I was hardly listening. "Yeah, good to hear… he's defied my every expectation."

Roman chuckled. "Did you call to discuss my ward's progress, or do you have a private motive?"

"If it were private, would I really call you? I'd have to tell you what prompted the call."

"You have a point," he said. "Not a private motive, then. Ulterior."

"Still not something I'd tell you if I had it," I said aggressively.

Like he heard my lying heartbeat over speakerphone, Roman went silent. He let me brew in my repentance, figuring I had any accountability left to repent.

"Then say what you want, as you want me to hear it," he said. "I'll listen and respond in turn."

I flopped back on my bed, turning my gaze to the ceiling. It was an off-white from its last paint job and there was nothing particularly special about it. Still I gave it a good inspection. Letting Roman's words soak in, I finally said, "I'm a terrible person."

Roman didn't say anything, even when I opened up a gap for him to speak.

I swallowed. "I know you're probably thinking that's a random assertion to make, and yeah, usually I don't ponder my own self-worth. I just keep making mistakes and watching them blow up in my face. After a while it becomes redundant, you know. Everyone keeps implying I'm a fuck-up and I keep doing shitty things instead of fixing where I'm a fuck-up. There's a term for how exactly I do shitty things... 'playing God.' Sometimes I don't even know my own motives. I just do things because I feel like doing them and most times those are the worst fucking choices I make."

I hoped Dakota ventured elsewhere when Roman resumed control of his phone; thinking about him knowing my insecurities made my stomach turn to anxious, trodden-down goo. He knew everything when he had my mind in his hands. That went away with his darkness, but I knew hints of his past still clung there. They had to, as logic dictated.

Roman sighed a breath he didn't need. "No one is entirely good or entirely evil, and that is a lesson humans face when their humanity comes into question. They spend decades altering their personalities and opinions to be their version of an upgrade. Generally we find, at our own pace, that humanity isn't two sides of the same coin. Black and white exist, but so do grays. Humanity's there in the threshold. Humans are gray. It could be a result of free will, charging them a moral code with an off switch. When I was human, I made decisions I'm not proud of and wallowed in a pitiful puddle of regret after they were permanent fixtures in my past. Even now I feel the repercussions of my demure upbringing and amoral youth. You'll regret and hate and love and forgive until the day you change, or you die."

I listened to him intently. He understood more than most. When I made mistakes everyone around me put me in black and white brackets. I was either amazing or the absolute worst. No one ever tacked the word "human" on, as though being human was separate from making shitty decisions. It was being human. No one understood that, except Paul to an extent. Embry when my mistakes weren't at the expense of Kallie's feelings.

Roman was the first to put my thoughts into words. A new feeling blossomed in my chest: relief.

"Where's this all coming from, Alissa?"

I chewed my bottom lip. "Oh, just everyone getting pissed at me. The usual. You know how it is here in Shit's Creek. No paddle, no lifejacket."

"I'll offer you a word of advice, Alissa," Roman said, sounding sympathetic. "Anger isn't permanent, regardless of how it sounds and feels. It's a fleeting feeling that'll come and go but never stay long enough to grow roots. I understand that grudges feel permanent, as do fits of rage, but one thing I hope you come to realize is that no one can stay angry with someone they love. This will pass."

"No, it won't," I said, scowling to myself. "I've had too many fuck-ups for them to go overlooked."

"Who said anything about overlooking fuck-ups?" Roman asked. His tone was soft and kind, unlike anything I'd ever heard directed at me. "I know you may think your actions are inexcusable, but you're putting words in mouths that don't belong to you. You're applying your own fears and insecurities to your expectations, thus equating paranoid, reflexive actions that are equivalent to the ones you're lamenting. Under a paranoid mindset, angry voices sound angrier and jokes sound more mocking than they're intended. You can give off the impression your defenses are impenetrable and everyone around you will assume you are invulnerable against insults to your character. It's all about your aura and the different impressions you leave on others. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

I closed my eyes. "Yeah."

Roman said, "You'll learn patience and resilience the way you're already learning forgiveness. I know you think these are changes that come easily, but I assure you it's the other way around. They're acquired traits, Alissa, never innate in nature. I was too trusting, a naïve shell of an erudite man, and this killed my mortality when it inevitably caught up to me. Different from your situation, but I can empathize."

"What about everyone I've hurt? They already think what they want about me," I said, knowing that I was past redemption in a lot of regards. Sure, most people hurt me first, but I'd hit back twice as hard. I knew that even with Roman's words ringing around in my head and my own desire to be a better person, I'd still fuck up. Fuck-ups were designed to keep committing fuck-ups.

"You can't change who you were in the past, but the future's a different story," Roman said, sounding vaguely amused. He had to be thinking of a joke. "There's a saying one of my employees taught me. What was it? 'Make the future your bitch?'"

"You being an old man makes that ten times funnier," I said. A snicker escaped me without my consent. "I guess I can do that. Change, make the future my bitch. Sounds easy."

As much as it felt assuring saying it, I knew I couldn't decide what was easy and what wasn't.

As a spiteful, petulant, self-absorbed bitch, I knew I was pushing my luck.

"You should get some rest," Roman said gently. "I know you have to be tired, if you've been weighted by those thoughts all day."

How was a vampire a better therapist than my own family members?

"Yeah," I said. "Yeah… I guess."

I fell into a deep sleep after saying a goodbye to Roman, promising to consider coming up to visit his apartment in Seattle sometime before summer.

In my dreams, someone came to seal my fate in a nailed-down coffin—and this time it was my father driving the knife home.


A/N: i love you all so much. thank you for your continuous support 3