Warm Blood

ten

10

Present day

There is something I learned from Wymond that has stuck with me even after all this time. He called himself the protector, someone whose entire purpose in life was to lead humanity to make choices that would further their evolution. I never quite understood the gravity of a power like that until I tried it for myself.

I can never be as persuasive as Wymond was, but I am alluring and compelling in other ways that are beyond my control. In my expansive journey of finding the one person who could resurrect my one true love, Joham, I learned that no such person existed. Between the years of 1692 and now, I had done my fair share of rabbit-hole jumping to find the witches that had performed the resurrection spell that day of the witch trials.

As I have learned, witches operate in smaller factions called covens and do not intermingle unless needed—they are especially wary of interacting with "demon-spawn-beings" like me—but each coven and practice of magic gave me another piece of the puzzle that I had to decipher. Although no one could tell me where the Lazarus coven had gone, they told me what I need to know to create my own.

"You know, there's something that has been bothering me ever since we met." It's Amara's voice that speaks to me to tug me away from the past. I almost forget about her presence and that we've dedicated time each week to study for Mackus' class in the cafeteria. I'm halfway through penning a compelling argument surrounding why sirens are not as bad as the sailors whose lives they took, and Amara is especially great at procrastinating. When we're together, we are usually always talking about her, never me, so I'm surprised when she asks, "why did you come to school in New Orleans of all places? You can be a business major literally anywhere."

I like Amara for her perceptive ability to detect bullshit, but it's also this trait that makes it harder to disguise my true motives. Although many people go to college without having a plan for their future, Amara knows I am much smarter and wiser than that.

My pen ceases to stroke the pages of notebook as I lean back into my seat to give her the response she is looking for. "You're right, and I actually hate business."

Amara's round bottom lip separates from her top to gape slightly and she scoffs, offended. "Knew it!" she exclaims, allowing her demeanor to lighten tremendously. There is no use trying to lie her, so I tell her the truth.

"I was in a very uncomfortable position back home. Family stuff, ex-boyfriend, you know what I mean—" and she does because the creases in her forehead unfold just as her brows fall to their normal height. "I was very reliant on the people around me because I didn't know any better. That was, of course, until I found out they weren't being truthful to me, and I knew I had to get away as far as I could. I wanted to experience real happiness—not the kind that I thought I had before. New Orleans was just another part of the puzzle."

"Wow," she says, stunned. There's a slight shift in the atmosphere as she embraces her arms with her hands. Her dark brown eyes wander around the room before they reluctantly fall back to me. "I'm happy for you. It sucks feeling like everything that happens in your life, no matter how good or how bad, is planned."

"You know the feeling?" I ask.

She sighs heavily as though the topic exhausts her to think about. "I'm always wondering what my purpose is? Yeah, I'm a Psych major, and the human mind excites me but like, what else? Everything in my life is so fucked but it's almost normal how fucked it is. Nothing I do ever changes anything, so what's the point of trying to graduate and make a career? I won't ever make a difference."

"That is quite a bleak outlook on life."

"Is it? Well, tell me this—my parents absolutely hate each other. My mom is cheating on my dad with her high school sweetheart and I thought if I told him it'd make things better. He can move on and be happy and my mom can be happy, right? Wrong! He knows, hates it, and but doesn't leave. Says that they're in it together even though they're so wrong for each other."

I sit and listen because I know that's all Amara wants me to do, but all the while, I sense the emergence of that ugly, dirty emotion that often seems to be creeping onto me lately. It's the same way I felt with Ann when she accused me of leaving her to die. "They're a team. Maybe they're trying to work it out."

"Except they're not. They won't do therapy. They won't talk to each other and they drive each other, and me, insane. Like oil and water—they just don't mix—and I can't even begin to understand how they even had me." The answer is not so obvious to her, but it is to me. Her parents are not meant to be together, of that she is correct, but the reason why is much more complex than incompatibility.

Amara possesses the same power as the Lazarus coven from 1692, but to obtain that kind of power is unnatural as it can only be formed from combining the abilities of differing witch lines. The laws of nature are annoying in that way. Just as I am bound by the thirst for blood for the rest of my days, witch covens do not intermingle so as to protect their magic and prevent them from creating an all-powerful being. Amara's parents do not mix because they are from different covens: one centering around the magic of healing and the other centering around the magic of illusion. They wouldn't have married each other under normal circumstances, but my need for their future offspring and some light threats to their families were enough to convince them.

So, yes, Amara's existence is simply to serve one purpose.

But I don't want to discourage her. I am hopeful she will do great things some day and it'll make her feel like her life has purpose. She may feel lost now, but she will make a difference somehow ... starting with my life.

"Your future is bright," I tell her, a simple yet fitting statement, and then the conversation dies, the procrastination stops, and her attention becomes focused on our assignment instead. The change in mood is apparent and I find myself missing her snarky remarks. I've upset her and with that realization comes that biting feeling again.

Great.

"Hey, Amara, I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine!" Amara snaps loudly. Her voice is hot, fiery, and it physically hurts. A cool touch gathers down my back and my body tenses at the sign of danger, even though there is none. The space between us morphs into a blurry haze, and I blink to restore my vision, but it never comes; in fact, it worsens. Amara's figure becomes increasingly vague and I realize my dull vision is accompanied by an image of tiny waves rising from the table like flames and a sweltering heat prickling my skin.

I glance around me, frantic, in hopes of crying for help, but when I open my mouth there are no words, just dryness. An unknown force grips my throat, forbidding the gasps of air to exit, and the intensity of the heat penetrates my skin. I want to scream, but my throat is shut, my lungs are collapsing, and my will is depleting. My instincts tell me to kill her, to rip her lungs out like she does mine, but I force my eyes shut to slow my mind.

I think of Joham, my love, my one and only. I think of what'd it be like to get the happy-ever-after those humans always dreamed out. I think of how fulfilling life on earth will be when I get to share it with him.

Even with my body working against me, I manage to say, "Amara."

Suddenly, the mirage unfolds, the heat subsides, and my breathing returns. There is no physical evidence of the surreal wave of heat other than the wild look of bewilderment written on Amara's face. She is so still that I think I might have entered another illusion, until she speaks with a shaky breath. "Oh my god."

I don't know what to say to console her, and I'm not sure if I should even try. Even after all these years of searching for a meaningful life, I still fear death and whatever waits for me on the other side. I don't want to anger her any further if death is a possible outcome, so I stare, matching her confused expression with an even more concerned one.

"I-I have to go," she blurts out as she abruptly shoots up from the table and scrambles to gather her belongings. She isn't very successful in her attempts, as the loose pieces of paper fly uncontrollably around her. Growing frustrated, she snatches them mid-air, shoves them into her tote, and storms out of the cafeteria, leaving a trail of curious gazes to escort her.

I contemplate whether to follow after her, but I decide against it and smile instead.