Bladed Wings (8 page)

              No effort and his hand rose. Tingling ran up his arm, his fingers flexed against the cold.

              That’s where his arm wanted to be.

              Then he felt it when he wasn’t looking, a sphere of darkness. He imagined it unraveling, a string of shadow sliding off, animated by nothing but will. Timothy opened his eyes, his hand still extended. Silent, a tendril of shadow snaked from the base of his wrist.

              “I did it.”

              “That you did,” answered a girl’s voice, the same high-pitch he had learned to recognize.

              “Isis.”

              “You remembered!” she said. Timothy glanced up just in time to see her hop from a branch that must’ve been forty feet in the air. She slid down and landed in a crouch with the kind of force which should’ve broken some bones.

              Trying not to sound impressed, Timothy asked, “How do you do that?”

              “What?” She patted pollen and leaves from her clothes. Toned legs still stretched from her denim shorts, though she now wore a hot pink tank top. It would’ve tempted any other guy. Timothy might’ve been interested too if he weren’t thinking about Jenny. That thought made him feel really pathetic. Yeah, it never seemed unfair. He wasn’t with her, but he didn’t look at anyone else either. Definitely pathetic.

              “You just jumped.” Timothy had his eyes on the tendril. He wasn’t focused on it, but it continued to hover on the air. That meant he didn’t have to concentrate to keep it in existence.

              “Yes. Yes, I can. Is that strange?”

              “You don’t get out much, do you?”

              “I’m young,” she said.

              “You’re not like a thousand, like the others?”

              “No!” she screeched, “No I’m not that old. Why would you think that?”

              “Aren’t all demons supposed to be—well, old?”

              “That sounds like prejudice.”

              Timothy reminded her, “I don’t have a whole lot to go on.”

              “Do I look like I’m a thousand?”

              “No, but you don’t look like a squirrel either, and you’ve done that too.”

              “Huh, good point.” Isis paused, one finger to her lower lip, “How old do I look?”

              “I don’t know, twenty?”

              “That’s what I was going for!” she clapped, her palms together.

              “But you’re not?”

              “Nope. I’m eighteen.”

              “Eighteen years, right?” he asked to be sure.

              “Months.”

              “That’s not—possible?”

              “Of course it is. I formed eighteen months ago.”

              “Formed?”

              “Erzu didn’t tell you about all of that?” she asked, “Shame on him. He should have told you. I’ll remind him next time.”

              “We had a lot to cover, I guess.”

              Isis sounded like a teacher at a science fair, “We form whenever a human has intensely selfish emotion. All of that energy, and we’re created. If it lasts long enough, we become strong enough to hold on. Sometimes we break away and form a new body if we’re really powerful. Sometimes we take the body.”

              “That’s how you’re born?”

              “Yup. So have you practiced attacking?” Isis asked with a nod at the tendril. Through their conversation, the tentacle curved up, ready to attack.

              “No. You kind of interrupted me.”

              “Well, try it on me then.”

              “You want me to attack you?”

              “Uh huh. You won’t hurt me. I promise.”

              Timothy thought of the tendrils. He didn’t know how to make them attack, not exactly. He’d moved the pen. This time he tried something similar. He imagined the tendrils striking her, a spear shooting for her shoulder. And it obeyed. He was getting better at control.

              The tendril flew and might have hurt her except Isis ducked and twisted around. “Good job,” she said, clapping the flats of her hands like an excited seal. “Now block me.” As she said it, her hands glowed and shifted into talons. “My turn!” She still wore the same thin arms, the same bony wrists, but now they connected to sharpened fingers of something deadly.

              Before he could ask what she meant or demand she stop, Isis danced for him, a streak of jumping and spinning motion. She was fast, faster than Timothy ever would have guessed. Like a baseball was flying for his skull, he threw up his forearms to protect his face.

              He felt a thud, a slash, and a burning somewhere in his mind. But then he heard giggling, opened his eyes, and dropped his arms. In front of him floated a disk of shadow. A gouge cut down the shield, but when Timothy looked at his arms, he didn’t see any new holes or cuts. Yet a dull pain throbbed at the back of his mind anyway. The pain had to come from some place, but he didn’t know where. The pain came from his shield, Timothy realized, suddenly afraid.

              “Impressive again! You’re really good at this!”

              “Thanks. What is this? I thought I just did those tentacle things?” He reached out and touched the disk.

              “Nope. You’re shadow. You can do anything you can do with shadow,” she said. Timothy decided not to remind her that shadows weren’t supposed to be solid. They shouldn’t have blocked anything. “Now fix it,” she said with a nod at the wounded disk.

              “Okay,” he said, blinking back onrushing fatigue. His arms dragged, his body wearing out a lot faster than he’d expected.

              Timothy looked into the disk, letting his eyes glaze out of focus. The edges began to melt. Seconds ticked by and he tried to fix it, tried to fill in the rip. At first nothing happened, and he heard Isis skipping back and forth, bubbling impatience. After a few seconds, he could ignore her and he didn’t hear her pink sandals scrape against the ground. Instead he didn’t think about anything and he could feel the motion, momentum of the disk’s edges pushing back together.

              When he reopened his eyes the shield floated, solid and healed.

              “Well done! You’re so good at this!”

              “Thanks,” but he sounded weak. He tried to stand and his legs shivered beneath him.

              “Are you okay?” Isis asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. Her fingertips were cold, cold enough to bleed through his coat, his shirt. He shivered against her touch. “You look pale.”

              “Tired.”

              “You shouldn’t be. Did you eat before you came out here?”

              “No.”

              “Big mistake.”

              “What? Why?”

Timothy took tray and paper cup, got something to drink without bothering with ice and fell into a chair. Tearing open the sandwich, he already had it half way to his mouth. The first big bite tasted great. The second big bite tasted like the best ever. In all of three minutes the sandwich was gone. He finished his drink and sat there, stuffed and happy.

              “Timothy?” spiked a voice from behind him. He sprang up, back straight, because Jenny’s question sparked like a jolt of electricity.

              “Hi,” he said and turned around.

              “How’s it going?” Jenny stood there like an angel with a plastic tray, fast food sandwich, bag of chips, and soda. She was normal, a college girl getting lunch, except for everything Timothy felt and knew about her.

              “I’m good. I’m good,” he stuttered, hoping there weren’t any stray streaks of mustard on his lips. “Do you want to sit down?” The question fell out of his mouth and that was the easy part. Then he had to wait the two seconds for her answer.

              One.

              They’d have lunch, and they’d eat together, and he’d learn more about her.

              Two.

              No, she was there to have lunch with her boyfriend. She’d smile and say she’d love to but didn’t have the time. Then she’d go to the other side of the restaurant and he’d sit there, the loner shoveling down too much food.

              “You don’t mind?”

              “Not at all,” Timothy said, more honest then than at any other moment, “Have a seat.”

              “Sure,” Jenny said, sliding her tray onto the table. “So are you in a rush or just really hungry?” She took a sip of soda, her eyes still on him.

              “Hungry,” he said. “Or at least I was.” The wrapper for his foot long sandwich was gone, and the chips’ bag was half empty. “What about you? Are you off for some big plans tonight?”

              “No,” she said, “Not really. We were going to go out, but Terrance had to cancel.”

              “Your boyfriend?” he asked, faking a note of carelessness.

              “Yup.”

              “How’s it going?” Timothy lowered his voice to show he was serious.

              “Okay, I guess. We haven’t really had a chance to talk. I keep chickening out.”

              “You’ll get to it.”

              “I feel stupid,” Jenny said as she unwrapped her sandwich without tearing the paper.

              “Why?”

              “Because it’s just a conversation. I need to talk to him and start learning more about him, you know, the way you said. And I really think you’re right. This’ll be better. We both really care about each other. But then I haven’t done it.”

              “You’re both probably busy.”

              “I guess. But I think a good relationship is where both people make time for each other. Or is that dumb?” she sounded curious.

              “I don’t know.”

              “Have you ever been in that kind of situation? Where you’re scared of talking to someone?”

              Timothy decided not to remind her of five days ago, in the laundry room, saying hi and running away like a worm from a mob of angry chickens. Instead he said, “I’ve been there.”

              “What happened?”

              “It was a girl. Thankfully, I learned to talk to her.”

              “That’s sweet.” They ate for several seconds.

              “Can I ask you something kind of personal?” he promised himself he could use this information, that he needed it because it could help protect her. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know how. She nodded. “What do you believe? I mean, with death and everything?”

              “Wow.”

              “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want.” Obvious, he still felt the compulsion to say it. “I mean, I know it’s kind of personal.” She told him she’d answer whatever he’d like. “Do you believe in heaven?” It was a risk, like maybe she could see through the questions. All of these dots could form a picture for her.

              She could realize he was a demon.

              She could think he was insane.

              And Timothy didn’t know which was worse, but he looked at her and the hunger to know her pulled at him. It felt too good, too good to hear her voice and hear her answers, to listen to her view of the universe because it seemed like nothing could be really wrong through her eyes. “Yes,” she answered, “I do.”

              “Do you believe in angels?”

              “That one I’m not so sure about,” Jenny said with a shrug.

              “Why not?”

              “Because I don’t trust Hallmark.”

              “And you think they made up angels?”

              “I think,” she said, careful with each word. “That it’s a nice idea. And I want to believe it, but then I’m not sure that makes it true. Like I’ve never seen one. I’ve never even met someone who’s seen one.”

              “But there are people out there who swear by them.”

              “That doesn’t prove anything,” Jenny answered, her eyes on him. Her concentration was on him too, Timothy realized. She enjoyed this, he thought. It scared Timothy a little. She sounded like an explorer while he felt lost. “Mass murderers think they’re doing the right thing. They swear by killing people. Fervent belief doesn’t prove anything.”