Chapter 3 #2
I hate the dementedly blazing summers in this cramped city.
I hate thinking about that kid and his hungry dog.
And Burrito Mom and her girls and what might have happened had I not been there or had I chosen my friend over my duty to this city.
Over my compulsive need to kill. I hate my long hours at the Windsor and all the pressure that comes with them.
I hate being late. I hate being a hunter and the fact that Penny and I aren’t as close as we used to be.
I think I might hate my boyfriend. I definitely hate myself.
“Viv?” James whispers. While I’ve been staring off into a stack of sketchbooks, bubbling over with self-loathing, Penny has fallen asleep. “You okay?”
When I nod, he adds, “Walk me down?”
We trudge down the scuffed stairs of the walk-up and back out into the night. Taxis speed by under a couple of hazy streetlights. One flickers jerkily, in need of a new bulb. The balmy heat whips at my skin as we stroll over to his sleek black sedan, which I can’t stand for no good reason.
James is headed to his family’s house in the Sewards tonight—the seaside town a few miles east of the Hesperides.
He’s going for the weekend with some of his fraternity brothers and their shiny, happy girlfriends.
James invited me to join, but I can’t seem to enjoy a lazy afternoon by the rolling, manicured seaside without thinking of deviants tearing into people while I work on my tan.
“You sure you don’t want to come?”
“Too much work to do for the new exhibit. Sorry.”
“You could work from the summer house. My bed makes for a very cozy home office.”
“I just can’t this weekend. Rain check?”
“Sure.” James smiles softly and my stomach turns. “I’m proud of how hard you’ve been working.”
I’m such a jerk—I can see how James is trying. “I haven’t eaten today. Want to walk and grab a slice?”
“Er…” He glances around, adjusting his tie to give his neck a reprieve from the heat.
Spooky music drifts out of Cobwebs, likely empty for the night now that we’ve left.
Up the sidewalk a bit, trash spills out onto the street—mostly plastic wrap and soda cans.
A mouse scurries between the bags, and I hear the sound of its claws on asphalt like they’re skittering along my scalp.
Even farther up, a guy snorts something out of a plastic baggie, and another next to him bites into some late-night pizza.
Gooey cheese and a slightly burned crust.
James shifts on his feet. He hates this street corner, our apartment, our little haunted bar…I save him the rejection of my offer. “It’s okay. Rain check on that too, yeah?”
“Yes, please.” He nods. “Be safe, will you? I don’t like you out and about South of the Chasm without me.”
Though his words irritate me, I just take a deep breath of city air. Aeons are prone to mood swings, something about our ever-hungry desire for blood. Meditation helps, as does getting enough sleep. Two things I never have time to do.
But what I really need is to hunt. To shake off the anger and frustration of the night. Just the thought of a solid kill is relieving tension across my body. “I’ll be good.”
I kiss him goodbye and head off. I don’t tell him I can take care of myself just fine. Or that he couldn’t protect me from a chicken potpie. He’s just being thoughtful.
And he’s right, I tell myself as I pass flashing neon signs that claim Only a mile away from the world-famous Chasm!
The massive crevasse that bisects Astera and gives it the nickname the “Half City” is more than a third the size of the Grand Canyon—it also serves as a kind of safety demarcation.
North of the Chasm, you’ll find yuppies and politicians and finance bros—basically a bunch of James clones running around telling one another about synergy—as well as the pristine NTC (North of the Chasm) Park, the Windsor, and wealthy housewives paying people to water the plants outside their lovely limestone townhomes.
But down here, South of the Chasm, is where all the beatniks and poppy addicts and kids who can’t afford anything live.
In STC’s defense, it’s also where you’ll find the kinds of parties they write exposé articles about, as well as avant-garde art galleries and the best wine bars for first dates.
As long as you stay away from the depths of the South, you’re unlikely to run into any slums or drug lords.
At least, that’s what they’ll tell you on the Chasm tours tourists pay forty-five dollars for.
Don’t even get me started on the pricing of their CHASMGASM T-shirts.
I think of my dad explaining to me when I was seven that my elementary school teacher had been wrong.
How what they tell you on those tours—that the gaping Chasm around which early Asteran settlers built the city is a geological anomaly that’s been here since recorded time—couldn’t be further from the truth.
He taught me that there was more deviant activity in Astera than anywhere else in the world because the Chasm was ripped open many millennia ago by the then High Thane of the Brood when he released deviants from the underworld, making it the largest and oldest gateway to hell.
Even though powerful lymantrians closed it shortly thereafter, the majority of freed deviants made this city their home.
And over the years, all the vampires and werewolves they’ve turned or offspring they’ve birthed have done the same.
If only James knew I wasn’t grabbing a slice but instead trolling the streets for deviants to kill to quiet my internal turmoil.
If only he knew I do that more nights than I complete my skincare routine.
But he doesn’t, which means I have no right to be annoyed with him for being cautious.
All he’s ever done is look out for me. There was that one time Penny and I visited him at his frat and he punched a guy for pinching my butt.
It was so sweet—his hand swelled to the size of an eggplant.
Same color too. I wouldn’t have even needed ice had I punched the loser myself, but James did it for me. That’s worth something, right?
Passing parlors with women in red-glowing windows, I wonder for the hundredth time why he’s always cared for me.
I wish it didn’t matter. Is it the chance to fix something that’s broken?
He does work in the highest echelon of PR.
A literal fixer. The irony is not lost on anyone, least of all my mother.
Or perhaps I provide an opportunity to rebel against his perfect parents by dating someone who isn’t sweet and chirpy like his litany of socialite exes?
Or maybe—
I’m so lost in my own overanalysis, I don’t even realize I’ve nearly walked to the notorious nightclub Fever Dream when my skin lights with the presence of a deviant.
“I’m not sure what was more impressive,” a cool voice says, the low sound curling around the shell of my ear. “Killing a demon on a moving subway car or taking your pants off on one.”