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“You’re a medicine mage, aren’t you, Dr. Hilda?” another voice standing over me asks.
“In philosophy!” the spell caster cries. “I’m a magic shrink, damn it, not an MD!”
I finally get a hold of Greiko’s EpiPen, inconveniently taped to his shaking green leg by not three but five rows of tape. I have to release my illusion so the claws beneath my human projection can slice through Greiko’s inconveniently located meds. It’s nothing I can’t do in a flash, though the sudden eruption of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ do have to go through one pointed ear and out the other un-devoured.
Yes, un-devoured. It’s a word where I come from. The adoration of anyone is like food to us, though the flavor is one you have to acquire. And not as easy to obtain as fear, which is a criminal offense these days. Amongst other powerful emotions, such as rage or envy, approval is literal fuel for my kind. One of those organic natural remedies that actually works.
I stick the pen into the fleshiest part of his thigh and press the auto-injector.
Greiko has a soft spot for outcasts, but he’ll learn you’re a lost cause after one of these fuck ups.Cyella’s condescending voice rings in my ear.
I pull out the needle and tap his face gently. “Hey? Greiko?” Then less gently. Then even more less gently.
“Get! Get off me!” Greiko wheezes.
“You heard him! He needs space!” I spread my wings out and the crowd jolts back, no doubt impressed by the span of them.
Plus, they’re probably scared they might get cut. They’re marble black, with bolts of silver that jet across my wings in all directions, creating the illusion of a lightning storm on aninky night. Though the edges seem sharp, it's another illusion. A demon’s wings are fast-healing but easily torn under the right conditions. This time, I have a chance to drink in their awe.
I could tackle a mountain to the ground if I had to, which where I come from is a real-world threat.
“Are you okay?” I hear Felicity before I see her in front of me, bent down next to Greiko and cradling his neck. “Help is coming. You had a reaction. Pollen allergy?”
I’m too busy studying her luscious and glossy lips to realize the question is directed at me.
Luckily, young Lucy is close enough to give me the punch in the throat I need.
“Hey! Scary cool demon guy!” She claps her hands.
“Never like this,” I manage, taking the opportunity to help Greiko sit up. Again, her sample of adoration goes un-savored.
Humans as kind as Felicity respond to two things, effort and empathy. The doting ones normally do, though I’m forever perplexed by the notion this generous behavior doesn’t need to be directed at them, only outwardly and in spades. It’s partially how Greiko won over Cyella, which couldn’t have happened without my vast knowledge of manipulation and planning.
“There’s a first time for everything,” Felicity says, getting up to grab Greiko the water I’d offered him. “Especially when the extending scent-increaser is pollen-based. It’d be like getting a meadow of the stuff in one gulp.”
Before she can bring it to the woozy swampster’s lips, I take it from her hand, letting her feel the hot, slick texture of my real skin. “Thank you.”
She takes a deep breath in, and her green eyes fill with exactly what I was hoping they would – lust. Greiko leans against me as a trio of witches in starch-white robes enter through the double doors on the opposite end of the community center.
“Argoss,” Greiko begins. “Argoss, you –”
“Just relax, buddy,” I say, giving him a sip. “The medical mages are here.”
As soon as I say this, the trio sweeps into action. I hand one of the witches the EpiPen, and she nods gratefully. It takes all of three minutes for the first responders to whisk him away.
“Your wings kick ass,” a familiar little voice says as the crowd whispers amongst themselves.
“Lucy,” Felicity chastises, before motioning for her co-teacher to direct the crowd.
“What?” The girl's dark brows furrow. “You want me to lie and say they’re not? That’s not right. Theydokick ass, and compliments are a good thing.”
“It isn’t polite to stare,” Felicity chides.
“If I can get everyone in their seats, please.” A tall woman in glasses addresses the crowd, politely suggesting we return to the auction.
“I’m not staring,” Lucy lies.
“You’re staring.” Felicity’s tone is finite. She has the ultimate say and doesn’t hesitate to let the child know with a look, not stern but steely and beautiful.
