5. Stella
5
Stella
“But yeah, even though he was already dying I’m apparently supposed to let his soul go to the void and not do what I’m made to do and help him rest,” Clay says after lunch as we head back to the courtyard that sits in the middle of the arches to each tower.
“So they arrested you for murder?” I say, dropping to the grass and stretching my feet out. “That’s not murder!”
“Tell that to the government, honey,” Clay says with a laugh, flopping beside me and rolling onto his side. He’s like an excitable puppy, all bright eyes and big smiles, despite the darkness of the subject matter. “But yeah, it was either here or they were going to lock me up, and I am not built for prison, so here I am.”
I wish I had brought my notebook to write this stuff down. It’s my first day, and I’ve already met someone erroneously charged with a heinous crime simply because of what his spirit does naturally. What he’s meant to do.
I wish I could tell Ryan and Clay what I’m doing here, but I cannot risk being found out, and I just met them. I have no way of knowing if I can trust them. Now that I’ve exposed myself as a supernatural being, I don’t know what kind of life awaits me if I don’t blow the world out of the water with this exposé.
Certainly not my job.
Probably not my home.
I doubt they’d even let me continue to be reformed. Straight to prison for me, probably.
“What about you, big guy?” I say, turning to Ryan. “Why are you here?”
He looks bashful, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. The Cyclops is so shy for someone who takes up so much space, and it’s pretty adorable. His shaggy brown hair is constantly getting pushed off his forehead, and despite his skin’s deep olive tone, I can tell when he’s blushing, which seems to happen a lot. He’s handsome, with a square jaw and fit physique. He could seriously be an Authentic model if he had two eyes.
I don’t mind the one big eye, even though I can tell he’s ashamed of his spirit. It fits his face well. And the monocle? Super cute.
“I’m here on scholarship,” he says quietly. “I know this isn’t a choice for most people, but it’s tough for a Cyclops to make it in an Authentic society.”
“Hey, buddy, don’t be ashamed,” Clay says. The male is like living sunshine, which is hilarious, considering Reapers are death personified. His white tank rides up as he stretches out, showcasing a strip of flesh above his jeans. Thin black, blue, and gold lines travel haphazardly across his flesh, disappearing under his shirt and heading towards his heart. There are more blue than the others, and I wonder about the significance, but I don’t think now is the time to ask, so I wrench my eyes away from the tempting strip of flesh.
“Our society sucks, and we’re all trying to do the best we can, ya know? No judgment,” Clay continues.
“Agreed,” I say, putting my hand over Ryan’s on the grass. He holds his body so still I wonder if I overstepped, so I pull it back slowly and clear my throat. “I told you, I hid myself and pretended to be Authentic for a decade. I will never judge you for doing what you have to do to survive in this fucked up world.”
The three of us stretch out in the sun for the rest of the day, telling stories about our childhoods and parents. It almost feels normal. I have been in hiding for so long, afraid to get close to people, that I haven’t had many friendships.
Ryan’s parents are both Cyclops, a relatively uncommon spirit because the community is so insular that its numbers are declining. He doesn’t tell us much about his home, brushing off most of our questions and deflecting them back to us. I can tell it’s a sore spot for him, so I try to steer the attention away from him.
Clay’s parents, on the other hand, are Authentics.
“I guess there was some Reaper blood way back in the bloodline or something, from before the Rift War, that suddenly popped up with me. Let me tell you, it was not a fun time.” His tone is light, but I don’t miss the slight tightening in the corner of his eyes.
“I can’t imagine,” I say, shaking my head. “Fuck, you must have felt so alone.”
“I had a few friends,” he says, voice subdued. But it only lasts a second, and then he’s back to smiling wide and chattering. “Plus, like, I can travel through the void. You wouldn’t think it, but ghosts are really friendly, so it was alright!”
I admire his optimism, but I can tell that the male had a bleak childhood, and deep down, it still affects him.
But I let the subject drop. No one wants to trauma dump on a stranger.
“Well, my mother is a Valkyrie, obviously,” I say, pulling the attention on me as I sweep my hand down my figure, “and my dad is a Berserker.”
“Oh!” Ryan exclaims, sitting up straighter. “That makes sense!” I raise an eyebrow at him, and he chuckles nervously. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so loud there. It makes sense that your father is a Berserker. The Valkyrie spirit can’t be passed down unless combined with a worthy spirit, and a Berserker certainly fits the bill.”
“Do you think that’s why there are so few of us?”
“Probably,” he says, pulling his long, khaki-clad legs in and crossing them in front of him. “Your kind doesn’t get studied as much as some of the other winged spirits, and honestly, I think it’s bullshit because most research focuses on males, so a female-only spirit is going to get overlooked…” He inhales deeply from his passionate rant, and every word he says squeezes my heart.
I’ve never spoken to anyone who gave a shit about my spirit. Some don’t even know what we are.
Calling us angels is easier than learning about the nuances of our spirit and culture.
He pulls his monocle off and rubs it with his shirt, something I’m starting to think is a nervous habit. “Anyways, Berserkers are male-only spirits also focused on battle and strength, with similar numbers to Valkyrie. So, it makes sense that the combination allowed the spirit to be passed down. If you had a brother, I bet he’d be a Berserker.”
“Shit, Ryan, you’re like an encyclopedia!” Clay sound fascinated. His voice has no malice or teasing like there would be with others. No, Clay is genuinely impressed with Ryan’s knowledge. “I knew Valkyrie are badasses and that there weren’t many. I didn’t know that it was that rare.” He climbs on his knees and folds his hands in front of himself like he’s praying. “I am blessed to be in your presence, oh rare spirit.”
I shove his shoulder, and he goes tumbling. We both fall into a fit of giggles. Ryan looks pissed, though. I wonder if he thought Clay’s antics were him being disrespectful, even though I clearly don’t feel that way.
But that’s on the big guy to process. Clay and I are having fun.
“Okay, so, if this is rude, smack me, but Stella, you gotta let me touch your wings,” Clay practically begs. “They’re stupid pretty, and I gotta know what they feel like. Pretty please?” He drags the last syllable out for so long that I think he’s going to run out of breath.
Now I’m the one blushing. I’m not used to people seeing my wings, much less admiring them. I sit between the two males and stretch them as wide as they go. “Sure, you both can. Just be gentle - they’re sensitive.”
Ryan’s touch is so soft I barely feel it. His large hands are surprisingly delicate as they stroke the soft feathers. “Wow,” he says quietly, leaning closer. “They’ve got strips of bronze and silver in them.”
“Aren’t they gorgeous?” I preen like a peacock under their attention. “My mom’s are black with strips of grey and much smaller than mine. I think I got the better wings for sure.”
Clay strokes up and down my wings, tracing the curve of the bone and dragging his fingers down the feathers in a way that is so sensual it has me squeezing my knees together. I don’t think he realizes what he’s doing, but fuck, I want him to keep going. It’s like a mainline straight to my clit, and I have to hope neither of their spirits has an enhanced scent, or this is going to get awkward fast.
“They’re incredible,” he says in a low voice. It’s almost reverent, a tone I haven’t heard him speak in at all today. “Screw anyone who tells you to hide them, little warrior, because these are the most beautiful wings I’ve ever seen.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly, his reverence making me blush for a reason other than the heat between my legs. Unfortunately, I have to pull my wings away from him because their touches are close to bringing me to the edge, and I’m not looking to die of mortification today.
In the evening, the three of us eat dinner together, and as the sun starts to set, we split off, Clay going to the Folklore tower and Ryan and I heading back up to our suite. We make plans for breakfast in the morning and then go our separate ways, allowing me to pull out my laptop from its hiding place and write down a transcript of everything that happened.
My schedule says my first class, Authentic History, is on the second floor, room 224 of the academic building, but I must be an idiot because I cannot find it. I swear I’ve gone up and down these corridors a thousand times, and I’m still lost.
Valkyrie are known for many things, but I guess a sense of direction is not one of them.
“What has led you astray, winged one?” a gentle voice says behind me. I spin around and look up, and up, and up until I meet the pale green eyes of the male who spoke to me. He has narrow hips and shoulders, with white hair that curls around his ears. He is effortlessly beautiful, but I cannot place his spirit. “Perhaps I can help you find your way again.”
“That would be wonderful,” I say, tucking my wings in momentarily so a troll can squeeze past me. “I’m looking for room 224, and I must be going blind or something because I cannot find it for the life of me, and I swear I’ve looked everywhere.”
He chuckles, throaty and masculine, a sharp contrast to his delicate, almost androgynous features and stern expression. “It’s your lucky day. I’m heading there as well.”
I bounce a bit on the toes of my combat boots, my backpack smacking on the back of my black shift dress. “Oh, perfect, please, lead the way.”
Walking alongside him, it’s impossible not to notice the grace in his movements. It’s as if every step he takes is a move from a ballet. “What’s your name, Valkyrie?” he asks, looking down at me.
The unspeakably gorgeous male raises an eyebrow at me expectantly. Looking at him makes me feel weak in the knees, and my mouth dries. He’s so distracting that I’m not even shocked he knew my spirit immediately.
Fuck.
He asked me a question.
I clear my throat. “Stella. What can I call you, oh wise spirit guide?”
“Well, that’s a new one,” he says with a laugh, stopping outside room 224. “I’m Michael. After you,” he gestures into the classroom.
Opening the door, I realize we must be the last two in, and I breathe a sigh of relief that we beat the teacher. A few rows up, I spot two seats together, and I slip into one as quickly as I can, only to notice Michael isn’t following me.
Instead, he’s leaning on the desk, arms crossed over his pale blue button-up shirt and his face fixed with a stern, blank expression. “Good morning, class. I’m Professor Jessup, and this is Authentic History.”