Willow's Lament

1.

I heard the grey sedan's engine begin to the fade into the distance. With a single thought, the air in front of me shimmered and I stepped through the fissure in reality, hearing the sound of a busy street when I emerged on the other side. The heels of my boots hit the asphalt of a cramped alleyway, an industrial sized trash bin at my rear and two tabby cats crouched in the shadows as far away from the puddles of rain water and waste run-off as the felines could get. Their grey eyes were on me the moment I stepped through the rift I had made.

The two cats were of the few beings who knew my secret-- who knew that I could at will, materialize and travel through portals and that it was my preferred method of travel. It was by far the most discreet form of transportation by which to conduct my business and by now, the feral little beasts had witnessed me 'jump' so often that they no longer hissed when I invaded their territory.

I knelt beside them and reached into my left coat pocket, with two pairs of steely eyes following my every movement.

Removing the tin of processed cat food from my coat, I peeled away the lid and presented it to them. The cats did not hesitate to chow down and this summarized the tone of our usual exchange. No matter where in the world I had been previously, whenever I returned to New York City, I came to this particular alleyway, and brought its feline residents something to eat.

I was not really fond of cats but I told myself that it was suitable compensation for their silence.

Standing, I left the alley behind and headed in the eastward direction to the coffee shop just a few blocks down.

I was painfully aware of the eyes on me as I walked down the sidewalk and by that I didn't mean the passing glances but the lingering looks and the eyes that stared longer than was socially acceptable. I never understood what it was that they found so fascinating.

There was nothing peculiar about a female dressed in a floor length coat in 30 degree weather and I was certainly not the first redhead in existence. I was told by a friend and perhaps, the only friend that I truly had, that I was "unnaturally beautiful" and a result, people stared in admiration, with lust or absolute jealousy; not that I was at all concerned with being attractive.

In some ways, I was conscious of it; it was in the way that all the heads in the tiny coffee parlor and web cafe turned toward the door because they were alerted to more than just the sound of chimes as I entered. I hated the staring because it also made me aware of how self conscious I was despite their being no obvious need for it.

Being beautiful was of no benefit to the work I did; the creatures I hunted were not persuaded from their evil ways by a pretty face. Everything I did, everywhere I went was directly related to the life I lived as a hunter and was therefore, involuntary. Even now I was pretending--maintaining the facade of a high school student in New York to investigate a developing situation in this state.

It was all rather depressing, although, I had long sense become so numb to my circumstances that I could no longer process how depressing this all really was.

Coming here, despite the fact that I didn't particularly enjoy coffee, was the only choice that I had.

Tommy, the person I had come to see, flashed me a bright smile from where he stood on the line leading to the cashier, his hazel colored eyes aglow. The electric lights above him illuminated his olive skin and sent shadows dancing in his chocolate brown curls.

He was the son of Italian immigrants, a casual gym-goer so he was just the shade of muscled slender that complimented his six foot, four inch frame. Though he was never able to match me in anything else, Tommy had always been obnoxiously proud of the fact that he towered over my five foot, five inch frame. He slouched casually in front of the cash register, dressed in a copper colored v-neck and black jeans with his backpack slung over one shoulder. He mouthed the word 'coffee' to me as a question.

I shook my head in response and mouthed 'banana muffin.' Tommy turned back to the tattooed blonde barista after scowling playfully in my direction. Instinctively, I took a seat at the round table near the rear window, tapping my fingers impatiently on the surface.

"You're late, Sera," he spoke, suddenly standing in front of me.

"Well, that was fast." I accepted the small wooden plank with the enormously large muffin in the center. He pulled out a chair and sat facing me. "How much do I owe you?"

"The barista was into me I think," Tommy said rather nonchalantly before taking a sip of his cappuccino. "So I guess she rushed the order and wrote her number down on one of the napkins." He grabbed the sheet in question and crumbled it between his fingers. "And you know you don't need to pay me back. Your presence is compensation enough." His smile was boyish and bashful.

I chuckled at his phrasing, peeling the wrapper away from the base of the muffin.

"You know, one of these days you'll realize that I'm serious when I say things like that." Before I could protest, he yanked the muffin from my hands, taking a bite and handing it back to me.

"I thought this was a treat," I complained, disgruntled and waving the muffin in the air. "It isn't much of a treat if you take the liberty of eating half of it."

"You forfeited your entitlement to this treat when you decided to show up fifteen minutes late."

"I resent that; you know I didn't choose any of this and you're completely contradicting yourself. If this isn't a treat, then let me pay you back."

"Not a chance," he smirked and then he held up a finger before pulling the vibrating phone from his pocket. "Yes mama," he spoke into the device, sipping pompously at the contents of the wide cup that would have served a better purpose as a bowl.

I let my thoughts carry me away as I ate what was left of the muffin, allowing Tommy the space he needed to conversate with his mother.

I had met her on multiple occasions in the year and a half that I had spent in New York. She was sweet and suffocating in an endearing way-- like the embodiment of the worrisome, gushing Nonna that you imagined was behind every good, authentic Italian restaurant.

Mrs. Bianco was the shortest woman I'd ever met, even shorter than I was, with straight black hair, rosy olive toned cheeks and the same warm hazel eyes as her son. I knew how much she loved her youngest son, especially since his father passed three years ago in a car accident. She doted over him and was the personification of all the qualities that were redeemable of the human race.

And I suppose her dewy eyed son wasn't half bad either.

I could still remember the circumstances under which we met. The abandoned building in Harlem and Tommy, with two of his friends, thinking it was an ideal locale for a hang out at nine in the evening. Unbeknownst to them, darker, more malevolent creatures had claimed and were more callous to protect was theirs. No attack ensued because I stopped it and I had managed to muddle with the memories his friends had of the event but, Tommy convinced me that he would be a suitable guardian of my secret.

Later, when he saw me at his school, he started following me around like a loyal puppy and eventually, although he resents such a title, he became like a sidekick to me.

I couldn't deny that I cared for him-- and that I care enough to resent the fact that he insisted on involving himself in my dangerous line of work. But for Tommy, there were always something more that drove him to stay by my side.

By the time Tommy had ended the call, my muffin was gone and so was his coffee. He started emptying the contents of his backpack, the books and papers hitting the table in time with the buzzing of the wings of an insect that had somehow entered the shop.

"You didn't miss much today," he murmured, sticking his head into the bag's now vacant cavity. This was in reference to school. To avoid suspicion, I had adopted the role of an exchange student from Canada and rather conveniently for me, although it benefited Tommy more-- we had all of our classes together.

So whenever I was absent from classes, for which my official excuse was that I was taking care of an ailing grandmother, Tommy brought me my homework. For appearance's sake, I maintained straight A's but literature was the only class that I was really interested in.

"We have Calculus, History, and Literature home-work this evening," he responded, pushing a few papers in my direction. I recognized his familiar messy scrawl, with half of my attention focused on the bug that had now flown into my line of sight.

With a calculated flick of the wrist, I overturned Tommy's empty coffee cup and trapped the fly that had flown near to us.

Tommy made a low, disgruntled sound. "What are we now? Savages, Sera?" He carefully removed the cup from the tabletop, allowing the nagging beast to escape. I imagined it waving its tiny fist and sticking its tongue out as me as it flew off.

"Coffee mugs are not for insect trapping."

"I don't very much like coffee, so its a moot point." I sounded a little smug.

"I think you would if you tried it," he retorted. "Come away with me to Paris. You can really appreciate the brew there; they've mastered this real delicate balance of the natural flavor and nothing artificial to muddy it.

I sighed. I had heard this lecture before; him trying to convince me of the merits of good coffee. I deflected the idea, responding in English but whipping out the French accent that I assimilated during the five years I spent there. "I've been to Paris, Tommy. I've tried le café . Its very bitter, not very appeasing in the slightest."

His warm hazel eyes glowed from a moment as I spoke. "That's really, really sexy." The human boy gushed.

I rolled my eyes at him. "You've heard me use my accents before. I speak 30 languages."

He shrugged, "Doesn't mean I'll ever get used to it.

There it was again, the air of something more that I always sensed from him. Tommy had never been particularly forward with his advances but he wasn't exactly subtle about his feelings for me either. It was the only thing that made our friendship awkward at times.

I responded like I usually did with the comments he made that caught me off guard, or really with any situation that I didn't want to confront-- I ignored it.

"You should hold onto these. I'll finish them at your place." I pushed the papers back toward him, standing up from the table.

He beamed at me like a kid promised a trip to that ridiculous theme park, Disneyland. "Really?"

"Sure. That is, if your mother is okay with that." I tried shuffling some of the loose papers and books into a pile and helped shove them into his bag.

"You know she doesn't," Tommy scoffed. "Unless you have the knives. You don't have them do you? You know it really worries her; she doesn't think ladies should be interested in those things."

I rolled my eyes, walking past him. "She only saw the daggers for my wrist sheaths and the only reason she saw them is because you were pretending to be the world's foremost sword thrower." For an eighteen year old, he really had a child-like demeanor. Or some mild form of ADHD at the very least and what he found entertaining was even more irrational.

"Besides," I continued, " the sword and spine sheath are far more magnificent. That'll surely jump start her heart."

Tommy matched my stride easily, given the fact that he had the longer legs and held the door open for me like the gentleman he tried to be. "Sera!" he feigned surprise and suppressed a smile.

I grinned back. The sun had begun to set and the temperature had fallen a few degrees. The coming night sent every nerve ending in my body into overdrive-- firing and anticipating stimulation. I knew what waited in the darkness.

Tommy sensed it and rubbed my shoulders, but not because I was cold. "Relax G.I.Jane, we're only a few blocks away. There are no night stalkers waiting to get us."

We walked, in almost complete silence, crossing into the suburban side of town and made a left at the first family sized one-story home. Tommy had an arm around my shoulders and for once, I didn't make a big deal about pushing him away.

The street lights came on with a hum, momentarily interrupting the sound of our boot heels against the pavement. Their electric glow glinted off the shiny blue mailbox in front of Tommy's red brick home that was only a few yards away.

"It's alright, Laura Croft," he reassured me. "Nothing unusual here."

If that was the case. I wouldn't have paused when I did, in front of the white gate, with every muscle in my body tensed and contracted. The air around me felt charged, nearby crickets seemed to fall silent and the shadows had all but come alive and begin to encircle us. All my hyperactivity seemed to be centered around Tommy's house with the porch light invitingly illuminating the way to the front steps.

As innocent as this scene appeared, every instinct I had was screaming at me that entering would be dangerous. I grabbed onto Tommy's wrist as he reached to unlatch the gate.

"Where's your mother's car?" I asked him. I had scanned the yard in a few seconds and couldn't see the grey crossover in the driveway -- the one Mrs. Bianco refused to park in her spacious garage.

"She called to tell me that she was volunteering at the hospital again tonight; working the graveyard shift. I told her to drive instead of taking the train across town, because I didn't think the train would be safe that late."

My grip tightened fractionally and he noticed. "What's wrong, Sera?"

"Just get behind me," I muttered, standing in front of him.

"You know your attempt at shielding me would work better if you were a lot taller."

I pushed the gate open and caught movement in my periphery; a shadow passing behind the curtains in the front window. Reaching behind my braid, I carefully removed the long blade from its sheath.

Tommy whistled. "And... there goes the sword..."

At that moment, my brain lost all contact with the unnecessary sensations. I was aware that Tommy was trailing close behind me but, I didn't bother trying to follow what he was saying. The only thing I could hear was the barely increasing but ever present sound of my heart beating. I wasn't human; my autonomic nervous system didn't respond the way a human's might. There was no hyperventilation, no tachycardia-- just the opposite. The thumping in my chest began to slow. There was no choice for my body; no preparing to choose between a fight or flight response. There was only fight for me. That was what I was programmed to do and to fight, I needed to conserve oxygen, so do that end, erratic muscular contractions would be of no benefit to me.

"Keys," I held out an open palm. There was no back door or alternate entrance. Whoever or whatever was skulking around the Bianco home was waiting for someone and I was prepared to give them what they were asking for.

Tommy handed them to me without hesitation. We'd been in enough situations like these that he was well past feeling emasculated by my taking point under these circumstances. I turned them slowly and the sound of the tumblers turning in the lock was like thunder in my hypersensitive state.

Exhaling, I turned the handle and pushed inward. The lights were still out in the house but the residual glow from the street lamps only barely illuminated the living room ahead. Tommy closed the door behind him slowly. There was enough light in the room to allow me to make out the couch pressed against the wall.

Enough to see the dark expanse of the hallway to the left that led to the bedrooms. Enough to make out the figure standing just to the right of the trophy case with all of Tommy and his older siblings' awards from middle school. A pair of dark eyes-- so black they looked like voids, peered at us. The light in the room seemed to be deflected off of those eyes of flint and I knew instantly what it was.

I gripped the hilt of the blade slightly tighter.