Alano and the other Intuit men expressed some concern about the children fitting in. All the towns on the islands in the Mediterran were inhabited by Intuits and Others, and I and the twin boys were the only ones with at least some Intuit blood. But word had traveled to those western islands, and by the time the dark ship dropped anchor and we were rowed ashore, there were families from several towns waiting at the docks to take in the children and give them new homes.
Once I was safely ashore, Corvo wished me well and said he was going home to spend time with his family. I wondered if that was his way of discouraging me from having any foolish romantic notions about him, but Alano confirmed that Captain Crow had a wife and children, and that the Sanguinati part of town was a protected, and private, place.
Lucy found work at an inn near the water and found love with Niklaus, one of the Intuit men who sailed with Corvo.
I went inland for a while and worked for a family who grewolives—and learned I was meant for water, not land. So I returned to the sea towns and learned to sail, and I studied to be a medic, and on the day Alano didn’t return with the dark ship, having chosen a different kind of life on another island, I applied for the position—and was welcomed by Captain Crow.
I sense things about ships and the sea. That had value to a captain who hunted human predators. My face was valuable too, when human leaders were required to come aboard to receive a warning. They looked at the ruined side of my face, and they looked at the table, which contained a silent warning to anyone who thought they could buy and sell humans and transport their cargo through the Others’ domain.
The candleholders that were evenly spaced the length of the table were made of human skulls, some yellowed and old and some quite new. All had come from men who had escaped human justice.
I especially liked the skull that had a star-shaped indentation in itsforehead.
COMFORT ZONE
by Kelley Armstrong
I was going to be the one who told the stories of heroes. Fictional heroes, characters born in my head and cast out into make-believe worlds where they would, naturally, save the day, rescue the dude-in-distress, bring about world peace, and, if they were really feeling energetic, cure the common cold.
I would tell the stories that would grace a thousand movie screens. Before that, I had to hone my skills, so I joined high school writing clubs, and every time I showed off a new storyboard, fellow scribes would point at my protagonist and say, “Is that you?” The answer was always no. For them, stories were wish fulfillment, bringing to life an idealized version of themselves. I could create entire universes in my head, but I could not stretch my imagination far enough to place myself in the role of hero.
I was the quiet girl with the stutter. The poor little rich girl, who lived in a penthouse with a housekeeper while her father traveled for work. To most of my classmates, I was a ghost. An invisible girl who passed without a ripple. Perhaps it’s ironic, then,that if they remember me at all, it’s as the girl whosawghosts. Who snapped one day and was hustled off to a padded room.
Hey, remember Chloe Saunders? Wasn’t she the one who lost it? Started ranting about ghosts? I hear she’s still locked up in a psych ward.
Even there, I’m not the hero of my story; I’m the victim of it.
Thankfully, that version isn’t the truth, and that ending definitely isn’t. My life got a whole lot more interesting after I started seeing ghosts. I became someone else. Someone who is indeed the protagonist of her own story. Hero, though? No. To be a hero, you need to step off your own path to help others in distress, and some of us don’t have the luxury of doing that. We have our own safety—and the safety of those we love—to worry about, and we cannot be distracted by altruism. Or that’s what we tell ourselves.
I’m twenty-one now, in my last year of university. I haven’t lived in the States for four years, and I’m not sure I’ll ever go back. It’s safer for us in Canada. Also, while I still write, a career in screenwriting feels like the dream of a child. Or, perhaps, the dream of a girl destined to an ordinary life. For me, going to school under an assumed name and suffering twice-weekly check-ins with my parole officers—sorry,security detail—is as normal as it gets.
Still, my life is far closer to normal than I’d once imagined possible. I’m going to a regular university, walking from class without a bodyguard trailing behind me, and enjoying a warm October day, gold and scarlet leaves pirouetting around me. I’m heading to the apartment I share with my boyfriend. Tonight we’re staying in, studying and making spaghetti, and if we get done with our homework early, we might cut loose and rent a movie. Terribly mundane.Wonderfullymundane for a genetically modified necromancer and a genetically modified werewolf. There aredays, even weeks, when we are just a regular couple, crazy in love, studying our asses off and enjoying the kind of stability we’d once envied.
Behind our apartment complex, there’s a tiny courtyard. As I cut through it, a voice says, “Miss?”
I jump a foot in the air and nearly drop my books, proving that no matter what I’ve been through, in some ways, I haven’t changed at all.
A guy walks toward me, and I curse myself for not noticing him sooner. I’m no longer the girl who can afford to float through life with her head in the clouds. Even at four p.m., in downtown Toronto, I can’t step into a quiet spot without being aware of everyone around me. Except, apparently, I just did.
Before I blame myself too much for that, I must acknowledge the possibility that there’s a reason I didn’t see this guy. Because he madesureI didn’t until it was too late to flee.
While there are far more valuable subjects from our experiments, Derek and I get our share of unwanted attention from groups hoping to recruit us while we’re still young and naive. And they’re not above having a guy—my age, blond, cute—waylay me to make their offer. They’re also not above kidnapping me so they can deliver a more complete sales pitch.
I should drop my books to free my hands for fighting, but let’s be honest, years of martial arts training still hasn’t turned my body into a lethal weapon. I’m small and kind of clumsy. Icanfight. I will. It’s just not my primary skill set. As for that primary skill set, well, I’m a necromancer. That limits my choices down to one really unsavory power.
I glance around the park and nod as I spot the remains of a dead squirrel.
When I first came into my abilities, I accidentally raised deadanimals. And sometimes dead people. I’ve learned to control my ability, but as those early accidents prove, my genetic modifications make me a natural at a skill that normal necromancers take decades to perfect.
Even as I take note of the dead squirrel, it twitches, one half-skeletal paw lifting in a grotesque wave. I release the squirrel, and the paw drops, but the connection between us still sizzles like a live wire. One jolt of focused thought, and this guy will have a rotting squirrel going for his throat. Well, more like leaping onto his pant leg, but in my experience, that’s enough.
“Miss?” the guy says again, still walking toward me.
I clutch the textbooks to my chest and widen my eyes. “Y-yes,” I say. I don’t stutter much these days, but faking it can come in handy. It makes me the last person anyone expects to launch a zombified attack squirrel.
As the guy crosses those last steps, I catch... I’m never quite sure what I catch in a case like this. It’s much easier when the person is dressed in a crinolined gown or a Union soldier uniform. If they look like a regular person, recognizing them as a ghost takes a little more. Some give themselves away by walking through furniture. Or other people ignore them, even dogs not glancing up as they pass. But for the few who give none of the usual “dead people” signals, recognizing them as ghosts has taken years, and I’m still not surehowI know.
I cut the connection between myself and the squirrel. Then I do something terrible, something I hate myself for. Something I hate myself for a littlelesseach time I do it, and then I feel a little colder, a little further from the person I want to be.
