Page 29 of We Were Eternal Once

“One hundred, a few years one way or the other,” he says.

Too young to know anything firsthand. I was older than him, and you were older by far. What would this man tell me that I didn’t already know?

“This disappoints you?” Theon asks.

“Are there scrolls here of our kind?” I ask.

“Our kind?”

I narrow my eyes. He relents.

“That is a question that has many layers. What is ‘our kind’? Is it the Lamia, who devours sleeping victims? The Empusa, a female demon that seduces men and drinks their blood? Or do you favor the Roman Strix, the bird demon that flies at night? Perhaps you want to investigate the Egyptians, who think we are Akh-spirits who failed to transition properly when we died? Are you Lilith of the Jewish folklore? Or perhaps Lamashtu, with lion features who preys on newborns?”

I know some of these names. They’d been whispered on the street after we left a village, or told to keep children from wandering at night. Were they built on truths? Was it what happened when our compulsion failed, or was there text about us? Warnings?

“Which are we?” I ask.

“None and all,” Theon says with a sigh. How did he do that, when we did not breathe?

“I dislike riddles.”

“This isn’t one. You are asking an impossible question. Now it is my turn. Who is your maker?” He leans forward in his seat, his hands pressed to the table.

“My maker?” I ask. Is that what you are to me? It was too simplistic, it didn’t include all the things you were to me. You gave me life, you breathed into me a gift like the gods from my youth. You taught me to hunt, to use compulsion. You loved me, and I loved you. Maker. The word tasted like ash in my mouth.

“Your eyes—I’ve never seen another with red eyes,” Theon says.

“So you’ve met more of our kind?” I ask. It was my turn to lean forward.

“Yes, of course,” Theon says simply. Of course. I hate the way he said it, hate the look he gives me.

There were more like us out there. I would find them. I would find one old enough to know things instead of this youth before me, speaking in riddles, hiding behind his scrolls.

My answers were not in this building.

“Wait,” he says, grabbing my wrist before I could stand. My lip curls at the contact. How dare he touch me. Only you were allowed to touch me. I pull. Hard. He flies over the table, his grip slipping in surprise. His large body makes a loud noise when it hits the floor. The guards would come to investigate soon, and I needed to be gone by then.

Theon stands quickly, blocking my exit. Of course he was unphased, he was like us. Immortal. Stupid stupid stupid. I was so used to fragile humans I didn’t think what that move would do to another like us.

“Wait,” he says again. I wait for an apology for touching me, but none comes. “Sit again. I will answer your questions if you answer mine.”

This is what I wanted, was it not? This is what I sailed across water for, what I carefully crafted for you to suggest. All the hours I spent reading books in Rome or buried in the Serapeum alone was for this moment. To find answers, to find another like us.

I return to my seat.

“How old are you?” he asks.

“Two hundred and fifty, a few years one way or the other,” I answer

“That explains your strength. Go ahead, ask your question.”

“Are there others like us in Alexandria?”

“Yes. Ten that I know of, likely more.”

“Where are they?” I ask.

“My turn,” he says, holding up a finger. I wonder if it would grow back if I snapped it off and fed it to a dog. “Who is your maker?”