Displaced

Royally Forked

My sister is the worst.

No, I mean, really. A lot of people have probably thought that over the past six thousand or so years, but I’m pretty sure I’m right. She started pulling my hair and biting me in utero, and my mom has the ultrasound photos to prove it. That was, quite literally, just the beginning. You’d think by seventeen, I’d have toughened up a bit, but she still hurts my feelings pretty often. 

I’m lucky when that’s all she hurts.

I grit my teeth as she strolls in, flanked by her tall black Doberman Pinscher, Death, and the head of her personal guard and boyfriend, Edam ne’Malessa ex’Alamecha. Only two places are set at the breakfast table, but that doesn’t stop my twin from dragging an empty chair over near us and sitting down right across from me. She’s wearing her typical knee-high black boots laced up over tight black pants. Her white button-down shirt is pristine, which makes me feel bad about my sloppy t-shirt and denim shorts. 

Not that it’s a competition, because, of course, I always lose. 

Her hair is pulled back into a high ponytail that falls in a cascade down her back. She wears hers straight most of the time. It compliments her broodiness and severe looks. Our faces may be identical, but I’ve tried to set myself apart a little. I never bother straightening my waves and curls, which helps, and as soon as I learned how, I darkened my skin tone and changed the color of my eyes slightly to keep people from mixing us up. I still change my eye color every few weeks, actually. 

Even so, I hate sharing a face with someone so hateful.

“Good morning Mother,” she says. 

Death stretches before curling up at her feet. Edam steps back to stand unobtrusively by the doorway. His eyes meet mine for a split second. A little zing runs up my spine, but I refuse to shiver or turn away. The corner of his mouth turns up ever so slightly before he breaks the connection and looks out the window as if evaluating the waves outside for any potential threats. His golden hair is perfectly mussed, and a muscle in his jaw twitches slightly. 

I try not to stare at him. I don’t succeed, but I try. 

“Good morning Judica,” Mom says.

I force myself to say, “So glad you could join us.” 

She half snorts by way of response, which I take as a sign she’s having a very good day. 

“There are over a hundred petitions to hear,” Judica says. “They all came a day early for the party.”

My mother’s Empress of the First Family of Eve. It has some great perks, but it carries a load of downsides, too. Ruling on disputes when the Alamecha family arbitrators have failed is one of the worst, but today it means an awful lot of the people here will be loitering around in the throne room. 

Normally I wouldn’t care, but if they’re in the throne room either being heard or watching the proceedings, they’re not around the ring watching me throw a fight to Lark. 

“Really?” I force a fake groan. “Great present, right Mom? Happy Birthday, now please settle my petty arguments.”

“It’s certainly not the best part of my birthday each year,” Mom says. 

“Maybe you can split them up,” I say. 

Judica lifts one eyebrow. “You think you can settle their petitions?” 

I shrug. “I might not get them all right, but for instance, I do feel bad for the women having half-human kids. I’ve been meaning to talk to you, Mom. Maybe we can stop banishing them. Corrupt DNA or not, they’re half-evian. Surely Alamecha can use them somehow, even if it’s just in a spy network, where clearly they’d be an asset on the human side. Since we force them out, frequently their mothers go with them, and we lose full evian women forever. It’s silly.”

Judica snorts. “The law is clear, and there’s a reason for all of it. Half-evian children are gods among the humans, but keep them here, train them with the sons and daughters of Alamecha? They’d be nothing, less than nothing. I wouldn’t condemn any child to that kind of guaranteed failure.”

“We could set up a separate curriculum,” I say, “only children with—” 

Mom clears her throat. “You’re right Judica, that particular law is for the good of the children and for the safety of our family. And on top of that, without repercussions, the risk of interbreeding becomes too commonplace. We must keep our bloodlines pure.”

Interbreeding? It’s not like they’re dogs and we’re people. We’re all people. I just don’t have the guts to argue any more. Not with Judica here to swipe at me.

Oh how I despise it when Judica gloats. 

“But perhaps as my Heir, Judica,” Mom says, “you could start the petitions alone today. Begin with the lower echelons and work forward. By the time you’ve reached the petitions from seventh, eighth, and ninth generation family members, I’ll be present to help. Perhaps I’ll be there even sooner. I have some business to attend to beforehand.” Mom glances sharply my way. 

Ugh, she’s going to watch my match. At least she’s maneuvered Judica out of watching it. 

My twin pales slightly, but her heart rate remains steady. Her control’s amazing. I need to practice hiding my emotions. I stink at it. 

Judica inclines her head slightly. “As you wish, Mother.”

“Chancery and I are going to choose our gowns for my party this afternoon after I complete the petitions. I assume you’re wearing your signature black?”

Judica’s face is blank. “I’ll wear whatever you’d like. It’s your birthday.” Her heart rate doesn’t increase, and she isn’t sweating or I’d smell it. She means it. She doesn’t care what she wears. I’d be upset if my mom matched Judica and not me, but she’s indifferent. Sometimes I think she’s broken inside. 

I reach for the last pancake, but Judica snatches it from the platter first. She loads up her plate with fresh fruit, bacon and toast, and then pours syrup over the top of all of it. 

I clear my throat, but she doesn’t glance my way. 

“Do you need me to do anything else?” Judica asks. 

Mom smiles. “After petitions and gown selection, you’ll both train. Other than party preparation, petitions and accepting homage from the human dignitaries, today is a normal day.” 

I notice two triangles of French toast on a plate at the edge of the table and reach over to spear them, but before I can, Judica slams her pointy silver fork into the back of my hand and keeps shoving until the tines have rammed through skin, sinew, and bone, and sunk deep into the wood of the table. The pain radiates up my arm as my blood spurts downward and spreads outward across the white linen tablecloth. Judica lets go of the fork and tosses the French toast I wanted on the ground. 

To her dog. 

Death snaps up both pieces without batting an eye. I grit my teeth so I don’t whimper when I use my left hand to yank the fork out of my right. I flex my hand to make sure the muscles knit together properly and the bones don’t need to be rebroken. Luckily, they seem fine. I watch as skin grows across the puncture holes. Once I’ve healed, I use my napkin to wipe the blood from my palm and the back of my hand. There’s not much I can do about the ruined tablecloth, or holes in the enormous oak breakfast table that are probably permanently soaked with my blood.