So…
Awkward conversations.
It would be a lie to say that I'm unfamiliar with the subject, given Mom and how the parental figures of various childhood friends have been more or less forced to interact with her, all of them bafflingly unprepared for how the mother of a kid who kept ranting about swords would adhere to conventional social mores.
… I don't think Lucy's Mom ever recovered from her first tea party.
Though, well, no matter how seasoned I may be in the arena I'm currently wading through, it is a self-evident truth that awkward conversations, by their very nature, are not something one ever grows comfortable with.
Much like Lucy's Mom and certain blends of 'herbal' tea.
"You're uncharacteristically silent," Roberta accuses me.
"I thought you would enjoy the novelty of it," I parry and riposte out of sheer reflex.
"Not when you're leaving me to deal with… this," the woman wearing torn stockings says, gesturing at…
At Lucca rolling his eyes and Bianca all but vibrating.
"We should have a girl talk!" the proto-goth declares, actually bouncing on her toes, which is a very Bobbi-like reaction, even if Bianca herself lacks even more Bobbiness than Roberta does.
… Note to self: check whether there's anything that even hints at lycanthropes being mind-readers and then invest heavily in the foil industry. By which I mean the kind of foil you can wear as a hat and not, you know, the kind of foil that is a weapon that only strikes with the tip and is thus objectively inferior to the saber, no matter what stuck-up purists would have you mistakenly believe.
"We should have breakfast," I finally say, pointing at the bag of sandwiches swinging from Bianca's grasp after enough time has passed that it's clear that Roberta isn't going to answer the other girl's proposal with anything other than a disbelieving blink.
A blink that would look quite striking over half-moon glasses.
… I'm not jealous. I don't know what you're talking about.
Shut up.
"I think that Roberta would appreciate the chance to freshen up before breakfast, Brian," the mentally Bobbi-like girl says with what…
What I guess is an eye-roll?
"Why are you wearing sunglasses in the middle of a shady forest?" I ask with my characteristically restrained and tactful curiosity that I definitely inherited from Dad rather than Mom and which never got me in trouble or had me running away from numerically superior foes.
Bianca's smile strains.
"She has a condition," Lucca says, finally speaking.
"Photophobia? No, I have seen you without sunglasses often enough—in fact, this is the first time I've seen you wearing sunglasses, and it just happened right after yesterday, when Lucca ran out of the fencing hall because you scared him half to death, so I would usually guess there's an immediate correlation, which, unless you're having the most inopportune case of porphyria in history, would point at—"
"Why are you in the forest with the librarian's assistant?" Lucca cuts me off, verbally rather than physically.
"Because of reasons that are perfectly reasonable and not at all incriminatory," I say, the answer well-oiled and evenly enunciated after Mom's lessons in academic etiquette and high-school-principal wrangling.
"I believe you, Brian," Bianca says.
"Thank you," I answer, slightly misty-eyed and overwhelmed with gratitude at the novel and welcome answer.
"Also, you two clearly spent the whole night—"
"That's not—"
"We didn't—"
"Torn stockings?" Lucca asks with a half-raised eyebrow that is bordering on the most expressive reaction I've ever seen from the failed Italian.
Roberta and I, both with our mouths still open in the midst of our irrefutable claims of further innocence, turn to look at one another.
"It is a forest," I offer.
"There are brambles. And shrubs," she, for once, follows my lead.
"Stockings are fragile. Easily ripped."
"Indeed," she says, amber eyes slightly narrowing.
"It doesn't take much for them to tear."
"Right," she comments, inexplicably flushing with what maybe isn't anger.
"So… Why would you wear them to a forest hike?" Bianca says, tapping her finger on her bottom lip.
"… It was an improvised hike?"
"Brian…" a disappointed Bianca accuses.
"Look, I haven't had much time to come up with a cover story, all right? Give me fifteen minutes and I shall astonish you with a tale that, while about as believable as the current excuse, will also be breathtakingly entertaining. You will be at the edge of your seat, gripped with enthralling emotions the intensity of which you have never felt other than when sneaking into Lucca's room right before he does his masochistic routine for your ogling pleasure."
Bianca's ever-pale cheeks are very expressively flushed, which I guess is an advantage of her complexion.
Roberta, instead, is blinking in confusion at Lucca who, bafflingly, sighs.
"He means my morning training," he says.
"Yeah. Your masochistic routine. What was unclear about that?"
Roberta, for reasons unknown, cups her hands over her nose, bows her head, and shoots me a murderous look through long, black eyelashes that… well…
Let's just say that the tips of her fingers underlining her glare are quite evocative of the shape of a certain eyewear fashion statement.
"Roberta. Gir talk. Now," Bianca says.
Before I can react to keep the glare on me—I mean, to save my accomplice from a one-on-one interrogation that she's definitely not ready for, the proto-goth grabs her elbow and drags her past the tree line beyond the margin of this small creek.
Which leaves me alone with Lucca.
In the very place in which Roberta just… gave me some very thorough permissions on behalf of Bobbi.
… This is going to be awkward, isn't it?
━❖━
Roberta Knows About Girl Talk—in Theory
"Stop pulling on me!" I tell the determined girl I'm barely an acquaintance of as she keeps dragging me through the greenery, about as forceful as I wish Brian would be.
… With Bobbi. As forceful as I'd like Brian to be with Bobbi.
"That's what she said!" she enthusiastically calls out.
"What?"
"That's what she—it's a joke. Do you live outside the Internet or something?" she says, looking over her shoulder in what I think may be actual concern.
"My grandmother had a cat. I don't need the extra supplements," I say with what I hope is acerbic yet still endearing wit rather than…
… Why do I even care if this girl misinterprets me? It's not like she has any position of power to hold over me or—
She's giggling.
It's a pretty giggle.
A pretty giggle, coming from a pretty girl with unblemished, pale skin that brims with vitality in every nuance of her flushed cheeks.
Some women have all the luck.
"So that's why you and Brian get along, eh?" she says before arbitrarily deciding that we're far enough from the 'boys' to stop, turn around, and drag me down to sit on the leaf-strewn ground to, I suspect, hold our 'girl talk.'
A talk in which my only objective is for the girl in front of me not to suspect the existence of the supernatural.
I would say that's a realistic, attainable goal, but if Lacmere has prepared me for anything, it's for unrealistic, unattainable goals.
Such as getting Brian to pass his tests and what motivation he may need for that to—
"Aaaaand you're blushing. You two are adorable," she says with a wide, white-toothed grin.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, fighting the growing tingle on my cheeks.
"Right. You do realize that, if I didn't think you two had a thing, this morning would be reason enough for me to call the police, don't you?"
I freeze.
Slowly, I stare up at her.
"Brian would never—" I find myself saying with my heart beating faster and harder than at any time other than right before a full moon crests the horizon.
"I know." She stops me with a raised hand and an apologetic smile. "It's just… you do know how this looks from the outside, don't you? When you both keep denying that anything has happened?"
I keep glaring at her, the sun coming through the branches of the pines at her back making it uncomfortable to keep looking her way, but she only offers me another sympathetic smile before shuffling forward, on her knees, bending over me as she takes out a pack of cotton pads and a bottle of micellar water from a pocket of her baggy pants.
"It's… confusing, isn't it? Going from friends to… something else?" she says, gently taking my chin to tilt my face before rubbing the wet makeup remover pad on me.
I've always hated the sensation.
It's not as bad as it is when removing stage makeup, the kind you wear for filmed events, but it still scratches my skin, reddening it more than a sunburn ever has, the fibers aggressively scrubbing my cheeks clean of any traces of whatever survived both last night and this morning.
I hate it.
But she's still gentle.
Delicate, as if inordinately afraid of hurting me, carefully brushing in slow circles rather than going back and forth.
She tilts my face the other way.
"I can do this myself," I finally remember to protest.
"Shush. We're bonding," she says with a wink exaggerated enough to come through her sunglasses.
One of these days, I'll understand why I keep letting people with no filter and overactive imaginations grasp my chin and move my head however they want—
And now my ears are tingling.
Great.
"I wish I had your tan," she whispers.
"I don't have a tan," I answer.
"Well, compared to me?" she says, cheeky grin on full display as she raises my arm so that we can compare the inside of our wrists.
I am… I am not tanned. That's a precaution I took for reasons I'm not proud of.
Bianca's pale, nigh translucent skin makes me look like the wetback I've often been called.
"What do you want?" My voice comes out in a whisper, the words between forced and held back, and I slowly look up from the blue tracery on the inside of her wrist and toward black lenses that show me a transparent reflection of my own eyes searching for the ones hidden past the dark glass.
Her hand tightens on my arm.
She… she takes a moment too long to answer, and I'm on the verge of taking back the question when she answers:
"I want adventure. I want fairy tales. I want for my heart to beat hard enough that it will not stop until it explodes from the sheer joy of life itself. I want true love, and a happy ending that never ends. I want it all, Roberta.
"What do you want?"
I don't answer.
I don't have an answer.
But maybe Bobbi would have.
━❖━
Boys Will Be Boys. Surely. Probably. Maybe
"So, you done with your pushups for the day?" Brian asks me with a fidget that I think implies he's grown restless with the prolonged silence.
I do not sigh.
It would only encourage him.
"You could do with some extra training yourself," I instead offer.
"Is that a jab? Because I know that you're more passive than passive-aggressive, but it's hard not to take that as anything other than a personal attack. I would go as far as to say that, if you ever say this to Bianca, you're going to have a full 'Does my ass look fat in these pants?' situation, which, according to Dad, is about the best thing you can hope for if you want to avoid having more children, a remark that I took to mean something very passive aggressive at the time, no matter how pertinent his wisdom may have been on hindsight."
I blink at the unrestrained man pacing up and down the edge of the clear brook by my side with something resembling admiration.
I don't think I could ever say a speech that long without taking a break to put my notes in order.
"Oh, come off it…" he mumbles, now apparently embarrassed.
He's… almost fun to watch.
People rarely are.
"It wasn't a personal attack. You run out of breath on any long bout," I finally offer, my words measured and—
"I'm built for speed, not stamina," he immediately shoots back.
Frustrating.
"Then build your stamina."
"I mean, fencing is an explosive sport. We're not running marathons, but—"
"You don't have to explain fencing to me, Brian."
"I swear, if you accuse me of mansplaining, we're going to have words, Spaghetti Boy."
"How original."
"It's that or asking why you don't have a mustache. Or if your family is into plumbing. Maybe say something about deep dish pizza—"
"Why is it always the pizza? Don't you Americans have anything else to desecrate? Can't you tease me about Mussolini, about having a whoremonger as Prime Minister, about Catholic priests? No, it's always the pizza, and the sheer culinary monstrosities that you inflict upon an unsuspecting world daily without any heavenly retribution that would make me believe that there is a God worth praying to—what is it?"
Brian is no longer pacing.
He, instead, is looking at me wide-eyed, with a slowly growing smile that is making me about as uncomfortable as I ever am.
"You can be expressive!" he says, grabbing my hand with both of his and shaking it up and down.
"Excuse me?"
"You! You poor excuse for an Italian stereotype! Do you have the slightest idea how frustrating it's been to watch you quietly amble around without a single hint of wanting to gesticulate for emphasis? Where is the fire, the passion, the pizazz—"
"You did that on purpose."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
I glare at the man in front of me harder than I ever have while in the middle of a bout.
His smile grows all the wider.
… Troublesome.
━❖━
Bianca Is Not Used to Sunglasses. Or to Holding Pretty Girls
So.
I may have come across as slightly too intense.
Really, Bianca? Was that the plan? Grab a girl's chin, tilt her face up, and hit her with 'I want true love' while staring right at her striking, amber eyes? Are you trying to cheat on Luke? On Brian? On having them join and maybe do things with one another—
Aaaaaahhhhh!
All right! That's not what's happening here! You're just having a conversation with a girl wearing torn stockings who keeps blushing as the silence grows longer, and there's absolutely nothing sexual about that. Nothing at all. This is… innocent girl talk. The kind of girl talk you've dreamed about since middle school, when hormones hit you and Luke became not only your closest confidant, but someone that you desperately needed to confide about, so a close female friend was something you direly wished for and why am I telling myself all of this?
Ah.
Right.
To distract myself from Roberta's amber eyes staring right into my soul.
… If the Internet has taught me anything, neither Brian nor Luke will be at all upset so long as I start filming—
"I don't know what I want," she says, her voice low, vulnerable, but still holding that hint of raspiness that, from this close, sends a thrill of warmth up the sides of my neck as she raises her hand and takes mine…
Away.
Ah. Right. That was an option.
I try not to do anything that shows her just how close I am to a bipanic attack before she grabs the makeup remover from my other hand and starts brushing her still-stained cheek with far too much force.
"You're going to hurt your skin," I say with barely a thread of voice.
"I've spent the whole night with the damn thing caked on my cheeks. The damage is already done."
"Not really? Your other cheek was… very soft."
She shoots me a side-eye, her hand momentarily paused, and I hurry to take out a compact mirror from one of the marvelous pockets that these pants come with and allow for far more compartmentalization of my inventory than the all but useless hand purses Mom often bought for me to compliment the airy dresses I no longer wear, and this is—right.
Mirror.
Show the pretty girl her reflection and don't say anything too blatantly stupid or flirty.
How hard can that be?
"See? You're beautiful."
…
Damn it, Bianca!
"I am not—" she starts.
"Ask Brian." Right! Deflect! Nothing wrong with calling a prospective friend beautiful. "Ask Brian why he keeps staring at you whenever he thinks you don't notice, and plenty of the times he knows you do." Also, nothing wrong at all with helping a prospective friend for Luke get together with the girl he's clearly been lusting after since forever. "It's a miracle he can keep his hands to himself while you're in public, really. Tonight was bound to happen one way or another." Yes! So far, so good. You're clearly on the path to getting the two stubborn knuckleheads all over one another even more than they already have clearly been, and that's the first part of your plan over and done with. Which would imply there's a second part of the plan, but that's obviously not the case, as Luke has never hinted at wanting to be involved in a foursome, but he's also never said he would not want to be in a foursome, and maybe that's a conversation—
"It's not what you think," Roberta says, maybe more accurately than she may believe.
She's… looking away from the mirror, down and to the side, and there's a hint of shame on her downturned eyes and inexpressive lips.
Which means that…
… All right, I don't know what it means.
Other than that maybe it's time for me to put a lid on a certain part of my mind that's been frantically running amok since I took Luke's blood inside of me and then I went into his shower, and had to push him in, to see his perfect body glistening with bands of white light streaking across the droplets and rivulets enhancing the way that his muscles strain against flawless skin, and he was so hard for me—
Lid. Putting a lid. That's what I was supposed to be doing, isn't it?
"What is it, then?" I ask, going from bending over her to kneeling by her side, looking up at her.
"I… I can't talk about it," she says.
I'm a moron.
A selfish moron.
"Does it… Roberta, were you… hurt? In the forest?"
"Brian would never—"
"I'm not asking about Brian."
Amber eyes lock on mine, and it's as if the sunglasses aren't there at all. Not when something this… this fierce burns straight through the dark tint of the world.
I only notice I swallow nervously when the sound of it echoes across the wild woods around us.
"Brian would never hurt me," Roberta insists, changing the subject, trying to ignore my former question, and maybe trying not to…
Not to acknowledge what we clearly both know.
"I was. Hurt," I say. Stupidly. Brashly. Overly sincere.
And hopeful.
Too hopeful, maybe.
But I…
I just want a friend.
━❖━
Brian Likes Pizza
"So, I take it you're a fan of the Ninja Turtles?" I say with a wink and a light elbow nudge.
Lucca looks at me blankly. For entirely too long.
So long that I may be getting some kind of repetitive strain injury if I keep elbowing him. Which would be a shame, because my bet is that either my wrist or my knee will give out first to sports-related injuries, and I'm really hoping it's the knee, just to avoid any 'excessive masturbation' quips.
Lucky for me, fencers, and especially sabrists, come in with a built-in excuse for our extra-strong grip.
… How acceptable would it be for me to joke to Patrick about—
Okay. Maybe not. I already have enough to deal with in the 'silent glares' department without adding the Francophile to the list.
"Are you going to keep doing this for much longer?" the stoic Italian asks. Italian, not Roman. I'm not talking about Marcus Aurelius right now.
"Depends. Are you going to acknowledge my Ninja Turtles quip?"
"What quip?"
"You can't be serious."
"I think that is among my capabilities, yes."
"Did you just—okay. Pizza. Ninja Turtles are famous for liking pizza. Well, they are famous for being an underground comic parodying Daredevil that really went off the rails, but one of the recurring gags—do you really not know about Ninja Turtles?"
"I am all but certain that chelonids shouldn't be fed pizza. Maybe they can eat the anchovies without issues?"
"… You are a monster."
"Hurtful."
"You are stringing me along, aren't you? You just… what's this, a defense mechanism? So that I won't, what, keep asking about why Bianca suddenly needs to act like the paparazzi are after her—damn, no reaction to that? I was really hoping that another random Italian word would trigger you. Let's see… Mamma mia? Mozzarella? Porca miseria? O sole mio?"
"Brian, if you start singing opera at me, I'll throw you in the river."
"It's more like a creek. A brook, maybe. Definitely not a river."
Lucca, for absolutely no reason at all, shuts up and mildly glares at me.
I guess this means I should stop elbowing him.
For my health, if nothing else.
And… well…
We're alone.
In the middle of a forest that I know for a fact to be haunted.
With Bianca and him clearly avoiding talking about something that happened yesterday.
And I am getting more and more anxious with every second of forced silence that lets my brain come up with new possibilities about what they may be hiding, about what Roberta and Bianca might be talking about, about what just happened between Roberta and me that we still haven't talked about, and—
"Magic is real!" I yell at Lucca's face.
He blinks at me first in confusion, then in rapid alarm, then he goes forcefully blank, and I mentally pat myself in the back because my anxiety-caused outburst has hit the mark in a way that I can claim was planned from the very beginning.
"What are you talking about—" he starts.
"Nope. You don't get to deny it. I just saw you reacting to that, Lucca. Can't hide it from me anymore."
"I reacted to you yelling in my face. Like an insane person."
"Sanity is a distant, fond memory, at this point. I may need to ask Dad about it, seeing as he's the most reliable source of information on the subject that comes to mind. Now, regarding other subjects that I have other sources of information for, I know that magic exists, you know that magic exists, and I know that you know that magic exists. So, unless you want me to go really deep into the 'I know you know' rabbit hole, we could try and be honest with one another, just for a change of pace. Oh, and also to better protect the girls."
"… What?"
"Roberta and Bianca. You can't tell me you aren't going to throw yourself in the line of fire for her."
He can't. He can't tell me that. If there's anything at all that I know about the insufferably apathetic boy who keeps beating me again and again, who has more talent than I ever dreamed a single man could hold, it's this.
It has to be this.
I… I can't…
I am standing in front of him, the creek running behind him, smatters of bright light cresting over the irregular, shifting lines of crystal-clear water.
On the other side, the ground is gouged by Bobbi and the Black Dog's fight.
But here, right in front of me…
Come on. Come on, you disappointingly laconic Italian. Tell me I'm not wrong. Tell me I know at least this much about you.
Please. Please, Lucca, don't let me be…
Don't make me wrong. Not in this.
"And how would you protect them?" he says.
I breathe.
The… the sheer wave of pure relief that washes over me leaves me drained. Tired. Maybe as tired as I should've felt from the very start, after a fight for my life, for Bobbi's life, and a restless night sitting against a painfully rigid tree.
"I don't know," I tell him. And I should be frustrated at my powerlessness.
But, really, I just… I am smiling, relieved of something I dreaded too much to name.
"Then—"
"But I'll learn. That's what we do, isn't it? We prepare. We study. We train."
"Brian, what are you talking—"
"I've learned the sword for my entire life. How much harder could magic be?"
The Italian blinks at me in disconcert about as expressive as any non-Bianca-elicited emotion I've ever seen from him.
"You are insane," he accuses me once again.
How original.
"Maybe. Would you like to be insane together?" I say.
With my hand offered.
Shaking hands. Pure protocol. We're supposed to do it after every bout, and we get penalized if we don't, even if sometimes there are assholes that make me rankle at offering them the show of courtesy and respect.
But this is not a bout.
And so Lucca is not obligated to return what I am offering. He can stand in front of me, stoic and inexpressive, staring down at my hand, and do nothing at all as the silence grows longer and more uncomfortable.
He can.
He doesn't.
His hand is warmer than mine, his callouses about as pronounced.
His grip, of course, stronger.
I guess he has some braggadocio in him.
"What are you two supposed to be doing?" a chilly, lowly threatening voice calls out from the woods at my back.
Slowly, I turn around to find Roberta wearing new, non-ripped stockings (which is a shame, but I'm now strangling that particular thread of thought), her arms crossed under her bust, two fingers tapping her elbow, and a glare worthy of any kind of glasses to ever glass burning in her amber eyes.
By her side, Bianca holds both fists under her chin and looks to be on the verge of letting out the kind of high-pitched squeal that would make Bobbi cover her ears with both paws, and dear God why is that now an image embedded in my brain, with the werewolf looking up at me piteously, her chin on my lap—
"That, my dear Roberta," the proto-goth says, abandoning her fangirl pose to try and look as solemn as the pitch she's forcing her voice into, "is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
…
"Casablanca," Lucca unnecessarily points out. "She really likes that movie."
"I would've pegged her as more of a Princess Bride girl."
"Not on the first date," Bianca says—wait, what?
"Bianca…" Lucca says with what sounds like drained, exhausted exasperation.
"Sorry! I just—the joke was right there."
"Lucca, I can't believe I'm saying this, but you need to keep your girl on a leash," I say, putting as much strained emphasis as I can into the word to signal to Roberta if the matter of Bobbi is safe to bring up—
She's flushing.
…
Clearly, I need to work on my subtle cueing skills.
"Can you let go now?" Lucca asks.
… I may also need to work on that whole 'situational awareness' thing I keep hearing so much about.
So, with a polite and only slightly strained smile, I let go of his hand and discreetly wipe the accumulated sweat on my pants as I try and think about how to continue this conversation now that the girls are back and I don't know if—
"Brian says that magic is real."
Fuck you, Lucca. Fuck you and your inevitable betrayal.
"Does he?" Roberta says, the crossed arms somehow intensifying.
"Isn't it a magical morning? The birds are chirping, the sun's shining, your stockings are miraculously non-ripped—"
"Shut. Up."
"You're not the boss of me. But I'll still shut up, if only because I can see that my jocular behavior is making you—well, uncomfortable may not be the right word, what with how you're shifting in place in a way that may stress your new stocking, but—"
"Brian."
"Yes, Roberta? Light of my life?"
Ah.
Damn it.
She's flushed, Bianca's back to her attempts at holding back her squeeing, and Lucca is looking at me with his head tilted in almost canine confusion, as if trying to solve the mystery of how and why the cupboard both gives and keeps away his food.
I, instead, am rubbing the back of my neck like an anime character, unwilling to face the consequences of letting my mouth keep running for longer than it's wise to do so, which, in my case, is letting it run at all.
A clearing throat dramatically echoes around the clearing.
To my shock, it comes from Lucca.
"To be perfectly clear, Brian was saying that magic, literal magic, is real. And that he wants to learn it."
… I don't know if this counts as rescuing me or throwing me under the bus. How cunning of you, Lucca. How devious. How Machiavellian.
"You are a jerk," I mutter.
"You want to learn magic?" Roberta asks, arms unfolding, palms up, confusion clear on her face, and—
And Bianca takes a step forward, pulls out a stone from one of the pockets of her green cargo pants, and hands it to me.
"Look," she says.
I frown at the slight weight on my palm, and then I notice that the stone… it's a river pebble, really, but it also has a hole worn through it that I somehow know is natural and not—
The pale girl stares right at me through her sunglasses, her expression as intense as if we both were waiting for the hand of the referee to drop.
I raise the worn stone to my right eye, look through the hole, and…
There's…
Nothing dramatic. Not really.
The world still looks like a small clearing around a stretch of murmuring creek, golden light glinting off disturbed currents and swaying boughs. It's the same world I woke up to with the gray sun of dawn.
But…
If I strain, if I put a slight effort that I don't know where it comes from…
There's a… a haze around Roberta. Something that could be wild and unrestrained, but is now dormant.
Dormant, but still there.
And if I push on that sensation, on that thing that disappears as soon as I pull the stone slightly away from my eye, only to come back when I pull it close enough that my eyelashes brush against the unyielding surface…
The haze remains unclear. Barely the suggestion of a mirage over a long road in the summer.
But…
It seems to take on a shape. Taller than Roberta. Two peaks by the side of her head.
My breathing is rough, as if I just fought an entire bout against Lucca, and my heart hammers in my ears.
I still push. Just a bit more. Just a bit harder.
And I look at Bianca.
There's… another kind of haze around her. Something that…
It is both vibrant and subdued. Cold streaked with burning veins. Something that makes me both want to recoil and reach out.
She smiles, something bitter yet… hopeful.
Her sunglasses come off.
Red, almost crimson eyes look at me.
My heartbeat is louder, my vision darkens at the edges, and the part of me I'm pushing against aches something dull that spreads through my chest before it turns into acute pain.
It stops when the stone drops from my lifeless hand, nothing but the dull pressure remaining.
But Bianca still has red eyes.
"What happened to you?" I say, all but breathless.
Holding her shoulders.
Trying to steady both the pale girl and myself.
"Magic. Magic happened, Brian," she says with a self-deprecating smile.
Lucca is standing straight, behind me, Roberta is looking with aching concern at the girl in front of me, and red eyes search through my own, looking for something that I don't know if I can give her, not when I'm still so afraid of something I don't understand that makes my blood run cold, but…
William Hope's quote.
Swordsmen. Courage.
"I will learn. I promise, Bianca."
Her smile is still subdued, but, just for a moment, it grows brighter.
Bright enough that I know I did the right thing.
And that, more than courage, is what any swordsman should always strive to.
━❖━
To my frustration, Roberta insists on all of us attending our classes for the day, so a great deal of the ensuing conversation has to be shelved until lunchtime, none of our free periods allowing the four of us to meet before then.
That, of course, means that I get to go to the cafeteria and, in front of an Italian who may or not be trying to suppress an eye-twitch, fill my plate with slices of deep-dish, Chicago-style pizza.
Roberta arches an inquiring eyebrow bordering on disapproval, and Bianca giggles until she can't hold it anymore and outright guffaws.
"See? Beautiful friendship," she manages to get out, ignoring the confusion coming from the cafeteria lady and the people grumbling at how we're kinda holding the line.
"That's not what I would call it," Lucca answers with as flat a tone as he can manage before getting a serving of grilled chicken breasts, because of course he would be the kind to go for the 'healthy' option, just as Roberta has a plate of lentil salad and Bianca—
"Hey!"
"You haven't even paid for it yet," she says, dropping a portion of pepperoni from my plate into hers.
"It's the principle of the thing!"
"Yes. Yes, it is," she says with a bright smile that shows her white, sharp teeth under the dark sunglasses she's wearing once again.
Lucca sighs.
Then, when we're seated in the corner of the loud, student-filled cafeteria, her anime childhood friend and I take a synchronized bite of our deliciously greasy pepperoni pizza, let out an exaggerated groan of delight, and Lucca goes from sighing to grumbling.
Yeah.
It may be the start of a beautiful friendship, after all.
━❖━
Roberta Wasn't Expecting the Cuffs
Bobbi never should've told him about this.
"That's… kind of unexpected," Bianca says, her blush strong enough to be visible even in the colorful darkness of the library at dusk as she fidgets in front of me, and I…
I should be glaring at her.
Instead, I'm trying very hard not to squirm on the medieval-themed chair that Brian is cuffing me to.
He's… right behind me. His hands are on my bare wrists, as deft as they were this morning on other parts of my body, the cold steel of the handcuffs already closed around my left arm, and he just has to slide the band of metal over my right to have me defenseless, captive, and…
And with an audience.
"Sorry about this," he whispers in my ear, from behind me, his presence a tangible pressure on my back that I can feel despite the cool wood between us as hot breath caresses my ear and I try my best not to whimper.
"I hate all of you," I manage to say, not entirely insincerely.
"We don't know how your other self will react to unexpected presences," Lucca says from where he's slightly off to the side from Bianca and a step closer to me, clearly ready to get between the girl and me if Bobbi is not amenable to unexpected guests.
The cuffs close around my right wrist.
Brian's hands linger on my arms.
God… why?
"I am pretty sure that Bobbi will remember enough not to be hostile. She's… a good girl," he says, and he, of course, inadvertently makes this whole situation so much worse that I could cry.
"Did you have to phrase it like that?" I bite out. Metaphorically.
For now.
"What? She is. Really, sometimes I have to get a bit stern with her, but it's mostly because she has too much energy, nothing outright malicious. A bit of discipline and—"
"Are you doing this on purpose?" Bianca thankfully says.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he, of course, answers.
I close my eyes and tune out the rest of the conversation before I start blaspheming or doing something far more embarrassing.
He's still behind me.
I can still feel it.
The… The weight. The presence. The comforting, reassuring knowledge that he is there, that I…
That Bobbi…
It…
I can't explain it. Not really. I just know that it's grown stronger since I revealed my secret to him. That I just…
I just want him near me.
A part of me, naïve and clueless, brings up that wolves… That they pair for life. But that's just…
That's just what a lonely, friendless girl would think about romance. That it would be a magical thing.
That it would be forever.
Ever after.
But this isn't romance. This isn't love. This is me asking a friend to help me with a curse, and the curse insidiously working inside of my mind.
Even if I liked him. Even if I looked forward to our conversations. Even if he was cute enough, and funny, and smart.
And brave.
Loyal.
Reckless.
Even if, in another world, I would've grown frustrated with him never getting the hint and asking me to go watch a movie until I all but spelled it out for him, and we would have, of course, argued about what movie to go to when it wouldn't matter in the slightest so long as it was with him, because I would sit by his side in the dark cinema and pretended to pay attention while trying not to show him how anxious I was, how I would've kept hoping for him to reach out and take my hand in his, the callouses of a fencer dragging over my soft skin before his strong fingers closed around mine and made my heart beat that much faster.
There would've been some sarcastic comments, a few of my prickly attempts at pretending not to care as much as I desperately wished to. Some of the old vitriol may have leaked through.
And he would have still been there. By my side.
Patient and steadfast enough to wait out my flaws. To help me trust him as he deserves to be trusted.
In another world.
One without magic.
But in this one, the Moon calls.
I hear it singing through me, the argent notes reaching across the mountains she hides behind as it rises and the song grows louder in my bones.
As it sings them into another shape.
Part of me longs for it. For the reprieve of being myself. For the liberating rush of another form blooming from my body, the length of my limbs growing more comfortable, my sharp teeth sliding past one another in a seamless fit, the claws in my hands growing stronger with every frantic beat of my heart as the calm of flowing silver reaches a crescendo and the melody explodes into a wild chorus that I need to join, that I pledge my voice to with a howl filled with mourning and ecstasy at the same time.
That's how every night lit by the full moon has been ever since… Ever since I discovered my curse.
More than a year already. More than a year of losing three nights out of every month to another. Time stolen from me and turned into hazy dreams too often filled with blood and strings of torn meat in my mouth. Over a tongue that tastes much more than mine does.
That's how it's been for… for long enough that I finally reached out.
Asked for help.
Pleaded for it.
But…
The song is there, enticing as ever, calling for me to let go. To join it. To dance under motes of silver light as I shed all that humanity burdens me with.
My bones are strings playing each and every note. My veins thrum with the strength of the hunter in the night.
But…
I open my eyes.
"Bobbi is not here," I say.
And Brian's hands close around my shoulders.
━❖━⧫━❖━
So.
It's been more than a year.
Those of you who follow my other stories know that I have been, well, not as active as I used to be, that's for sure, but at least trying to get back to a modicum of functionality for quite a while. And the one reason that Lacmere hasn't been updated beforehand?
Stage fright.
Or Impostor Syndrome.
Or… any of a thousand names for feeling that I would be doing the story a disservice if I tried to force an update before I was ready for it, compounded by the mounting fear of having lost my touch or the thread of the plot that grew with every day that went by without a new word added to this.
And then came my birthday.
I decided that this would be it: I would return in full force. Lacmere would be updated. Wordsworth would be updated. Tales From a Lewd Fantasy World. Periodical Cicadas. Of Sisters and Shadows. A Pure Knight's Natural Enemy. A day-long session of I Just Wanted To Be an Adventurer. The stupid April Fools Special that has remained half-written for months.
Instead…. Life happened. I was on track to fulfill at least a good part of those plans, but…
My birthday was on the 19th. We are now in August.
Life happened full force.
And I have been anxious, all those feelings of failing Brian, Lucca, Roberta, Bobbi, and Bianca once again surging with every day that I was unable to finish the next chapter, sheer bloody-minded stubbornness keeping me from just writing anything else at all.
Or anything at all, for that matter.
And then…
Here we are.
I am not triumphant. I am not heroically standing atop a defeated beast of legend.
But Lacmere goes on.
(And Brian's Mom has finally gotten a speaking role outside of bullying Santa in a Christmas Special.) (https://www.patreon.com/Agrippa/posts/lacmere-chapter-165421570?utm_medium=clipboard_copy&utm_source=copyLink&utm_campaign=postshare_creator&utm_content=join_link)
So this is it. Another step taken. Another part of my life that I refuse to give up to the parts of me that would want nothing better.
I am not triumphant.
But, at least for today, I am content.
See you soon, everyone. I'm not about to let this slip by again.
As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon (https://www.patreon.com/Agrippa?fan_landing=true): aj0413, Crimson Grave, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, Vergil1989 Crossover King, and Xanah. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on https://www.amazon.com/stores/Terry-Lavere/author/B0BL7LSX2S. Thank you for reading!