Adapt (I)

Scarlet

I am awake.

Staring at the stars.

They flicker softly.

Some of them shine bright.

Some of them are so distant, I hardly make them out on the navy-blue background.

I ponder on how far away they are, feeling small in comparison.

Then, my vision begins to clear. More stars come into focus. I can see some of the constellations I had learnt about. I reach upward. I don’t know why. My muscles stretch and ache. It feels good for some reason. Enamoured by the sensation of my own body, I lift my other arm. I open and close my fists, relishing in how my blood flows to my limbs. I roll my head on the pillow, testing my neck. Oh God, that feels good.

I do this with my entire body, flexing every muscle: waking them up. By the time I am done, I can feel the smile plastered on my face.

Then my eyes catch sight of the stars again, and I realize that I am looking through windows. Well, a glass roof. It is utterly beautiful.

And unnerving. I don’t know where I am.

I shove back the thin covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I groan as my head begins to spin. I close my eyes and let my body adjust to being upright, for the first time in... I don’t know how long.

Finally, my head slows to a manageable level of dizziness. With a deep breath I test my legs on the wooden floor. I feel my muscles rising to the occasion. Tentatively I take a step. My toes dig into the floor to get a better grip. My legs waver. I steady myself and try again. And again. After a few steps I trust myself enough to look up from my feet at the room around me.

Lit by the opalescence of the night sky, I can only make out the shadows. The room has a ceiling of windows, three walls of glass panes. The bed’s headboard is against the only wall. Forming a horseshoe beneath the three walls of glass is a built-in bench that has cushions every so often.

I pad over to the bench and allow my still sleepy body to slump onto it. My eyes pan over everything outside of the windows. The stars look like they are above, in front and below the room. Soon I realize that it is the ocean reflecting the stars in the midnight sky. There is no moon out tonight, so the ocean seems darker and more reflective.

I put my hand up to the glass and my heart begins to clench in my chest. My mind throws up images of a man with black as night hair and forest green eyes.

The air pressure in the room changes. I hear the soft whoosh of a door opening. I spin to see a shadow entering, from a door I hadn’t noticed. Pale skin and blonde hair catch the dim light. I recognize Logan.

“You are awake.” He says in a low tone. His honied voice seems even more familiar.

“Did I meet you before my transformation?” I ask suddenly and unexpectedly.

Logan takes tentative steps toward me, as if I am a wild animal he doesn’t want to spook. “Once. It was very brief, and you were new to the world.”

“Old enough to have memories of you?” I ask.

He thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “No. You were only days old.”

“Oh.” I return my gaze to the scene outside the windows. My still languid mind wonders through the sky and ocean, slipping and sliding down incorporeal thoughts.

“Your mother loved to star-gaze as well.” I hear the wooden bench creek under Logan’s weight. “That’s why I built this room.”

I glance at him. “I haven’t really done it before. I don’t know much about the stars. Other than the basic understanding high school science teachers have taught me.”

“You don’t have to know anything about them to gaze at them.” He replies in soft tone.

“Hmmm.”

A few moments go by and my mind begins to drift again, sailing through random images, most of which feature my black-haired man with green eyes, a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

“Scarlet?”

“Huh?” I look over at Logan, who’s dark eyes are pinning me with concern.

“How are you feeling?”

I shrug. “Like I have the world’s biggest hangover.”

He studies me for another moment. “You have been asleep for nearly two weeks. I have been worried.”

This tugs at my attention. “Two weeks?” I ask. My instincts tell me that this should alarm me, but I can’t muster the energy.

He nods slowly.

A few images drop into my mind. Bright light. Black figures surrounding me. My green-eyed man wasting away before my eyes.

“Boe-” I squeak.

Logan holds up a hand. “Is recovering well. I gave him some of my blood before departing the field. The hunters are nursing him back to health. He has made better progress than you, though I did not take nearly as much from him as I did from you. I am sorry, Scarlet.”

“D-did it work?” I stutter.

He nods again. “Very well. The hunters believe that due to your hybrid nature, your body disintegrated in death. Their reports will all say the same thing, in their own words of course. That is what took the time. I had to make sure every person saw their angle of the event, not just a clone of the same memory.”

I nod, relaxing back. “He’s okay?”

Logan watches me for another moment before speaking. “Yes, he is well, physically. It only took him a few days to recover. Since then, he has been conflicted.”

I chew on my lip, which only reminds me of Boe. “How do you know all of this?”

He doesn’t hesitate in answering this question. “You are not the type to suffer incognizance. I feared that if I was not able to tell you the truth you would try to find it out for yourself, making all that we have done redundant. So, I have been dropping in on your Hunter’s Guild: ‘Head Quarters’.” He makes a gesture of quotation marks, telling me he thinks the name is new age and silly. “And listening for your hunter’s progress.”

“Drop in? How the hell do you do that?” I can’t imagine any therian willingly going anywhere near HQ.

“I’m not as easy to sense as other therians, Scarlet. And I do not have to be very close. Since I have listened to his mind before, it is not difficult to pick him out of a crowd. Especially since his thoughts feature you so often.” His last sentence is more of a grumble.

I stare at him for a long moment. “He knew, didn’t he? He was going to sacrifice himself for me.”

Logan shrugs, as if the answer doesn’t matter.

I growl and stand, my legs shaking. “For crying out loud! I was not allowed to sacrifice myself to save those that I love! Why is he allowed to?!”

Logan shrugs again, but offers a verbal answer this time. “He is not the first of his kind, like you. He recognizes the potential in you. He knows his life is worth less than yours.”

“But it doesn’t!” I scream, my head beginning to spin again.

Logan stands and puts his hands under my elbows. It doesn’t feel like the anchoring touch of Boe’s hands. Logan’s touch winds me tighter. He is holding me up so that I do not collapse. But I do not want help. I struggle to get out of his grasp. He could have held me easily, but he lets me go, hands hovering around me in case I fall.

“Scarlet,” he begins, softly, when my anger diminishes to heavy breathes. “He loves you. Whether you think he is right or wrong, his actions were derived from a noble cause. As were yours, for you chose the same fate, without even contemplating your likely death.”

My brows knit together. He is right. I saw Boe dying and I didn’t have a second thought. If he’d have been on a torture rack, I would have gladly begged to take his place. If he’d have been put to death, I would have gladly forfeit my life for his. It didn’t feel like some great sacrifice in the moment. I just wanted his hurting to stop.

Hearing my thoughts devolving, Logan continues. “It matters not in what circumstances you made your choice, Scarlet. Besides, it is done, and both of you survived.”

In the moon light I stare at Logan. His face is gentle, creased softly around the eyes with worry. There is no trace of therian in his features right now, allowing me to forget what he is for a moment.

I sigh. “Thank you.” I say, realizing that Logan had been the key to my freedom. I am still mad at him for nearly killing Boe, but since Boe consented, Boe shares the guilt.

Some of the worry in Logan’s face subsides, replaced with a small smile. “You haven’t eaten a proper meal in over two weeks. Come. I will show you to the kitchen.”

I nod and allow him to lead me out of the glass room.

Logan flicks on a light, revealing a hallway of grey flag stones and warm wood floors. An elevator sits patiently at the end.

The elevator ride takes longer than I expect. Logan hovers next to me, his hand pressing lightly to the small of my back. It is warm through my loose-fitting shirt. With a small start, I realize I am wearing clothes I do not recognize: a guns and roses t-shirt and army green sweats in a men’s cut.

I screw my face up. “Are these your clothes?” My voice has venom. “Did you change my clothes?”

Logan doesn’t even look down at me. He just shakes his head. “No and no. My sister and her daughter were kind enough to tend to you over the last two weeks while your energies replenished.”

“Oh.” My momentary anger dissolves.

“And I would rather be drawn and quartered than represent any modern-day musician.” His face is a combination of distain and amusement.

“Don’t be so quick to judge modern music. Sister?” I ask, changing the subject. “You have a sister other than Mia?”

He gives a short nod. “Half-sisters. Mia was one of my paternal sisters. The last surviving one in fact, which is why my father kept her close. I am closest to my maternal half-sisters, though. Hence my dismissal of qualifying them as half, and simply refer to them as sisters.”

“So, both of your parents were therians?” I frown.

Finally, he glances down. “My father was human at the time of my conception. Scarlet, I fear this subject maybe too intricate to explain in your current state. If you are to know my history, I would have you understand it fully.”

For a split second I am annoyed. Is he saying I am dumb? Then the elevator doors open. My mind goes blank and my jaw drops.

Lit in soft yellow light, the room is so vast I’m not sure if it can even be called a room. Dark wood floors, polished to shine like glass. Grey flag stone walls. Rich brown leather lounges, set on plush cream-colored rugs, arranged around a fireplace. The hearth burns low, fickle flames flicking on the glowing coals. Next to it is an antique looking bar, complete with cushy, red leather bar stools and what looks to be a matching poker table. On the opposite side of the room is another sitting area and shelf, after shelf, of books. It stretches the entire left side of the room. The tomes vary from recent paperbacks to very old looking, hand stitched spines. There is a book laying open, faced down on one of the small tables, as if someone had stopped halfway through reading and did not want to lose their page.

And beyond all of this beautifully decorated area is a wall of glass, framing the night sky, reflecting in the ocean.

“Wow.” I breath.

“Yes, quite.” I can hear the smile in Logan’s voice. His hand at my back presses me gently forward. “The kitchen is through that door.” He motions to the door hidden neatly between the fireplace and bar.

I am still craning my neck to look at the room as we pass through the door into the kitchen.

The kitchen features the same flag stones and the glass wall showcasing the view. Barring that, this room is the antithesis of the last room. Everything is bright white, glass and granite. The stove is an impressive eight burner - something you would only see in a restaurant. Everything is insanely clean, saving the dirty cup and spoon laying in one of the sinks.

The only thing I do not see is a fridge. Before I have the opportunity to ask, Logan strides ahead of me and pulls open one of the giant cabinets and... it’s a refrigerator, filled with milk and meat and vegetables and everything to make anything. He closes that door with a boastful smile on his face, then proceeds to open two more doors, revealing even more refrigerators.

“Exactly how many sisters do you have?” I ask, unable to fully close my jaw.

“Honestly, I am unsure. Two live with me, both of which have several children and grandchildren. Hence why we have plenty of food.” He answers nonchalantly.

My brows shoot into my hairline. “Wait, grandchildren?” My brain chases its tail. How could Logan have grandnieces and nephews?

He shakes his head. “Yes. We have all the same familial bonds and urges. And, must I remind you that aging is a very different process for my kind?” Logan sets about grabbing different ingredients. He turns on one of the burners on the massive stove and places a copper pan on the heat with a splash of oil. “Will pasta suffice?”

I force myself to control my expressions. I will have to unravel Logan’s life another time. Right now, at the mention of food has me salivating.

“Yes.” I say. “Pasta sounds great.”

He nods with his back to me. “If you would like something to drink, the third fridge has soda and water. I would offer something stronger, but I sure that Margarita will have my wings for giving you alcohol so soon after waking up.”

I pause mid-way to the refrigerator when he mentions wings.

“I’m sorry. It was a slip of the tongue.” He says, still not looking back at me.

I lick my lips and shake my head, deciding to put that in the ‘ask later’ drawer as well. I get my water and crack the lid, finding myself a seat at the fifteen-foot-long kitchen island.

We make awkward small talk. Surprisingly, the awkwardness isn’t uncomfortable. He prompts small conversations about the weather, asking about my schooling, commenting on the studies Audrey, his older sister, had done. Meanwhile, he throws together a meal, cooking a red sauce from scratch and even kneads together roughhewn fresh pasta.

When conversation completely dries up, I head over to the glass wall and try to focus my eyes to see through the reflection the kitchen. Now that I have worked out that the house is somehow carved out of the side of a cliff, the picture seems less alien. I can make out the subtle ripples the swell makes, disturbing the mirror of the stars.

Behind me I hear a plate click as it is placed on the kitchen island. I turn to see Logan grating cheese over a plate of pasta with red sauce and basil leaves. I stride toward it thoughtlessly, drawn by my hunger. The plate looks perfect, and not just because I haven’t eaten in over two weeks. Plated with the care of a chef in a five-star restaurant, I almost feel guilty for wordlessly taking up the fork and destroying it.

Almost.

When the food hits my taste buds, my eyes roll back in my head and I moan. I swallow with haste and take another, and another. Halfway through the plate I am finally satisfied enough to slow down, eating with some semblance of manners.

I look up to see Logan, who is artfully loading his own fork. He puts it into his mouth and chews.

“I didn’t know you guys ate normal food.” I blurt around half a mouthful of food.

Logan pins me with those dark eyes, sparks of humour in them. “Why wouldn’t we eat?”

I shrug and shovel another mouthful in. After chewing somewhat, I reply. “I don’t know. Most of the TV shows and books talk about supernatural beings surviving purely off something arcane. Like blood, or hearts or human flesh. Usually, they do not eat normal food as well.”

He shakes his head and returns his attention to his plate. “Every living thing needs physical sustenance. Even the smallest organisms.”

I take another bite and point the fork at him. “Then why does your kind kill humans if you can survive off food?”

His humour dims. “Do you remember the legend I told you?”

“About the void and her children and stuff? Yeah.”

“Well, if you are to believe that, it would seem that all of us are derived from those original beings that fell to the realm of the living. It would stand to reason that the magic or power inside of us would need something more... incorporeal to sustain it. We are beings of two different natures: the living and the origin of life. Therefore, we need two different methods of sustenance. Most of us go about it peacefully, more often than not relieving someone of their grief or pain. There are a few with more selective tastes, that may go about it in the wrong way.”

“But you don’t?” I ask. I can’t help it.

Logan shakes his head. “No, I do not feed from pain I have inflicted on humans. I have never had the urge, though I am told that many of my friends, that were changed and not born, do suffer with the enticement of extreme emotions.”

I wave my fork at him. “Well, you let me know if those friends get out of control.”

Logan chews and swallows, a hardness coming over his face. “Make no mistake Scarlet, I am not on the side of the hunters. I may not kill to survive, and I may preach the simplicity of life without harming humans. However, hunters kill my kind without pause and by that, I cannot abide.”

I swallow down my sudden flair of guilt, replacing it with bravado. “And yet you take one into your home.”

“Hmm.” He eats a few mouthfuls and does not reply. Instead, he changes the subject. “Would you like seconds?”

He must have noticed me eyeing my empty plate, wondering if it would be okay to lick it clean. “Yes, please.”

He serves me another helping, and I dig in with controlled enthusiasm this time. Logan cleans off the remainder of his plate into a concealed trash bin and rinses his dish in the sink.

In an effort to make small talk again, I decide to ask something hopefully inconsequential. “So. Your father’s real name was Matteo, and you had a sister called Mia and one called Margarita. Am I detecting Italian in your heritage? Is that why you can make a flawless Italian dish in under an hour?”

Logan looks at me and quirks one brow. “Yes, my father’s side was Italian. Margarita was born of Latin American decent, so her name is just a coincidence.

I finish my second plate and decide I would be pushing my luck to ask for another. Looking at the stove I find that there is not anymore to be had anyway. I take my plate to the sink and place it with the other dishes, putting me shoulder to shoulder with Logan. Before our shoulders can brush, he steps away.

“So, your name? Where does that come from?”

“I was born in Scotland, where a farmer’s wife helped my mother deliver. The farmer’s wife looked into my eyes and said I should be named Logan. My mother took to calling me that, since she had no names for a boy, only names for girls.”

“Oh. So, does Logan mean anything? Or is it just a name in Scotland?”

Logan reaches around and places the last of the dishes in the sink. He doesn’t meet my eyes as he replies. “Logan is the old Scottish word for hollow.”