Hero Complex (My Dark and Fearsome Queen x1)

By Sean O'Hara

In a stunning debut that has been described as, "Philip K. Dick meets The Gilmore Girls" and "an action rollercoaster full of mind-shattering ideas," Sean O'Hara delivers an emotional powerhouse that's sure to be one of the best remembered fantasy novels of the -- hey, stop skimming! Look, we all know the first paragraph in a publisher's synopsis is a load of laudatory drivel that's designed to make every crappy novel sound like Tolstoy, but you know, someone worked really hard on this drivel. This is more than just boilerplate. You have no idea how many hours it took to get a critic drunk enough to compare this book to Philip K. Dick. And you're going to skim to the plot synopsis?

Fine. That's the way you feel. This is the story of Erik Schumacher, an Ordinary Teenage BoyTM who's drafted into his high school's drama club after all the guys in the club mysteriously quit. He has no acting experience, but he has the two traits the girls in the club are looking for—namely he's a guy and he has a really cute butt. And what guy wouldn't want to be in a club with a dozen beautiful girls?

But strange things are afoot in the drama club, and Erik soon realizes that the fate of the world rests in his -- wait, really? This sounds like an incredibly stupid anime with squeaky-voiced girls who all have preposterously colored hair, and you have absolutely no desire to watch it, but you're trying to get with this cute girl who's really into it, so you sit there all night and you want to tear your eyes out, but you don't dare say anything that might offend the girl, but when the show's finally over she just kicks you out without so much as a--

The publisher would like to apologise for the fault in the synopsis. Those responsible have been sacked. Also, we are currently looking for a copywriter. All applicants are welcome. No experience needed. We accept trained monkeys. We'll even consider an untrained one. Disgraced Congressmen. Anyone. Please apply.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pulp Electronique
• Release date: Sep 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311952875

Book preview

THE FIRST CHAPTER

one year later

Hey!

...

Hey, you!

?

Yeah, you!

I don’t know if you’ve ever had a girl shout at you in the middle of a library, but let me tell you—pleasant experience it is not. School’s over for the day, so the place is mostly empty, but mostly still means a dozen people are staring at me as I turn around to face the girl. Why are they looking at me? Shouldn’t they be focused on the crazy lady who’s standing on a table waving her arms about like she’s trying to fly?

There are two other girls at the table. One I think I recognize from my Spanish class, but I can’t tell because she has her head down in embarrassment and all I can see is a huge bush of black hair. The other is a petite girl with glasses and a pageboy cut whom I don’t know, though I’ve passed her in the hall hundreds of times. Her slight build makes her look like a freshman, but her face is more mature than that, like a junior or a senior. She’s staring up at the crazy girl with a smooth, dispassionate expression, as though watching something that doesn’t affect her at all.

As for Little Miss Crazy Lady, she’s now pointing at me. Wanna be in a play?

Um. What?

A play! A play! The play’s the thing!

Uh-huh. I back away. If there’s one thing movies have taught me, it’s never trust anyone who randomly quotes Shakespeare.

We need a man to be our sex symbol!

Put an ad on Craigslist.

C’mon, you have a cute butt. It’ll look great on stage.

What sort of play is this? No, not a play. This is how cults recruit people. I bet they got Tom Cruise the same way. They start by saying you have a nice ass, then a couple quaaludes later you’re sacrificing a virgin to Baal.

Hey, I’ll have you know I only sacrifice virgins to Baphomet, Little Miss Crazy Lady says.

Not helping your case.

you really should join, the girl with glasses says in a flat, affectless voice that makes her sound like an e e cummings poem.

The curly one lifts her head from the table—yeah, she’s definitely in my Spanish class—and says, She’s not going to stop until you say yes.

Believe it or not, I don’t actually find that a persuasive argument.

I turn and try to walk away, but Little Miss Crazy Lady materializes in front of me.

C’mon, it’ll be fun. You know you want to.

I know no such thing.

She grabs me by the arm. You’ll be the only guy in the club.

I wonder why.

I pull away from her grip and dart around a table.

She blocks my way again. How did she move that fast? The tables in here are packed tight and she’s less than skinny. Imagine—you’ll have a dozen beautiful girls all to yourself.

Tempting, but I’ll pass.

I retreat towards the shelves but I only get a few steps before another figure appears in front of me.

It would be much easier on all of us if you went along with her, the girl with the curly hair says.

I’m sure it would, but I believe ad astra per aspera.

I dodge around another table and make it into the stacks, but before I get even halfway down an aisle, a figure looms ahead of me—which is pretty impressive considering she’s all of five feet six.

The glasses girl stands there, hands and feet wide apart to block my way. I could get past her easily enough—it’s not like she’s a linebacker—but I really don’t wanna bowl over a girl. I stop and stare at her. She stares back.

You’re not going to tempt me? Make a veiled threat?

... she says.

C’mon, at least tell me resistance is futile or something like that.

... resistance... is futile...

Whoa yeah. Cansei de ser sexy. Have you ever considered wearing a dominatrix outfit?

Ow!

Little Miss Crazy Lady knocks me upside the head. Stop sexually harassing your clubmates.

Before I can point out that I haven’t, in fact, joined any club, she wraps her arms around my waist and hefts me into the air.

Excuse me, didn’t you just say something about not sexually harassing people?

If I were sexually harassing you, I’d do something like this.

I let out a high-pitched squeak like a drunken gerbil.

What, precisely, do you think you’re doing? This is a new voice, loud and authoritative. At first I assume it to be the librarian, but, no, she’s sitting at her desk watching the whole situation bemused. No, this voice comes from a girl who’s just entered the library. She’s tall—she’d come to my shoulders, and I know guys on the basketball team who don’t do that—and pale and dressed all in black—not in a goth sorta way, mind you; this is more stylish, designer jeans and a babydoll shirt. She also looks like she could whip the butts of everyone present, serially or concurrently.

Little Miss Crazy Lady drops me on the table and smiles like a cat who’s delivered a dead rat at its master’s feet. I’ve found a new recruit!

Stop making shit up.

The new arrival eyes me. Her gaze is considerably more discomfiting than the dozen pair of eyes already on me. I feel like a sow that’s being judged at a country fair—and the judge isn’t overly impressed. Is this the best you can do?

He’s perfect, Little Miss Crazy Lady says.

he has a cute ass. The glasses girl joins us at the table.

That is hardly a basis for recruitment, the new girl says.

I quite agree.

And it’s not that cute. We can do far better.

Hey!

He’ll do, the curly haired girl says.

The new girl scowls at me like this is all my fault. Very well. Take a seat.

Ah, what the hell. Arguing with them in the middle of the library is only drawing more attention. Might as well humor them for now. Not like I have anywhere to be.

Awesome, Little Miss Crazy Lady says as I sit down. I’m Liz by the way. This is Liz, she says pointing to the glasses girl, and that, she gestures towards the curly haired girl, is Liz. So who the hell are you?

Erik. Schumacher.

Too confusing. How ‘bout we call you Liz instead? Crazy Liz says.

How about we don’t, the new girl says. For clarity’s sake, we refer to them by last name, Ryder, Dash, and Strode. She points to Crazy Liz, Glasses Liz and Curly Liz respectively.

How about you?

I am Lucretia.

Fitting.

"You may call me Jensen."

Sure it’s not Borgia?

You are on the list.

Cool, I hear people on the list get half off Thursdays.

Do you want me to kill you?

Jensen it is.

Good boy. Now fill out this form. She hands me a printout.

I pick it up expecting it to ask basic stuff like name, grade, and contact info, but what I find is more like an application for a security clearance. Mother’s maiden name? Allergies? Previous addresses?

Well, nothing to it but to fill it out with the seriousness it deserves. I set to writing my name in the appropriate space, last, first, middle initial.

So what’s with the press-gang?

The girls exchange uncomfortable looks.

AGE: 16.02 

there was... trouble, Dash says, with our fall production. all the upperclassmen quit.

Including all the guys, Strode says.

Which is why we need a sexy stud-muffin for our play, Ryder says.

We don’t need him, Jensen says. Girls can play guy parts perfectly fine. Ritu’s already said she’s willing to do it.

SEX: yes, please 

What happened?

More glances.

We don’t talk about it, Jensen says.

EYES: 2 

Sounds scandalous.

It wasn’t, Jensen says.

HEIGHT: 4 1/4 cubits 

Oh, of course not.

It’s best if you don’t mention the subject to our president.

I figured she was the president. I nod towards Ryder.

BIRTHPLACE: Fenwickstein 

No, she’s the vice president in charge of recruitment.

A task to which she is eminently well suited.

Indeed, Jensen says.

Thank you! Ryder’s sarcasm detector is apparently in severe need of calibration.

My eyes meet Jensen’s and I can see she, like me, is struggling not to make a cutting remark. For a moment we come precipitously close to a having bonding moment, but I avert my eyes before the sappy music can start playing.

SIBLINGS:

I hesitate for a moment, then jot, none.

But don’t slack off because you found one recruit. We don’t know if he’ll pass the audition, Jensen says.

Aye aye, sir, Ryder snaps a salute that looks like she learned it from bad Hollywood movies.

he will perform satisfactorily, i'm sure, Dash says.

Your confidence inspires me.

I put the finishing touches on the form (Previous place of residence: Womb, mother’s belly, June 1997-February 1998) and slide it across to Jensen. She spins it around to read over. Her lips get tighter and whiter at every line. She finishes. She looks up. I smile. She doesn’t.

Very well, she says and stands. Continue your recruiting efforts, please, she tells the other girls. "We want to give the director as many options to choose from as possible."

He'll be awesome, with a side of chocolate, Ryder says.

Nonetheless. And then, You, come with me.

It occurs to me at this instant that this would be an excellent opportunity to escape—not like Jensen would stop me—but I really don’t have anything better to be doing right now, nor indeed any other time after school, so I decide to go along and see what happens next. Though decide suggests that I actually put some thought into what I’m doing. Better to say, I didn’t decide not to go along. It’s sorta like I’m sitting on the couch watching TV, too lazy to grab the remote from the coffee table and change the channel. Except, y’know, it’s my life and not a TV show.

I follow Jensen down the hall. We’re passing the English department when I notice—hey, shouldn’t we’ve gone down those stairs back there?

Why?

Well, that’s the staircase that comes out next to the auditorium.

Yes, and?

Aren’t you taking me to audition?

Yes.

Then... shouldn’t we be going to the auditorium?

No.

Okay, then, where are we going?

As if in answer, Jensen stops in front of the elevator. Huh, isn’t this reserved for handicapped students?

Don’t worry, I have a key. She puts her backpack on the floor and digs inside. Her hand comes out clutching a huge key-ring, the kind janitors carry.

Ah, well, that makes it okay then.

After a few seconds of searching, she selects a key and sticks it in the elevator panel, twists it to the left and presses the call button. With classes over for the day, you’d think the elevator would arrive quickly, but it seems the school only invested enough money to make the place handicapped accessible, not to give them a speedy ride.

We stand there waiting for what seems an eternity. The whole time I keep looking down the corridor, wondering how much trouble we’ll be in if a teacher finds us using the elevator. Well, if that happens, I’ll disclaim any knowledge and blame Jensen. They are her keys after all.

Ding. The doors part at last. We could’ve walked wherever we’re going in the time it took the elevator to get here.

As Jensen steps inside, she hits the button for... the roof?

Yes. The elevator lurches upward with a disturbing rattle.

So... why?

We don’t actually have an adviser right now, so we aren’t allowed to use the auditorium.

I’m pretty sure the roof is even more off limits.

Yes, but nobody ever goes up to the roof. Music teachers are in and out of the auditorium all the time.

Ah, well, as long as you have such sound logic on your side.

The elevator’s rattle grows into an outright rumble, and I can feel the car trying to sway in the shaft. I wish this thing had an oh-shit handle like a car, but the only thing to grab onto in here is Jensen, and she looks likely to kick me through the door if I try.

The elevator comes to a halt with a thunk that nearly knocks us off our feet. We stagger out into a little access shed that protects the elevator’s workings from the elements. A half dozen buckets of paint are stacked in one corner, and an extension ladder leans against the wall—though looking at it, it’s too big to fit in the elevator so I don’t know how the maintenance men get it down. The shed’s double doors are propped open with wooden blocks, and a chill March wind makes the room feel like a meat locker. I wish I had my jacket.

A half dozen girls are gathered at the edge of the roof, sipping from various canned drinks while leaning against the low brick parapet like models in a casual wear ad. Except none of them are dressed in Abercrombie and Fitch.

There’re two, a pair of twins, Filipina I guess, wearing kinda retro grunge/punk outfits—torn jeans, black T-shirts (one Fugazi, the other Pearl Jam). Actually, apart from a couple accessories—a wallet chain, a leather wristband—they aren’t dressed any differently from me, but whereas I look like I threw on whatever I pulled out of my dresser this morning, they have an aesthetic ethos about them. One of the twins has cotton-candy pink hair, the other dark purple.

Next to them stands a girl who looks like a china doll: raven black hair falling around her porcelain white face in perfect little ringlets, and decked out in an elaborate goth-Victorian dress, all lace and frills. Does she even go to this school? I’m sure I would’ve noticed her if she did.

She’s talking to a girl in a long tweed coat who gives off the air of one of those fast-talking dame reporters in old screwball comedies. Sitting on the ledge between them is a petite, fragile looking girl, a Disney princess type with chestnut hair that hangs to her shoulders.

But none of them stands out as much as the girl who is standing, arms folded, to one side, her long flaxen hair done up in a pair of twintails that wave dramatically in the wind. I’m sure there are movie directors who spend hours setting up wind machines to get the same effect that she manages so casually. As Jensen and I come out of the shed, this girl gives us an enigmatic smile, like she’s finally realized how she’s going to defeat an army of vampires that’s trying to destroy the world. Gotta say, kinda creepy.

Jensen strides over to her with a metronomic military gait that reminds me of my father. I amble to the middle of the roof and stop, far enough from the edge that I have the illusion that I’m not four stories up. If I stay here, I can handle this. I stand with hands in pocket and regret my choice to wear a T-shirt today.

Jensen and Twintails confer for a moment, going over the form I’d filled out. Jensen shakes her head a lot; Twintails nods. Finally, Mr. Shoemaker? Twintails looks up.

It’s [ˈʃuːmaxɐ].

Very well, Mr. [ˈʃuːmaxɐ]. Would you be so kind as to recite us a poem?

A poem?

Yes.

Off the top of my head?

We need to hear your voice and how you project. Anything will do. A single verse is fine. She pulls a cellphone from her pocket and holds it up like she’s going to take a photo.

Very well, then.

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,:

And the mome raths outgrabe.

Marvelous, the porcelain doll says and makes a genteel clap.

Good volume, the pink haired girl says.

Yes, Twintails says. She fiddles with her phone’s screen for a second. Liz, would you stand next to him.

The demure girl hops off the parapet and comes over to me. She’s quite short, the top of her head level with my lowest rib, and I feel like Dorothy in Munchkinland next to her. She's kinda cute, I suppose, but she looks too... I dunno, pure for my taste. Too much like the daughter on an old '50s sitcom, all goodness and obedience.

Twintails snaps a picture of us, stares at the screen for a moment then shakes her head in disapproval. No, no, no.

I'm sorry, the demure girl says and heads back to the group.

Liz, you stand next to him.

The girl in the tweed coat comes forward. Heya, she says and throws an arm over my shoulder. She’s only half a head taller than the other Liz, but her poise makes her feel much closer to my height.

Excellent. Twintails holds up the phone for another picture. Turn towards each other. Now give each other looks of smoldering passion.

Tweedy Liz twines her fingers behind my neck and pulls my head down until it’s mere inches from her face and all I can see are her muddy brown eyes. Our bodies are tight against each other, her breasts pressing into me, her warm breath on my neck. This is my first experience with drama and I’m really kinda liking it.

Yes, that’s it. [ˈʃuːmaxɐ], grab her by the shoulders. I want you to look like you’re about to tear her clothes off.

I raise my hands, hesitate. I don't even know this girl. Is it really okay to touch her like that? My hands tremble as I grab Tweedy Liz by the shoulders, my fingers sinking into her coat as part of me expects her to pull away, to scream that I’m assaulting her. But instead she lifts a leg and hooks it around my knee. My leg gives out and we sink towards the ground.

Superb improvisation, Twintails says.

I think this has gone far enough, Jensen says.

Tweedy Liz and I are both on our knees, arms around each other. Her head moves towards mine and before I know what’s happening, our lips are touching. She has flavored lip-gloss—cherry to be exact—and I can tell she had nacho chips for lunch. Her tongue slides across my lips. She eases me back towards the asphalt, her body following mine down, her weight pressing down onto me. I’m starting to wonder what kind of script this is when Twintails announces, Very good. That will suffice.

Tweedy Liz stops on a sudden. Her arms let go of me and I collapse onto the rooftop. Great work, she says as she stands up. She takes out a compact to check her makeup and fix her hair.

You too. Very believable.

I struggle back to my feet, hoping like hell nobody notices the bulge in my jeans right now.

Wow, Liz, that was amazing, the purple haired twin says.

Yeah, I could totally believe you’re a slut, her sister says.

Thank you!

Now then, Twintails says, Lucretia.

What? Jensen says.

You’re next.

What?

Stand next to him, please.

Jensen stalks towards me, giving me the evil eye. Don’t get any ideas, she says as she takes position next to me.

Yes, that looks great, Twintails says, snapping a photo. Turn towards each other.

We do.

Show me some passion.

We stand there. Jensen glares at me, which makes it absolutely impossible for me to muster anything resembling passion.

Whoa, the pink haired girl says.

"I haven’t seen such intensity since Rudolph Valentino and Gloria Swanson were in Beyond the Rocks," the porcelain doll says.

That is amazing, Demure Liz says.

No way we can compete with that, Tweedy Liz says.

Grab her by the shoulders, [ˈʃuːmaxɐ], like before.

I hesitate.

Do what she says, Jensen tells me, though the look on her face makes me think I’d be better off running for the next county. Nonetheless, I reach up and grab her by the shoulders, pulling her against me.

That better be a roll of pennies in your pocket, she whispers in my ear.

Quarters, actually.

Common courtesy is, you get a girl drunk before trying to convince her of that.

Fantastic, Twintails says. Now pull him down, Lucretia.

That’s not part of the script!

Disappointed groans go up from the audience.

Very well, then, I suppose this shall do.

Jensen pulls away, stalks back to Twintails’ side.

Twintails works her fingers across her phone for a few seconds, stops to read something, then looks up. Now, according to Liz’s notes, you have a very fine ass. Could you please demonstrate this talent for us?

You wouldn’t really call that a talent, now would you?

However you classify it, it’s a necessary portion of the casting process.

I highly doubt that.

It really isn’t, Jensen says while rubbing her head like she has a migraine.

Something creaks behind me. I spin around expecting to see a teacher coming up to ask what the hell we’re doing—well, at least she didn’t come up five minutes ago when me and Tweedy Liz were on the ground—but instead I find a girl standing atop the elevator shed, her cellphone pointing right at me. Her hair is cropped short in a pixie cut and she has on boyish clothes such that, if not for the swell of her chest, I would’ve mistaken her for a guy. Her skin is a dark teak, could be Arab, Persian, Indian. Got him, she says and flicks her fingers at the phone screen.

A moment later a half dozen cell phones start chiming with incoming messages. When I turn, back all the girls save Jensen have their phones out.

Mmm, the purple haired girl says.

I would most like to spread marmalade on that, the porcelain doll says.

I’d rather slap some baloney on it, the pink haired girl says. What does that even mean?

Save as wallpaper, Tweedy Liz says.

IT’S NOT THAT NICE! Jensen says. Thank you! No, wait...

Yes, exactly as Liz described, Twintails says.

She has great taste, Demure Liz says.

Don’t mind them. A voice comes from over my shoulder. I twist my head to see the pixie girl standing behind me. They’ll be over this in a week—less if Ryder picks up any more cute recruits.

We can only hope. Jensen joins us. I hope the director’s okay with how this is going.

I thought Twintails was director. She’s certainly running things.

Enmity? the pixie girl says. Nah, she loves acting too much. She could never direct.

So where is the director?

Oh, she’s around somewhere. The pixie girl’s phone chirps. Speaking of. She glances at the screen. Yup, she wants some line readings. Oi, Enmity, where’re the scripts?

Bring forth the scripts, Twintails—Enmity—shouts.

Demure Liz scrambles forward with two thick sheafs of paper, photocopies by the look of them. She hands one to me and one to Jensen.

"Why do I have to do this?" Jensen says.

You have such good chemistry with him, pixie girl says.

Don’t you start too.

Pixie girl ignores her. Take it from page ninety-two. Schumacher, you read Haversham, Lucy, you’re Emma.

We both flip through our scripts until we find the spot.

You picked this on purpose, didn’t you? Jensen says.

Me? Never. Pixie girl points her phone at us in a way that I infer means she’s recording this. Jensen sticks up her middle finger and jams it right in front of the lens while her other hand holds up the photocopy so she can read.

EMMA

Oh, Charles, please tell me you’re uninjured.

HAVERSHAM

Don’t fret, dear Emma, the Boche’s shot missed me clean.

EMMA

That is a fine relief. I could not bear the thought of being separated from you. If you should die, I would go to the cliffs and—

HAVERSHAM

Say it not. A light so beautiful as you should not be snuffed out like a candle at midnight.

EMMA

But Charles, so many candles have been snuffed out all over Europe. Even here on our blessed isle of Albion, the barbarous Hun rains death upon us with the indiscriminance of a child hurling mud against a wall.

HAVERSHAM

That is why we must fight on, even should the whole of the free world seek the vain safety of neutrality—England alone shall persevere, or the whole world shall writhe under Hitler’s iron heel.

EMMA

Oh, Charles, so brave and stolid.

That’ll do. Pixie girl touches her screen and then slides the phone into her pocket. Good job on ya both. She’s fighting back a snicker.

Wait, seriously, this is the play we’re doing? I close my script and hand it back to Demure Liz.

Indeed it is. Jensen doesn’t seem any more enthused than I am.

Best we could find that meets our criteria, pixie girl says.

And what, pray-tell, is that?

Well, the cast has to be mainly female, and the royalties within our budget.

Which is?

If, Enmity says, we succeed in blackmailing our adviser into rejoining us, we should get approximately a hundred dollars from the school.

A Franklin? That’s it?

Indeed, Jensen says.

Don’t you have, like, a treasury? Money from the ticket sales of your last play?

We do not talk about it, every girl on the roof says in unison with much solemn shaking of heads.

We... could do a fundraiser, Demure Liz says after a moment. Like a bake-sale or a—

Don’t say it, Jensen says.

—carwash.

Now there’s an idea. Middle-aged pervos are always looking to get their cars waxed by hot young—oof!

Jensen elbows me in the ribs. Yes, we could also rob a bank, she says.

Ooo, I like that, the pink-haired twin says.

Our dad has some guns we could borrow, her violet haired sister says.

I dunno, I think the carwash is better, Demure Liz says.

I quite agree.

Death glare from Jensen, no surprise. We are on the roof, you realize?

Do I look like Jacopo de’ Pazzi to you, Lucretia?

That was the de Medicis, and besides defenestration requires a window.

Then I guess I’m safe.

Do you want me to—

Wow, the belligerent sexual tension here is unbelievable, the pink haired twin says.

So much passion boiling under the surface, it sets me aquiver, the elegant porcelain doll says.

Sex on the floor! Sex on the floor! Tweedy Liz chants.

I’ve never seen such an obvious example of an ‘OTP’, the purple haired twin says.

I-I think I’m going to go home and write a fanfic about them, Demure Liz says.

Ooo, send it to me when you’re done, pixie-cut says.

"Et tu, Ritu?" Jensen says.

Can’t help it. I got a thing for kill-kill-kiss-kiss romances.

Can you really call it fanfic if it’s about real people?

Of all the things wrong with this discussion, that’s not even in the top ten, Jensen says.

Don’t worry, I’ll post it on Facebook when I’m done, Demure Liz says.

Please don’t.

Enmity raises her hand and the group immediately falls silent. Hear me, and hear me well, she says with all the gravitas of Charlton Heston getting ready to smash the Ten Commandments. There shall be no spawning in this club without my permission.

Thank you for settling that, Jensen says amid groans from the rest of the group.

However, I recognize that unresolved sexual tension is a poison to group dynamics, so I hereforthwith order you, Lucretia, to throw [ˈʃuːmaxɐ] to the ground and ravish him with great force.

Moderate force would be acceptable.

How about, ‘no’? Jensen says.

Yeah, I’m gonna have to agree.

If that is your choice, then so be it, but I must warn you: men are fickle beasts. If you do not ensnare him soon, his affection will surely wander.

Objection, your honor. I would needs have affection for her before it could wander.

Let it wander, if there’s any woman foolish enough to take it.

The twins squee.

That’s so romantic, Demure Liz says. Like Princess Leia calling Chewbacca a walking carpet.

I definitely don’t want you writing fanfic about me.

Our very own Beatrice and Benedick, the porcelain doll says.

‘I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me,’ Jensen says, but that only encourages them.

‘What, my dear Lady Disdain. Are you yet living?’

And that don’t do anything but make matters worse. Thankfully we’re saved by the bell—or, more accurately, by the opening strains of Pink Floyd’s Brain Damage from Enmity’s cell.

Yes? ... Understood, I’ll send her right down. She hangs up. Liz has located another recruit.

Hopefully he’s better than the last one, Jensen says.

Oh, she wounds me. How she wounds me, how she cuts me to the soul.

I’ll go and fetch him at once.

Very well. You may go as well, Enmity tells me. We shall have a read through tomorrow. Make sure you are here.

If I don’t find anything better to do, sure.

If you do not come, my minions shall hunt you down and harvest your organs for stew meat.

Okay then, I’ll be here.

By the time I reach the elevator, Jensen is already inside and the doors are closing.

Hold it!

She doesn’t hold it. I dash forward and get my arm in before it slides shut. Jensen scowls at me as the door retracts and I step inside. I hit the button for the ground floor.

...

...

Do you have a car?

Don’t even have a learners.

I can give you an activity bus pass.

I thought teachers were supposed to give those out?

They are. I have some anyway.

I see, like that nice set of keys. Nah, I’ll walk. My house isn’t far.

Very well then. The car jolts to a halt. The door has barely opened a crack when Jensen slips through. See you tomorrow.

That remains to be seen. I’m not sure I can survive being surrounded by such a bunch of nutjobs, no matter how cute some of them are. Maybe if Jensen weren’t around I could tolerate it, but I don’t much fancy spending however many months it takes to rehearse a play listening to her disparage me. Especially if it turns out, as is quite likely, that I suck. Probably better to duck out now than disappoint them later. It’s not like Enmity’s threat was real.

Still, I really don’t have anything to do after school. Homework doesn’t take that long, I’m not much into TV and I can only surf Wikipedia for so many hours before I start feeling pathetic. So it’s either drama club or sit at home all broody and reading. I’ve been doing that for six months or more and it’s getting old. Probably not the best reason to join a club, especially one that’s undertaking such a major project, but hey, if they’re willing to put up with me, I might as well go along with them. I’ll have to be careful they don’t get too close, don’t start asking all those awkward questions about my family, but having people to socialize with will be a nice change. Better than pretending the waitresses at the Foxtrot are my friends because they smile at me.

I get out on the first floor and head to my locker for my coat, an old field jacket I’d picked up at a yard-sale in Japan. As I put it on, I realize I never did get a book from the library, which had been the whole point of me staying after. Well, it’s still only three-thirty. The old man won’t be home until seven even if he is on time—ha!—which gives me several hours to kill.

Mr. Bevins, the security guard, gives me a suspicious look as I walk out the lobby, like there’s something inherently wrong with a student being on campus after classes end. I nod and give him a wave. Outside, a couple freshmen are skateboarding around the bus loop, practicing moves with the clumsy earnestness of kids convinced they’ll get laid if they can master a couple simple tricks. I bet at least one of them owns a guitar and is learning the opening bars to Smells Like Teen Spirit. It’s sorta mandatory for douchebags.

Instead of heading out the main gate, I cut around the athletic fields, secretly laughing at the poor fools on the lacrosse and soccer teams who are out here in the chill of March in shorts and jerseys. The baseball team is on the diamond, but at least they have sense enough to wear uniforms fit for the weather. I pass behind the backstop and into the bushes that line the perimeter fence. From the field, it looks like a solid wall of brush, but if you know where to go, there’s a beaten path that leads to a gap in the fence.

A couple guys in my gym class had shown me this place one day after I mentioned that I wished I could skip out on touch-football. They’re a couple stoners who like to sneak into the woods to smoke-up, and they invited me to tag along even though I don’t toke myself.

I hadn’t lied when I told Jensen my house was close by, but it wasn’t precisely the truth, either. If I stick to the streets, it’s about five miles home—have to walk all the way out to 331, go down half a mile, and then trek through three miles of subdivisions. But when I’d first moved here and explored the area with Google Maps, I’d noticed that my house was less than a mile from the school as the crow flies like they say in crappy fantasy novels. Once I’d been introduced to the back entrance, it had only required a Saturday’s worth of exploration to find a direct route. I’d initially marked the way by tying orange ribbons to tree branches, but by now the path is well worn from use.

But that’s not all. This patch of woods is a bubble of nature in the midst of suburban sprawl, undeveloped because a rock quarry lies in the center. I’ve found a number of shortcuts, not just to school but to the mall, the Foxtrot Diner, and the West Port Shopping Center. Very handy for a loser like me with no car.

Even when I have no reason to go anywhere, I'll come out here and wander about while listening to music on my phone. Nice and relaxing. There’s not much in the way of wildlife in these woods, mainly squirrels and sparrows with an occasional rabbit—and not even that at this time of year—but I enjoy the stillness.

Though I haven't had much chance to appreciate it lately. A couple winter storms last month had rendered my paths impassable—even after the snow melted, the whole forest was nothing but a mud bog. Even today, not a trace of snow or ice on the ground, my shoes squelch in the soggy earth as I walk, and I spy small pools of water off to the sides.

So far as I know, I’m the only person who ever comes out here—there are some kids in my development who’ll venture into the fringes of the woods, but never very deep; nor do the stoners at school ever go much past the fence, and the quarry workers have no reason to come this far out, either. It’s just me and the squirrels.

And yet...

I turn.

The woods behind me are empty, the bare trees providing a clear view all the way back to the fence.

I keep walking. A little ways on, where my route has to dogleg past the high earthen berm that separates the quarry from the rest of the forest, there’s a tree, a stunted and gnarled elm that’s been canted by a winter storm, half its roots ripped out of the ground. I dislike passing under it, afraid it’s going to topple onto me one of these days. But it’s not like I have access to a chainsaw or even an axe to chop it down. Nor can I easily go around as there are thickets on either side, and I’d have to scout a whole new path. When it finally does fall, it’ll be easy enough to climb over, but in its current state that’s a no-go. Under is the only option.

I check behind me again. Nothing but barren trees against a pale cerulean sky. Why would there be anything else?

And yet...

I scan the forest again. Nada. But when I turn away, I feel as though someone’s standing inches from my back, so close I can almost feel their breath on my neck.

And yet...

There’s nothing back there except my imagination.

I place my hand on the trunk and push, but it remains firmly in place. Doesn’t look like it’ll kill me today. I duck low and pass underneath, my backpack scraping against the bark. As I rise up on the other side, I give yet another look behind me. Still nothing. The forest is empty.

And yet...

And yet...

And yet...

And yet I can’t shake this damned feeling that somebody’s watching me.

And yet every time I start walking, I feel a gaze upon my back like a heavy shadow.

And yet I’m sweating even though it’s only in the forties.

I call out. Who’s back there?

No answer. Not even the cawing of a crow.

I hurry on, following the base of the berm a couple dozen yards before peeling off onto a new path, this one leading downhill at a shallow but noticeable grade. The ground out here is muddier, gouged with runnels from melting snow that come together occasionally to form stagnant puddles that, come summer, will be teeming with mosquitoes. I walk as fast as I dare through this muck, but I still feel the strange eyes at my back. I force myself not to look behind.

A low hum spreads through the air, the thrum of dozens of industrial-grade HVAC systems churning away. The woods don’t thin out but simply