It’s always a pleasure to see you. And how kind of you, to bring me the halfling.”
I glance at Koen, puzzled. “The what?”
“We have stories in the north. Legends, ballads. Ancient stuff about children born of Weres and Humans. Weres and Vampyres, too. We call them halflings.”
“Halflings.” I taste the word, then smile. “I like it. More than ‘hybrid.’ Makes me sound less like a car.”
“Do come closer,” Silas beckons. “You will forgive me if I don’t stand, won’t you? Serena, right?”
I nod, taking a step toward him. Then I remember what Sem told me about Dr. Silas’s eyesight and add, “It was given to me at the Human orphanage. If we met before, you might have known me under another name.”
“I see, I see. Will you sit, please?”
I drop to his feet, cross-legged. “These halfling legends . . . Do you think they might hold some truth?”
“Most stories do. Although the truths we seek are often not the ones we find. But if you’re asking whether you’re the first of your kind . . . I do not believe so, no.”
Juno said the same: hundreds of thousands of years ago, Weres and Humans and Vampyres used to be one. There are lots of theories about how speciation occurred, and I’m sure that at this very moment at least two anthropologists are fisticuffing over them at a sparsely attended academic panel. The bottom line, though, is that some groups split off and went their merry way. By the time they attempted to rejoin, they were no longer the same.
But reproductive compatibility is fluid, Juno said.
Our DNA is similar enough that all it takes is a few mutations at the individual level to allow procreation. There will be people referring to you as the harbinger of the decline of civilization, but what you are is not new, per se. It’s just . . .
A comeback?
If you will.
What you’re saying is, I’m vintage.
It’s not really what I-
And Renaissance Girl should be my new nickname?
I didn’t-
Deal.
“How old are you?” Dr. Silas asks, leaning forward in his seat.
“Twenty-five, as far as we know.” I fall quiet and fail in my quest to not glance back at Koen. I must have lost my object permanence skills, because I need constant reassurance that he exists, he’s here with me. He gives me a small nod, and I feel marginally less like used kitty litter.
I shouldn’t be nervous. I’ve lived my entire life not knowing who my parents were, and I’ve been just fine. I never allowed my origins to define me, because if I had, I would have been destined to remain undefined. I may be Serena Nobody, but I’m still Serena. The past doesn’t have to shape the future.
Hell, I don’t even have a future.
And yet, as Dr. Silas inhales deeply, I’m on tenterhooks. If he doesn’t recognize me, what would that mean? What if he does? What if my parents are alive and well? What if I am forced to meet them, listen to their excuses, and maybe even forgive them? Because that’s what I should do, right? Be gracious and compassionate and somehow over it and-
Dr. Silas slowly shakes his head, and the relief folds my insides like origami. And Koen, whose eyes never, ever, ever leave me, can obviously tell.
A brief silence. Dr. Silas is saying that it could mean nothing- maybe he forgot, maybe my scent changed, they know so little about halfling developmental biology. Sem is agreeing, listing possibilities. Koen’s face is worried, like he’s about to ask me if I’m all right.
The only thing giving me strength right now is knowing that, asshole that he is, if I vomit gastric acid on his shoes, he’ll never let me live it down. “Hey, is it okay if I . . . I’d love some fresh air.”
“Of course.” Layla smiles. “Back door is through the kitchen, on the left. You’re welcome to go for a run, too. If you like the shoreline, it’s just us for about ten miles.”
“Great,” I say, instead of
Lovely of you, to mistake me for a high-functioning Were. I catch Koen’s eyes as I step away, watch the way his muscles begin to contract to follow me, and shake my head minutely, hoping he’ll understand what I’m trying to communicate:
I’m an emotional mess and I’d love to be alone for a second, just in case I burst out crying or puke up the French toast I didn’t even eat.
He doesn’t like it, but he stays put.
The Caines’ yard is a grass-covered cliff above the shore, something right out of an impressionistic painting. The ocean is less than a couple hundred feet away, and when I close my eyes and tilt my chin up, the sea breeze flows over me like water. How amazing it must have been to grow up here, surrounded by the Pacific, watching the blue reach as far as the eye can see, no limits, no-
I tense.
My skin bursts into a thousand little goose bumps, because I’m no longer alone.
Someone’s here. Someone who wasn’t inside the house.
My hand closes around the penguin knife in my pocket, and I unbraid the notes of the intruder’s scent.
Were. Man. Young. Human form. Not wearing shoes. Approaching from behind. Either he’s sloppy or he underestimated me, because he doesn’t know that I felt his presence.
He means to assault me, and all I have to my advantage is the element of surprise. I force my heartbeat to slow down, and bide my time. Wait for the Were to come within reach of my blade. But a handful of feet from me, he halts.
I hear something thudding to the ground.
Smell the grass, crushed.
A deep intake of breath. Then a voice, hushed, barely audible through the wind. “Eva.”
I whirl around, whipping out the knife, holding the blade at abdomen height. But its tip is nowhere near the man’s skin, because he is . . .
Kneeling?
I adjust my aim, ready to strike, but the naked man doesn’t make a single move. He stays on his knees, face bent upward, throat bare and vulnerable. Feverishly, he whispers, “As the prophet said. As the prophet wills.”
“Who are you?”
He gives me a tremulous smile and, like a supplicant, presses his forehead to the ground.
Just this once, he could have done without being right.
DO YOU LIVE HERE?” I ASK. IN THE AFTERNOON SUN, I HAVE TO squint to properly make him out. I guess he could be Sem’s brother- several years younger, similar hair color. Slim build and soft, boyish jawline. He doesn’t seem hostile. But he also doesn’t feel like he belongs to this place that smells like moss and brine.
I don’t lower my knife. “Who are you?”
He slowly looks up at me, a smudge of soil on his forehead, another on his cheekbone. “Oh, your eyes. They are so familiar to me.”
I take a step back. Quickly glance around, wondering if I should call for Koen. Except, would Koen kill this boy? Yes, probably. “I need you to tell me who you are,” I demand.
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