99 Ways To Die (BL| MxM)

Chapter Three

Julian had been examined by physicians in more centuries than he cared to count.

He had been treated by men who believed illness came from an imbalance of bodily humors, women who knew exactly which plants could bring down a fever despite having no idea why they worked, battlefield surgeons whose greatest medical instrument was speed, and modern doctors with machines capable of looking inside a living body without opening it.

He had been bled.

Burned.

Wrapped in poultices.

Prescribed medicines that worked, medicines that did nothing, and medicines he strongly suspected had shortened his life considerably.

He had once been advised to cure a persistent cough by sleeping with an onion beneath his pillow.

He still resented that physician.

And yet, despite all of that accumulated experience, Julian found himself sitting in the back seat of his parents' car that morning with a sense of unease he considered entirely unreasonable.

There would be no needles.

His mother had promised.

There would be no medicine.

No examination table.

No one was going to ask him to remove his clothes or breathe deeply while something cold was pressed against his chest.

He was going to answer questions.

That was all.

Questions and puzzles.

He should have been excellent at questions and puzzles.

The problem was that Julian had no idea how badly he was supposed to do.

He sat strapped into his car seat, feet dangling uselessly several inches above the floor, and watched buildings pass beyond the window while Evelyn drove.

Thomas sat beside her.

They had both made an effort to behave normally that morning.

Their effort was terrible.

His mother had asked him three separate times whether he had slept well.

His father had offered him pancakes shaped like a bear.

Julian had eaten them because they were pancakes, not because the arrangement of fruit used to create the bear's face had impressed him.

Now the two of them were speaking about traffic with the unnatural determination of people deliberately avoiding another subject.

"The light is green," Julian said.

Thomas glanced back.

"I see it, buddy."

"You weren't moving."

"The car in front of us wasn't moving."

"Oh."

Julian returned his attention to the window.

A few seconds later, Thomas looked at Evelyn.

Evelyn looked at Thomas.

Julian saw both reflections in the glass.

He sighed.

"You can talk about me."

Silence.

Julian turned his head.

His parents stared forward.

Then Evelyn cleared her throat.

"We weren't talking about you."

"You were doing the face."

Thomas twisted around in his seat. "What face?"

Julian pointed between them.

"The face."

Thomas looked at Evelyn.

Evelyn looked at Thomas.

They both immediately made the face again.

Julian raised his eyebrows.

Thomas laughed.

"Okay. Maybe we were thinking about you."

"You do that a lot."

"We're your parents. We're supposed to."

Julian accepted this.

He was still adjusting to having parents who worried about him for ordinary reasons.

In several previous lives, parental concern had meant worrying whether he would inherit land properly, marry advantageously, pass examinations, produce heirs, maintain family honor, or avoid embarrassing everyone in front of neighboring nobility.

Evelyn worried about whether he ate enough vegetables.

Thomas worried that he might fall down the stairs.

It was strangely comforting.

"Do you know what we're doing today?" Evelyn asked.

"Meeting a doctor."

"A psychologist," Thomas corrected gently.

Julian attempted the word.

"Sy-kol-o-jist."

Thomas's mouth twitched.

Julian frowned.

"I know what it is."

"I know you do."

"You smiled."

"I wasn't smiling."

"You were."

"I have a naturally cheerful face."

"No, you don't."

Evelyn burst out laughing.

Thomas placed a hand dramatically over his chest.

Julian turned back toward the window, satisfied.

The building they eventually entered didn't look particularly medical. There were no harsh fluorescent corridors or rows of sick people waiting beneath signs displaying different departments. Instead, the office occupied the second floor of a quiet professional building surrounded by trees.

The waiting room had been designed for children.

Julian knew this immediately because the furniture was offensively colorful.

There was a small table covered in crayons and coloring sheets, shelves filled with picture books, wooden puzzles, and several plastic containers overflowing with toys.

A train set occupied one corner.

Julian regarded it.

Thomas crouched beside him.

"Want to play?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

Thomas looked around.

"What do you want to do?"

Julian pointed to the magazine on the table beside Evelyn.

"That."

Thomas followed his finger.

It was a science magazine.

Evelyn picked it up.

"This?"

Julian nodded.

She handed it to him without comment.

Julian climbed into a chair with some assistance, settled the magazine awkwardly across his small knees, and began examining the table of contents.

He was aware of his parents watching him.

He ignored them.

The article that caught his attention concerned deep-sea ecosystems. Julian had lived through centuries of human history, but there were subjects even ninety-nine lives couldn't make familiar. The ocean remained one of them.

He turned the page.

Interesting.

A receptionist behind the desk glanced toward him.

Then glanced again.

Julian pretended not to notice that either.

Eventually, a door opened.

"Julian Mercer?"

He looked up.

A woman stood in the doorway.

She appeared to be in her forties, with dark curls cut just above her shoulders and a soft blue cardigan over a simple blouse. She held a tablet in one hand but didn't look at it.

Instead, she looked at him.

Not his parents.

Him.

Julian appreciated that immediately.

"That's me," he said.

The woman smiled.

"I'm Dr. Lena Hart."

Julian carefully closed the magazine.

He considered holding out his hand.

Then he remembered he was three.

Three-year-olds didn't generally shake hands with psychologists.

Probably.

He had no reliable frame of reference for modern toddler etiquette.

"Hello," he said instead.

"Hello, Julian."

She crouched so they were closer to eye level.

"I'm going to spend some time with you today. We'll play a few games and talk a little. Does that sound okay?"

"Are they hard games?"

Dr. Hart's smile widened slightly.

"Some might be."

"Okay."

"Do you like hard games?"

"Sometimes."

"What kind?"

Julian thought about it.

"Puzzles. But not when the pieces are all the same color."

Thomas made a choking noise that he disguised as a cough.

Dr. Hart glanced toward him.

Then back to Julian.

"Why not?"

"Because that's annoying."

"Fair enough."

Julian liked her.

That was unfortunate.

He had hoped disliking her might make lying easier.

They began with all four of them in the same room.

Dr. Hart asked Evelyn and Thomas questions while Julian sat at a small table nearby with several wooden shapes.

The shapes were clearly intended to occupy him.

Julian completed the puzzle in less than a minute.

Then he took it apart.

Then completed it again.

The adults continued speaking.

"When did you first notice his language development was unusual?" Dr. Hart asked.

Evelyn hesitated.

"Before he was two, really. But we thought we were imagining it at first."

Julian began arranging the puzzle pieces by size.

"He started using complete sentences very early," Thomas added. "Not always clearly. Sometimes we still have to ask him what he's saying."

Julian looked at him.

Thomas noticed.

"Sorry."

"I talk fine."

"You talk very well."

"I said psychololojist."

Dr. Hart lowered her tablet.

There was a brief silence.

Julian realized that he had proven Thomas's point rather effectively.

He returned to his shapes.

"Psychologist," Dr. Hart said kindly.

Julian tried.

"Psychol'gist."

"That's closer."

"I know the word."

"I believe you."

That made him look up.

There had been no teasing in her voice.

Dr. Hart continued speaking with his parents.

They described the books.

The reading.

His lack of interest in most toys.

The way he sometimes watched documentaries with Thomas and asked questions that led his father toward subjects he hadn't expected to explain to a preschooler.

Evelyn mentioned finding tissues inside books around the house.

Dr. Hart looked at Julian.

"Those are bookmarks," Julian said.

"I've heard."

"I don't have real ones."

"We bought you real ones," Thomas said.

"They fall out."

Thomas looked at Dr. Hart.

"He's very particular."

"They fall out," Julian repeated.

Dr. Hart wrote something.

Julian narrowed his eyes at the tablet.

"What did you write?"

She looked amused.

"Do you want to know?"

"Yes."

"I wrote that you like using tissues as bookmarks because they stay in place better."

Julian relaxed.

"Okay."

"Did you think I wrote something bad?"

Julian considered the question.

"No."

It was technically true.

He had wondered whether she'd written something concerning.

That was different.

After the discussion, Evelyn and Thomas moved to chairs farther away while Dr. Hart joined Julian at the small table.

"Are you ready for some games?"

"Yes."

The first few were simple.

Painfully simple.

She showed him pictures and asked him to name objects.

Dog.

Chair.

Apple.

House.

Julian knew immediately that he needed to control himself.

This was not an examination of his actual knowledge.

It was an examination calibrated for a three-year-old.

A very small three-year-old sitting in a very small chair whose feet didn't touch the floor.

He answered normally.

Mostly.

Then she showed him a picture of a violin.

"What's this?"

"A violin."

"And what does it do?"

"It doesn't do anything by itself."

Dr. Hart paused.

Julian realized his mistake.

"You play it," he added.

"How?"

"With a bow."

"Have you seen one before?"

"On television."

True.

Technically.

He had also played one in his forty-third life, though he had never been particularly good.

She moved on.

There were blocks next.

Pattern matching.

Easy.

Then shapes.

Easy.

Then increasingly complicated arrangements.

Still easy.

Julian deliberately slowed himself down.

He even placed one block incorrectly.

Dr. Hart said nothing.

Julian stared at the wrong block.

It bothered him.

He lasted six seconds.

Then he fixed it.

Dr. Hart wrote something.

Julian suspected she was becoming annoying.

Next came picture sequences.

She showed him several cards.

A child planting a seed.

A small sprout.

A larger plant.

A flower.

"Can you put these in order?"

Julian did.

"Why does that one come first?"

"Because he's planting it."

"And then?"

"It grows."

"Why?"

Julian stared at her.

Was she asking how plants grew?

"Water and light."

Dr. Hart nodded.

"What else does it need?"

"Soil."

"And?"

Julian's small mouth struggled with the word before he'd even finished deciding whether he should use it.

"Nutwients."

Evelyn made a tiny sound from the other side of the room.

Julian closed his eyes.

Nutrients.

He could say it.

"New-tree-ents," he tried carefully.

Dr. Hart smiled.

"Nutrients."

"That's what I said."

Thomas covered his mouth.

Julian glared at him.

Dr. Hart's shoulders moved suspiciously.

This appointment was deteriorating.

Then came questions about similarities.

"What do a dog and a cat have in common?"

"They're animals."

"A cup and a bowl?"

"You put things in them."

"A car and a bicycle?"

"Transportation."

The word emerged as something closer to "twansportation."

Julian hated childhood.

"What do a book and television have in common?"

He paused.

That one could have several answers.

"They tell you things."

Dr. Hart tilted her head.

"What kind of things?"

"Stories. Or information."

"In-for-may-shun," he pronounced with exaggerated care.

She nodded solemnly.

"Very good."

Julian suspected she was enjoying herself now.

The testing continued.

Some tasks involved memory.

Those were dangerous.

Julian had an excellent memory even without the absurdity of reincarnation, and he needed to remind himself that remembering centuries of personal experience didn't necessarily mean his short-term working memory should be impossible.

She read him numbers.

He repeated them.

Then sequences of simple words.

He repeated those too.

She added more.

Julian watched her carefully.

At one point he deliberately forgot "tree."

It felt wrong.

Not morally.

Aesthetically.

The sequence had been perfectly clear.

Pretending otherwise irritated him.

After a few more tasks, Dr. Hart gave him a break.

Evelyn offered him a small container of apple slices.

Julian ate them while sitting beside Thomas.

"How're you doing?" Thomas asked.

"Fine."

"Having fun?"

Julian looked at him.

Thomas smiled.

"Right. Stupid question."

"Not stupid."

"No?"

"Just unnecessary."

Thomas stared at him.

Then he looked across the room at Dr. Hart.

She had heard.

Of course she'd heard.

Julian bit into another apple slice.

Perhaps he should simply give up.

His parents already knew he was unusual.

The psychologist was clearly going to figure it out anyway.

He just needed to avoid demonstrating knowledge no three-year-old could reasonably possess.

That seemed manageable.

Then Dr. Hart ruined everything by bringing out a book.

It wasn't a picture book.

It was a thin children's reader with large print.

"Your mom says you like reading."

"Yes."

"Would you read something for me?"

Julian eyed the book.

"I can."

"Okay."

He opened it.

The text was simple.

Far simpler than the books he normally read.

He began.

He kept his pace slow.

His pronunciation occasionally caught on words his mouth found difficult, and Dr. Hart never corrected him unless he stopped and asked.

He reached the end of the page.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

Julian summarized it.

"What do you think the boy was feeling?"

"Embarrassed."

"Why?"

"Because he thought everyone saw him fall."

"Did everyone see?"

"No."

"Then why was he embarrassed?"

Julian frowned at the page.

"Because he thought they did. Feelings don't always need something to be true."

Silence.

Julian looked up.

Dr. Hart was staring at him.

He realized, again, that he may have answered too well.

He tried to fix it.

"He was sad too."

That did not fix it.

Dr. Hart placed the book down.

"Julian, do you ever feel different from other children?"

The question took him by surprise.

He looked toward his parents.

Evelyn was watching him closely.

Thomas looked equally attentive.

Julian looked back at Dr. Hart.

"Yes."

"How?"

He considered lying.

Then he considered the fact that he had spent most of the appointment deliberately giving imperfect answers and she had probably noticed every single one.

"I don't like the same things."

"What things do other children like?"

"Toys."

"You don't like toys?"

"Some."

"What do you like?"

"Books."

"Why?"

"They have more things in them."

"More things?"

"Things to know."

Dr. Hart nodded.

"Do you like playing with other kids?"

Julian hesitated.

This answer was harder.

He hadn't spent much time with children his physical age.

Evelyn occasionally took him to a local playgroup, where Julian had discovered that conversations with three-year-olds were somehow simultaneously fascinating and exhausting.

They had strong opinions.

Very strong opinions.

Mostly about snacks.

"They're loud," he said.

Thomas coughed again.

"But do you like them?"

"Sometimes."

"What do you like about them?"

Julian thought of a little girl named Sophie who had solemnly presented him with a yellow plastic dinosaur the previous week because she believed he looked lonely.

"They're nice."

"Do you want friends?"

Another dangerous question.

Julian lowered his eyes to his hands.

Did he?

He had spent ninety-nine lives making friends.

Losing friends.

Remembering friends long after the world forgot they existed.

He had entered this life determined not to tie himself to anyone unnecessarily.

Then his parents had happened.

Somehow.

He couldn't remain detached from Evelyn and Thomas despite knowing exactly how badly loving people could hurt.

Friends would be no different.

Eventually everyone disappeared.

Except him.

But that wasn't an answer a three-year-old should give.

"Maybe," he said.

Dr. Hart didn't push.

He was grateful.

The final portion of the appointment took place without him.

That irritated Julian considerably.

Dr. Hart asked him if he would mind waiting with another staff member while she spoke privately with his parents.

Julian minded.

Very much.

But refusing would be suspicious.

So he sat in a neighboring room with a woman named Rachel and a collection of toys he had no interest in touching.

There was, however, a bookshelf.

Naturally.

Rachel watched as he selected the thickest book he could reasonably carry.

It was about space.

"Do you like planets?" she asked.

"Yes."

"What's your favorite?"

Julian climbed into a chair.

"Earth."

Rachel blinked.

"Earth?"

"I live there."

She laughed.

Julian opened the book.

Perfectly sensible answer.

He read for approximately twenty minutes.

Then his parents emerged.

Their expressions told him nothing.

Annoying.

Dr. Hart crouched beside him again.

"You did very well today, Julian."

"Thank you."

"Did you like the games?"

"Some."

"Which ones?"

"The patterns."

"Which ones didn't you like?"

"The easy ones."

Thomas looked away.

Evelyn pressed her lips together.

Dr. Hart smiled.

"I had a feeling."

Julian studied her.

"What did you tell them?"

His parents froze.

Dr. Hart, however, didn't appear surprised by the question.

"I told them that you're a very bright little boy."

"How bright?"

"Very."

"That's not a number."

This time Evelyn actually laughed.

Dr. Hart sat in the small chair across from him.

"Some of the testing we do gives us numbers, but they're not the most important part."

"Why?"

"Because you're three."

Julian waited.

He appreciated the answer already.

"Testing children your age can tell us useful things," she continued, "but little kids change very quickly. Sometimes they're tired. Sometimes they don't feel like answering. Sometimes they understand something but can't explain it yet."

Julian's attention sharpened.

Yes.

Exactly.

Finally, someone understood the central irritation of his existence.

"Your mom and dad told me that sometimes you know a word but can't say it the way you want."

Julian nodded emphatically.

"My mouth doesn't work."

Evelyn laughed.

Dr. Hart corrected gently, "Your mouth works. It's still growing."

"It doesn't do what I tell it."

"That can be frustrating."

"Very."

"Your thoughts can move faster than your speech right now."

Julian stared at her.

That might have been the most validating thing anyone had said to him in three years.

He liked Dr. Hart considerably more than he intended.

"So," she continued, "I told your parents that you're developing far ahead of what we'd usually expect in some areas. Especially language comprehension, memory, reasoning, and reading."

"Reading isn't hard."

"For you."

Julian paused.

That distinction mattered.

Dr. Hart looked toward Evelyn and Thomas.

"We'll talk more after I score everything formally, but nothing I saw today concerns me in the sense of something being wrong. Quite the opposite."

Evelyn's shoulders visibly relaxed.

Julian noticed.

So did Thomas.

"You think he's gifted?" Thomas asked.

"Yes. Significantly."

Gifted.

Julian almost smiled.

That was certainly one explanation.

Not technically wrong, either.

Ninety-nine lives were a gift in the same way receiving an entire library might be considered a gift if the library occasionally caught fire and trapped you inside.

"We'll want to make sure he's challenged appropriately," Dr. Hart continued. "But he's still three. That's important."

Julian looked at her again.

She tapped one finger against the table.

"He needs books if he wants books. More difficult material if he's interested in it. But he also needs naps, playgrounds, messy art projects, other children, and permission to be three years old."

Julian disagreed with at least half of that list.

Especially messy art projects.

Thomas nodded thoughtfully.

"So we shouldn't just keep pushing him because he can do more."

"Exactly."

Evelyn looked down at Julian.

He could see something in her expression that made him uncomfortable.

Relief.

She had been afraid.

He hadn't fully understood how afraid until that moment.

Not afraid of him.

Afraid for him.

Julian shifted in his chair.

"Mommy."

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

"I'm okay."

The words came out softer than he intended.

Evelyn stared at him.

Then her eyes became suspiciously shiny.

Julian immediately regretted everything.

"Oh, no," he said.

Thomas smiled.

Evelyn leaned down and wrapped her arms around him.

Julian disappeared against her sweater.

He endured this for several seconds.

Then ten.

Then longer.

He eventually lifted one small hand and awkwardly patted her shoulder.

"There, there."

Thomas laughed so loudly that even Dr. Hart joined him.

Julian's face grew hot.

He had used that phrase in at least six previous lives.

Apparently it sounded ridiculous coming from a three-year-old.

When Evelyn finally released him, she kissed his forehead.

Julian wiped the spot automatically.

She kissed him again.

He sighed.

Parents.

Some things survived every century.

On the drive home, Julian sat quietly in his car seat.

The appointment had gone better than expected.

No one suspected reincarnation.

No one had called a priest.

No one had declared him possessed, cursed, touched by spirits, blessed by gods, or marked for some grand destiny.

All of which had happened before.

Modern psychology, Julian decided, was marvelous.

His parents believed he was gifted.

They would find him more difficult books.

They would probably watch him more closely.

That was manageable.

Outside the window, the city slipped past in a blur of glass, concrete, traffic lights, signs, and people moving through lives that belonged entirely to them.

Julian rested his head against the side of the car seat.

Life number one hundred.

Three years completed.

He had many more ahead of him, if fortune was kind.

No prince.

No mission.

No endless pursuit of someone destined to choose another person.

For the first time in more lifetimes than he could remember, his future seemed empty.

Not empty in the lonely sense.

Empty like a blank page.

Julian liked blank pages.

You could put anything on them.

Perhaps, someday, he really would become a writer.

He already had a title.

99 Ways to Die.

He smiled faintly to himself.

There was only one problem.

He would have to wait until he could reliably pronounce "reincarnation" before telling anyone what it was about.