Rob Thurman: Roadkill

Copyright © Robyn Thurman, 2010

To my mom, who suggested I give my old dream of writing a go. If I become a victim of artistic Darwinism, I blame her. Also to Lisa Powell, DVM, for her invaluable assistance in canine diseases versus lycanthrope diseases and for her wonderful treatment of my own pack all these years; to Shannon-best friend, designated driver for SDCC, and undesignated photographer of a night that would live in infamy… if I could remember it; to my patient editor, Anne Sowards; to the infallible Cam Dufty, whom I miss still; to Brian McKay (ninja of the dark craft of copywriting); to Agent Jeff Thurman of the FBI for the usual weapons advice; to the incomparable art and design team of Chris McGrath (an art god ) and Ray Lundgren; Lucienne Diver, who astounds me in the best possible way at every turn; great and lasting friends Michael and Sara; and to Mara-keep those books coming. And last but never least, to Tasha-you made my life a living hell, and it was worth every minute of it. I will miss you always.

I’d died six months ago.

Sounds dramatic, doesn’t it? I’d died.

Only I hadn’t, not really.

I’d lain spread-eagle in our apartment in a pool of blood that no amount of rug cleaner would get out. My eyes were dull and blank as they stared at the ceiling. My gun was still in my hand, but it hadn’t done me much good, despite the dead monsters around me. I liked to think I’d taken a few with me.

I hadn’t seen it, of course, any of it, but it was what I imagined… with a little help of the rug that Niko, my brother, had ripped to shreds with his knife and thrown outside into the hall. And I’d seen my share of dead people, so it helped with the details. Yeah, I pictured it in great if not necessarily accurate detail even though I hadn’t actually seen it.

But Niko had.

Six months later and my brother still wouldn’t tell me if I was on the money with my description. I think telling me would’ve made the memory of the hypnosis- induced illusion worse, sharper. I knew it had seemed completely real to him then, and even now, half a year later, I caught him once in a while looking at me as if he couldn’t believe I was genuinely there, truly alive.

Too bad having little brothers with half monster genes didn’t come with mental health coverage. Pretty goddamn unfair to Niko, all things considered. And with the life we’d lived, those “all things” would make horror movies look like kiddie cartoons. Demon-driven deductibles-they were a bitch.

But since I hadn’t died in reality and Niko was faced every morning with half-dried toothpaste in the sink, wet towel on the floor, dirty dishes on the kitchen counters, and a trail of clothes from my bedroom to the bathroom, I think the memory faded bit by bit. And that must’ve been one helluva relief, because he didn’t bitch about my über- slobbiness. He simply washed out the sink, hung up the towel, did the dishes, and tossed my clothes back in my room and closed the door. So a relief for him, but kind of a worry for me, because that wasn’t Nik-not in any shape or form.

Niko had raised me from birth. And he’d been on my ass since birth as well. Okay, a bit of an exaggeration, but close enough. Pick up your clothes, do your home-work, stop drawing cheat notes on your arm, eat your vegetables, quit trying to make out the porn through the scrambled gray zigzag lines. I was in my twenties now, so it was a little different. Run your five miles in the morning. Spar two hours in the afternoon. Study up on how to kill F through H in the Mythological Creature Compendium . Quit trying to make out the porn through the scrambled gray zigzag lines.

Well, some things never changed. And porn channels were expensive.

Niko had come a long way in those six months, although through all of them he would wake up in the middle of the night and stand in the doorway to my bedroom, making sure it wasn’t a dream; making sure I was alive. Not that I’d caught him doing it. I didn’t have to. I knew.

The illusion was my brother seeing me dead. The reality was that my brother would’ve torn the world apart if that illusion had been true.

So I wasn’t surprised he stood there night after night. He’d raised me, been with me my entire life. I knew him all right; knew where I would’ve stood if the reverse had been true. And then one morning I woke up and knew that night he hadn’t been in my doorway watching me sleep. How? The same way. I just knew.

And when I walked out into the hall, yawning and stretching to face his frown, that clinched it. “One:”-Niko held up a finger-“Pick up your clothes. I am not your maid. How do I know this? A maid cannot kill you with a tube sock. I can. Two:”-he raised yet another finger-“toothpaste, towel, dishes.”

“All that under ‘two’?” I muttered, bending to pick up a T-shirt off the floor.

“If I do them separately, we’ll be here all day. Some of us have better things to do,” he responded. “Three: I’ve disconnected the cable. You’ll eventually get eye-strain, and fighting creatures of the night while wearing Coke-bottle lenses tends to cut down on your aim and agility.”

“Not to mention my waves of sheer sexuality.” I grinned as I hid my socks probably less casually than I thought under the T-shirt. The sock threat was a familiar one, but it didn’t mean I wouldn’t end up strangled with one someday.

“Four: Stop making me borderline nauseated with what you imagine to be witty repartee.” He stood, dark blond hair pulled back tightly into a braid that hung several inches past his shoulders; it wasn’t the waist-length one that he’d once had, but it was slowly getting there. His olive-skinned arms were folded across a gray T-shirt-not a normal T-shirt of course, but one woven from the wool of the finest assassin-trained sheep, I was sure. Not that Nik was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He was a saber-toothed tiger in sheep’s clothing; a T-rex without that whole if-I-don’t-move-it-can’t-see-me thing. I was half of a creature so malignantly murderous that the entire supernatural world had feared it; yet my brother, who was fully human, could kick my ass ten times out of ten.

All hail Sparta.

“So, no number five?” I asked as I retrieved a pair of wadded-up jeans from the floor.

His eyes, gray, the same color as mine-our whiskey-adoring mother had at least given us that in common-narrowed. “Number five: You’ve been an absolute pain in the ass for the past six months.” The gray lightened and he gave that fleeting quirk of lips that passed for a Niko smile. “Thank you.”

In the past, I would’ve thought to myself that he would’ve been better off actually mourning me those six months; better off if the illusion had been real, if I had died. But not now. My brutally homicidal relatives were extinct-hopefully-after a lifetime of my running from them. They were gone. No more running. No more fear they would kill everyone I cared for. No more possibility that they would take me from this world again to another and do things to me that would make death seem as bright and happy a prospect as a pony at your sixth birthday party.