Pure Requiem - Aja James Page 0,30

and her armies, no doubt.

Without her beside me as a shield, I was tempted to scurry back to my apartment to hide. But I decided, fuck it.

It’s time I take ownership of my space in the world. I don’t expect it to be significant; I know I’m not anything special. But I’m alive. I exist. I want to like the real me. I want others to like me too.

I want my tiny allotment of real estate in the universe to matter.

So, I force myself to stay in the kitchen-cum-entertainment area and take up space. I force myself to sprawl casually on the deep-seated L-shaped leather sofa and stare at the giant wall-length plasma screen with various channels playing.

I have no idea what’s on TV, but I stare anyway as if deeply intrigued, and hope that I don’t look too out of place. I’m a cuckoo amongst phoenixes, after all. I hope that in my real form, with Ishtar’s hair and Tal’s eyes, I kind of look like a phoenix now. Enough to not stick out like a sore thumb.

Maybe someone will come sit beside me, and we can strike up a conversational banter. Maybe they’ll merely stay silent and watch the dizzying, flashing screen with me. I can laugh when they laugh, grunt when they grunt, and behave like a normal person who has actually spent time watching TV (which, honestly, I haven’t. When would I have had the time? Too many evil schemes to plot and carry out).

“Yo.”

I barely manage to suppress a jolt of surprise.

Jumping out of my own skin at someone’s greeting is not a good way to kick off my attempt at normal social interaction.

My eyes roll sideways to take in the first person who’s plopped down on the couch beside me. Well, not exactly right next to me, but close enough that I can say we’re in the same space, sharing an activity.

But shit. It’s the odd-looking little she-man Chevalier, Liv.

“Hey,” I return just as casually.

I detest most forms of modern human speak, especially American street slang. But I use it when I need to in order to fit in or infiltrate.

She’s smacking something in her mouth, her jaw moving, her mouth parting sometimes to show hints of pink tongue. Disgusting habit.

“Do I know you?” she says rather rudely as she squints at me.

“Not in this form, no,” I respond and purposely don’t meet her eyes.

A petty, dismissive move, I know. So sue me. This female brings out all my hackles and claws.

“But we’ve met before. You called me a bookworm.” I don’t know why I remind her of this, as if goading her to call me the stupid, unoriginal slur again.

“You a shapeshifter?”

How I love hearing fragmented sentences without the proper grammar and vocabulary.

Not.

“It would appear so,” I respond blithely. “Logic would dictate that someone who takes different forms but remains the same person must be a shapeshifter.”

I can feel her scowl even though I still don’t look her way to see it.

“Never met one before. Know about animal spirits. You one of those?”

I can’t help it, I have to ask—“Do you have an intellectual bias against speaking in complete sentences? Is it too much hassle to say ‘Are you one of those’? And honestly, even ending a sentence on ‘those’ is rather irritating. Really, you ought to say ‘Are you one of those beings’—”

“You’re real hoity-toity, ain’t ya.” It isn’t phrased as a question.

I take a deep breath, grinding my back molars to keep silent.

Why did she have to be the first person to sit down next to me? Why?

“And it ain’t cuz I met the other you before that I feel like I know you. I mean, this version of you right here looks familiar.”

My ears bleed at her grating speech.

“In that case, you can’t possibly know me,” I respond brusquely, hoping that’s the end of this conversation.

“I know I seen you before,” she persists, smacking that mouth. “Never forget a face, and you too fine to forget.”

Did she just compliment me? I shudder delicately with revulsion.

A raspy laugh rumbles from her tiny, flat chest.

“Don’t worry, guapo, I’m not hittin’ on you. I don’t swing that way. Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate beauty when I see it though.”

“You’re a lesbian?” I blurt.

Okay, that probably wasn’t the best social etiquette to put forth, but she really surprised me.

She grins at me, her owlish eyes looking less disturbing when they’re squeezed into crescent moons. She doesn’t look pissed at my outburst.

“If you wanna put