Melissa Marr: Carnival of Souls

Until she’d met Kaleb, she’d actually worried that something was wrong with her. Her classmates had started talking about boys — or girls — a few years ago, but she was almost seventeen and, until the past month, she’d never had the sort of reactions they all talked about. The forget-your-name nervousness, the racing heart, the why-did-I-say- that —it was as foreign to her as a life without witches… until Kaleb. He made her wish for things that were impossible, for a life that she could never have.

The sound of the cars on the street drew her attention, and her gaze slipped away to check the shadows for threats.

“Mallory?”

“Yes?” Her hand went to the pendant she wore under her blouse. The reasons she shouldn’t see him, the need to see him, the way she’d had to lie to him — thinking about all of that made her feel horrible inside.

“I’m glad I found you,” he said.

He moved in so he stood just a shade closer than could be considered polite, and she wondered what he’d do if she thanked him for evoking the blushworthy thoughts she was having.

She realized that he was watching her expectantly, but she wasn’t able to admit that she was happy to see him too. Instead, she said, “I didn’t expect you.”

“I just got into town,” he said.

She started, “I need to go—”

“Do you want to go somewhere?” he asked at the same time.

They both stopped. She shifted the bag on her shoulder, surreptitiously adjusting the hilt of the knife she wore hidden under her arm. Her jacket concealed it, but sometimes the top of the hilt poked the underside of her bra. That was one of the many things she didn’t want to discuss. So, why are you wearing a knife? She smiled at Kaleb, continuing the imaginary discussion in her mind. In case I need to protect us from monsters… not that I’ve had to fight them yet, but, you know, just in case.

“Mallory?” Kaleb stared at her in that too-intense-for-comfort way he had done since they’d first met a little over a month ago. Everything about him seemed intense though. When he listened to her talk, he acted like what she was saying was really important, even when it was just meaningless chatter about a show she’d watched on television or an article she’d read online. The thrill of being the center of his attention made her want to linger longer, even when she knew that she couldn’t truly date him. Still, she suspected that even a small friendship with Kaleb would be better than dating any other boy.

He gestured away from the tiny downtown where the coffee shop was. “Do you want to walk or something? Even if you only have a few minutes, we could—”

“I can’t,” she interrupted and then silently added, I need to go practice killing things.

The temptation to skip practice crossed her mind, but that would lead to questions from her father, and those would lead to either admitting she’d met someone who interested her enough to skip practice or it would mean lying to her father. Neither of those seemed like very good ideas. But as Kaleb stared at her, frowning in frustration or maybe in confusion, she wished rather desperately that she could lie to her father — or tell Kaleb everything.

Instead, she admitted, “I have practice, and I’m already going to be late. Maybe next time we could do something. If you want to, I mean. I’m not sure if I can then either, but I want to.”

“I’ll ask again,” he promised.

And then she turned and walked away from Kaleb as quickly as she could without seeming like she was running. She hadn’t exactly mentioned that she couldn’t date him, but that was just because there was no way to say it without sounding weird. It wasn’t because she harbored a tiny hope of something more. Really. She smiled to herself. Kaleb wants to see me again.

A SHORT WHILE LATER, Mallory had temporarily forced away thoughts of the beautiful human boy she shouldn’t date and concentrated on the task at hand: proving to her father that she was making progress with the semiautomatic.

“You need to get over it, Mals.” Adam didn’t scowl at her, but the censure was there all the same. “The revolver only has six rounds. Sometimes six won’t be enough.”

She accepted the gun, but it felt wrong in her hands. It always felt wrong. The weight of it didn’t comfort her the way the heavier revolver did.

“They aren’t like humans,” Adam reminded her — unnecessarily. He’d spent most of her life teaching her how to defend herself against daimons. She knew that they were stronger and faster than any human could hope to be. Witches stood more than a fair chance against them, but Mallory wasn’t a witch.

She sighted down on her target, inhaled, held her breath, and squeezed. “Just like taking a picture.”

She’d learned the inverse though: she’d applied firearms lessons to photography, not the other way around. Daimons weren’t scared away by a 35mm camera. A steady aim with a 9mm pistol, on the other hand, could — hopefully — save her life someday. No matter how ready she felt, fear crept over her every time she thought about facing daimons.

“Again,” Adam prompted. “You need to focus. By the time you realize what they are, you’ll need to act fast. They look like us… and like you.”

The pause was slight, but she heard it. Us and you. Her mother wasn’t a witch, and Adam wasn’t her bio-dad, so she wasn’t an us . She also wasn’t really able to be a them . She might be human, but Adam was a witch. That meant she was caught living among the witches, preparing to fight daimons with only a human’s defenses. Sometimes, guiltily, she admitted to herself that this wasn’t the life she wanted. A stray thought of Kaleb flitted through her mind, but she knew without asking her father that he’d never agree to her changing her training or workout schedules so she had time to date.

Steadily, she sighted, fired, and moved to the next target. Then once she reached the end of the row, she worked her way back. Mallory hated the ease with which the semiautomatic discharged bullets. It felt like everything went too quickly, but if the paper targets in front of her were daimons, she knew she’d appreciate that extra speed.

Adam began calling numbers. “Target three, eight, two, one, eight, six.”

As he called them, she aimed and fired. It was an exercise that required reaction and focus. Admittedly, it was easier with the 9mm in her hand, but she still felt tense.

She switched guns, sliding the 9mm into an under-the-arm holster and transitioning to the.357 that she wore in a thigh holster. The familiar weight of it was all she needed to summon that meditative space where the world was reduced to hand-gun-target. She had learned hand-to-hand skills, but her father insisted that most daimons had superior training and more physical strength than a human could counter. She had to be proficient with weapons too. Witches had magic; daimons had physicality; and humans had guns.

She emptied the last chamber in the revolver and glanced at her father. The furrow in his brow said what he didn’t: he wasn’t happy about her switching guns.

“I’m more comfortable with this.” She lowered the barrel so it aimed at the ground.

Adam said nothing as she opened the cylinder and discharged the empty casings. He remained quiet as she pulled six bullets from her jeans pocket and reloaded. When Mallory closed the cylinder, he said, “I should never have bought you that gun. If I’d started you with the nine mil, you wouldn’t use this as a crutch. The revolver was to be a starter, like training wheels.”

She gestured at the targets. “I’m capable with both guns. I just like this one better.”