1. Stella
1
Stella
“Look, Stella, baby, I’m not trying to be an asshole here, but I just think this isn’t the career for you.”
I squint at Yuri’s back, my face tight with frustration.
Not that he can see it.
I’m not sure why he decided the best time to pick a fight was after I sucked his soul out through his dick, but here we are. I pull the fuzzy gray blanket tighter against my bare chest, watching him as he jumps to put his jeans on and fastens his belt.
It’s a white belt, so I’m not sure how I didn’t realize how big of a douche he was when I first met him.
When he turns to look at me, that dark hair flopping boyishly across his forehead, he’s all smiles.
Of course, he would be. He got to come, while I’m left with an unfulfilled ache between my thighs and aching shoulder blades.
Yuri has never been the most attentive lover, but at least he was someone to warm my bed. Both of us are interns at The Tioney Times, the largest newspaper in the city. What started as us meeting up for coffee and going through our assigned articles became a casual hookup that quickly began to feel like nothing but also a whole lot.
He demands more and more of my attention daily but is still aloof.
A late night text does not a relationship make.
Yuri recently turned in his final application project, the article that he hopes will land him a permanent position at the Times as an associate editor. His exposé on Raging Bull, the largest meat processing plant in the country, was incredibly well-researched, nuanced, and nearly unbelievable. It turns out they were packaging and selling minotaur meat on the side to “discerning customers.”
Fucking despicable.
“I will be just fine, Yuri. Mind your own pen,” I say through gritted teeth.
He heads to the door, stopping with his arm on the frame. His lean, muscular figure barely fits within the doorway, and I can’t help but admire how his biceps flex.
If he fucked as good as he looked, I’d be in trouble.
“You don’t even have a project yet, Stella. I’m trying to look out for you. I wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself. It’s not too late to drop out. I’m sure we’ll find somewhere else for you to work.”
Then he opens his mouth, and my pussy boards up like there’s a hurricane coming.
“See yourself out, Yuri.”
I flop back on the bed, staring at the cream, textured ceiling of my shitty apartment. I’ve lived here for almost ten years, and it is as bad as the day I moved in. There is always a faintly sour smell, no matter how much I clean, and the air conditioning is so spotty it may as well be nonexistent.
It’s not even in a desirable neighborhood. Nestled in the back corner of the Authentic district, bordering the supernatural district boundary, it’s like I’m straddling the designations by living here.
But the rent is cheap, and it’s a safe place to hide my secrets.
My parents are great people, but they’re supernaturals, and they wanted a better life for me. When I was fifteen, they set up this apartment for me with my new identity and taught me how to hide my wings. I have lived as an Authentic ever since. My dad is a Berserker, and my mom is a Valkyrie, like myself. Every year that I have suppressed my spirit, I feel it is slipping further and further away from me.
We’re not meant to live like this, but what other choice is there?
The world isn’t safe for my type, and I’m not sure if it ever will be again.
Before the Rift War, Authentics and supernaturals lived side by side. Of course, back then, Authentics were just called humans. When the tentative truce was reached with Reighold to keep their realm from bleeding into ours, somehow, supernaturals became demonized.
Well, I guess that isn’t the right choice of words because demons were treated as well as the rest of us up until then.
Mom says that the Rift War is why there are so few Valkyrie around now. I’m not sure if that’s true or not, but the fact is that, to my knowledge, I have never met another Valkyrie except for my mother.
With a sigh, I climb out of bed, the blanket dropping to the floor and exposing my bare body. It only takes a small amount of focus to urge the skin on my back to part open, letting me unfurl my wings. I’ve never entirely understood the magic that helps them fit within my skin without pain. Sometimes, it’s like there is an insistent itch that I can’t reach.
I’ve been living with an itch I can’t scratch for ten years because if I scratch it, I could end up in prison.
My feathers stretch out like fingers, pushing through the momentary rigidness courtesy of being contained within my flesh. I’ve always loved my wings, and I hate how I have to hide them. My mother’s wings are black and barely wider than her shoulders, taking up very little space on her back. It makes it easier for her to pass as an Authentic when needed, as long as she keeps them tucked away within her flesh or pulled tight and hidden under large cloaks.
I do not have that luxury. My wings are white and broad—not angelic or anything, thank Gods.
All the angels I’ve met are fucking douchebags.
They also don’t dip down toward the floor like angel wings. Instead, the tips reach right around my waist. But my wingspan is huge, easily twice the size of my mother’s.
No hiding them under a coat, so into the back flaps they go.
It’s not that being supernatural is illegal, but it might as well be, and we’re certainly not afforded all the same luxuries as an Authentic. Some shops and a host of jobs are still Authentic only. Since Robert Sinclair started his stupid fucking reformatory and began branding graduates as simplynaturals, anyone who doesn’t go through the program is looked down upon and is afforded very few job opportunities.
Tioney is one of the largest cities in Rigent, the largest country in our realm. The windows of the neighboring buildings sparkle in the setting sun as I lean on the window frame, listening to the cars honking their horns and people yelling at one another. This part of the Authentic district is loud, but at this point in my life, I don’t know if I could sleep in the quiet.
A shitty home is still a home.
I wish I could see my family more, but it’s too risky for us to be seen together if I want to continue to live under the radar.
I bang my head on the dirty, warped window. I shouldn’t let myself get into a “woe is me, society is out to get me” spiral, but I’m pretty sure I’m due for a nervous breakdown soon.
As much of an ass Yuri is, he’s right about one thing. I don’t have a project to submit to the Times. If I don’t come up with something good, there is no way I will get offered a full-time position. It’s time to get serious about brainstorming some ideas. I only have a few months left before my internship is up.
I tuck my wings in, throw on a massive shirt with the supernatural band Supes Rad logo, and head to the kitchen to see what I can scrounge up for dinner.
The yellowed linoleum creaks under my steps, and the ancient stove could use a good scrub. Print media is nearly dead, so an intern gets paid roughly nothing, and my fridge reflects that perfectly. But I find some leftover takeout that doesn’t have anything growing on it, so I grab a fork, plop down on the cracked leather recliner in my living room, and turn on the television.
And wouldn’t you fucking know it? It’s an ad for the Godsdamned Reformation Academy.
It’s bad enough I had to write that bullshit article, but now I have to watch more propaganda on television?
Robert Sinclair’s bright white smile welcomes all supernaturals to apply so they can become simplynaturals and fit better into our everyday society. I suppose some people might find Sinclair attractive, with his salt-and-pepper hair and chiseled jaw, but every time he opens his mouth and spews that bullshit about training us against our instincts, it makes my stomach roil.
Despite what the ads would have you believe, the Academy isn’t mandatory for all supernaturals, but you have to walk the straight and narrow to avoid getting slapped with cuffs. It’s one of the reasons I’m so thankful it’s easy to hide being a Valkyrie. My wings tuck in, and as long as I’m not lifting weights in front of someone, they won’t know about my strength.
I’m unsure what influence Sinclair has over the government, but they seem cozy. Every year, laws for supernaturals get tighter and tighter, and enrollment grows higher and higher at the Academy. Living where I do, I’ve seen some of the arrests go down, and most are entirely trumped-up charges.
But when the jury of your peers is all simplynaturals, what do you think will happen?
So, I keep to myself. I hide who I am. I can’t let my parents’ sacrifices to give me a new identity be in vain.
When the testimonials don’t stop and roll from one endorsement to the next, I realize this isn’t an ad I’ve been watching but rather a news segment on the local station.
Oh.
OH.
I leap to my feet, and in my excitement, my mystery dinner crashes on the floor. My computer is in my room, and I snatch it up and throw myself onto my bed on my stomach. My rumpled red sheets most likely contain evidence of my earlier dalliance, but I can’t think about that now.
Because right now, I am going to apply for a scholarship admission to Robert Sinclair’s Reformation Academy.
“Well, I hate to see you go, Stella,” Lou says, reclining in his chair. “Is there nothing I can do to get you to stick around?”
My boss, an Authentic man in his fifties with deep Black skin and kind brown eyes, crosses his arms over his chest as he stares me down. I throw on a winning smile and practice what will surely be the first of many lies I will tell over the coming weeks.
“It’s not the Times or you, Lou. I don’t think I’m cut out for this, is all. You should spend your time developing other journalists who are ready for this kind of position.”
I run my hands awkwardly across my denim-clad thighs. When I got up this morning after receiving my acceptance into the Reformation Academy, I knew this conversation wouldn’t be easy.
I didn’t expect to feel so guilty for lying to Lou.
I’ve worked at the Times for the past five years. It’s a long time to be an intern, but with print media being what it is, everyone is an intern until they get a regular column. I’ve written features here and there and gotten paid for them, plus I get a menial stipend for all of the other things I do around the office.
When Lou hired me, I had been on my own for five years, waiting tables at a diner across the street from the Times headquarters. I would stare out the window and imagine being up there, writing things that would make a difference.
One day, Lou caught me staring out the window when I was pouring his coffee, and he asked why.
He hired me on the spot, and the rest is history.
“I don’t believe that for a second, Stella.”
I reach across the desk and place my hand on his with a sad smile. “I need to do this, Lou. But I promise this won’t be the last you hear of me.”
“You better mean that. Don’t get an old man’s hopes up.”
“Gods, you act like you’re ancient. You’re hardcore in Silver Fox territory now.” He laughs and comes around his desk to hug me tightly.
“You want me to tell Yuri?”
I wrinkle my nose and pull out of his arms. “I’m done with him. If he asks, sure, but don’t go out of your way to tell him.”
He nods, places his hand between my shoulders, and walks me to the door. “Have a good life, Stella,” he says softly. “I know you’ll make a difference, whatever you do.”
“I hope so, Lou.”