Impulse Control: Lacking

It was impulse and desperation that led me to proposition Pim to protect me.

There had not been a single disappearance in the district but four.  Four was four too many.  And more than that, it meant that whatever took men was maybe four closer to taking me.  I did not want to know what happened to those men, not personally.

I skulked down the street I tried to keep my eyes averted while waiting to cross the road; people like to stare at men who are unescorted and it's always made me uncomfortable.  They watch but always stand a bit apart from me, just in case my woman came and thought another was making a claim.

When the shadow bathed me in a breath of cool, I looked to my left because it was different.  What was casting the shadow made me stop breathing.  

I think it was my sudden stillness that caught her attention, like a wolf or a weasel detects a rabbit freezing.  I could smell her suddenly, the moment I was no longer lost in my desire to be unnoticed.  She was more than carrying the perfume of spice, leather and sin; she was those things.  Her skin had no shine to it, a matte reflection of sunlight that suggested suede, making the shine of her eyes all the more noticeable.  irises were a sunlit finely aged cognac or a red tea. . . but she was not so tame as tea, which had to be why she had reminded me of hard liquor.  There was the impression of bold bronze scales around those eyes, coy copper flecks around the scales, the warmth of sienna in her skin.  

And then she spoke, ruining the momentary shock that comes with registering their inhuman qualities.  The voice was low in tone, shedding scorn and boredom the way an Akita sheds fur: in massive quantities.   "What do you want, human?"

"Safety and freedom, Spicer.  Want a job?"  It was out of my mouth before I could consider the fact that I was looking to vent and had found a creature that would probably kill me for it.

The Spicer only looked at me.  She did not stare at me, she did not snarl at me.  All she had to do was look with no change of expression in her surreal features and I was nearly undone with fear.  When a person lashes out at you, your normal reaction is to be angry or afraid.  Correction: The human reaction is fear and anger.

She was not human.  She did not react as a human did.

". . . Perhaps."  There was a sense of finality in the tone, the Spicer choosing now to tilt her head slightly to the right.  The slight angle change highlighted her features, the light bouncing off of the scales around her jaw and cheekbone that peeked out from behind the shadowy hair.

"'P-Perhaps?'"  I had maybe done something interesting to her.  I wasn't certain that was a healthy thing.  And to look so directly at her without quickly averting my gaze was distracting.  It was hard to take all of her in, to hold her in my mind.

"Perhaps."  The tone was surprisingly businesslike.  Looking over her shoulder, to the old sign for the barber behind her made it easier to focus on what she said and on not shaking with reaction.  "I will consider your request and compensation I will require in return for my services."

"W-what?"

"Do all of your kind have that stumble-stutter in their speech or is it just you?"  The Akita was stalking back into her tone and I was too shocked and, honestly, disturbed by her agreement to fight back.  Any other woman would be too concerned with landing little ol' me to consider insulting me.  The Spicer, clearly, did not care.  At all.

It was equal parts frightening and reassuring.

Just like that, the Spicer started walking away.  I wondered briefly about what sound those large, taloned feet would make but the sounds of commerce were too loud.  I waited until she was out of earshot before muttering, "And just how will I even find you again?" while knowing my tone reeked of unmanly sulk.

The Spicer paused on the sidewalk and half turned, the sweep of her tail making a sinuous sine curve of spine and appendage.  "Don't worry, human.  I will find you."  I saw her lips move and I should never have been able to hear her.  Regardless of what the natural world and I thought, the Spicer and her voice had a different opinion.  It was as if she were breathing the words over my shoulder.

She probably saw my eyes widen and my skin drain of color, compliments of the heaped servings of shock she had served me over the course of the past few minutes.  The Spicer turned and kept going to. . . wherever it was she had a mind to go. God himself would likely not stop the likes of that one.

What had I done?

Pound of Flesh

"A girl after my own heart."

She gave a light laugh, the sound shivering around me.

"Of course I'm after your heart.  They're tasty."

It was always difficult to tell if Pim was making a joke of it or not.  There was no obvious evidence that she was serious but one could never be certain.  So many men disappeared these days and I was not keen to be one of them.  That was why I employed her.

'The enemy of my enemy. . . '  And Spicers were just about everyone's enemy, maybe because we didn't understand them.  They were frightening, you never quite knew what they would do.  You never quite knew what they were capable of.  And no one certainly understood half of why they did what they did.

But I knew for certain that I would rather not die or disappear or whatever it was that was happening.  So I employed Pim.  That was months ago and I can still remember the chill that skittered down my spine while I tried to convince Pim to work for me.  How does one convince a Spicer to work for you. . ?  No one knew what they valued, not really.  But we both had known what I had wanted.  I had wanted safety. I had wanted freedom.  And I had been willing to bargain with a Spicer in an attempt to get it, though Pim warned me that there was a possibility that she was not a fool-proof protection (and that I was quite a fool).

"We should probably leave soon, shouldn't we?"  I wanted my freedom, but here I was at an evening tea party.  The tea parties were open to men and to the more elite of our smaller society.  Getting in was difficult for women.  For men, the hard part was getting out.

The look she gave me in response to my question told me beyond a doubt that the Spicer was female.  Only females can manage an expression that informed me that I was so daft that she was surprised I could breathe without detailed instruction.

Of course, Pim had emphathically informed me that I seem to be incapable of following instructions.  I couldn't say she's wrong; neither could my mother.