The Ram: Of Rooks & Rams, #2

By b. berry

Sequel to The Rook.

 

It was just supposed to be a book, born out of a crazed and desperate mind. Just another story. The problem is that it wasn't.

 

Two years ago, Tuesday Olson made a terrible mistake. She was not alone, however. There was Silvermin, who tried to protect them all, and the Rook, who lead them down the dark path. Over time, she convinced herself that the monstrous demon haunting her was a product of her guilty conscience.

 

That was, until another one showed up on her doorstep, irate at the book she created about them.

 

Now, Tuesday must come to terms with the fact that the unnatural creatures are indeed real, and are drawn to her. Her nightmares have come true. They are seeking her out, hungry for revenge and her blood. Her only chance is to pick the least horrible one and hope for the best. Even if the best means she may become the next item on the menu.

 

But it's never that simple. There are forces beyond her, forces unknown to her, working against her. There is a civil war brewing, and she and the ones she has been striving to protect are about to be drawn into it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: B. Berry
• Release date: Jun 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781393634300

Book preview

[this one goes out to Jay, for being my plot confidante, Cole, for indulging me during my writer's block, my mother, for foisting this upon everyone she knew, and my aunt, for introducing it to the lovely kids at her school]

Chapter One:

Cold Water

THIS TIME, IT STARTED with the Ram.

Tuesday had been out of the asylum for a little over a year. The Rook left her alone more once she had left the place, usually only visiting every couple of weeks. It almost convinced her she was on the road back to sanity.

Her psychologist said that the Rook wasn't real, that he never had been. None of them had been real. They were just figments and products of her guilty conscience. She just had to concentrate on that fact and take solace in it.

So then what was the demon who was haunting her, calling her Michael, leaving scars all over her body and psyche?

It had been three weeks since she had last seen the Rook. He had only stopped in to torture her a bit, breaking her bathroom mirror when he had slammed her head against it. The mirror was still broken, and the cuts on her face were mostly healed; how had an invention of her deranged imagination done that?

She sighed and ran a brush through her wet hair. Life was mundane in the real world. She didn't prefer college, the island, or the asylum to it, but it didn't make it any less unpleasant. She could only get part time work with a single year of college education, but thankfully, she could support herself with it. Well, the pay from that, life insurance from her parents, and book sales. The latter two arrived at her doorstep in monthly checks; she didn't know who was managing her finances, but they did it well, and she got by.

There was suddenly a very loud, insistent knocking on her front door. It successfully pulled her from her thoughts and back out into reality once more.

Tuesday scowled and pulled the towel tighter around her. Just a minute! she called down the hall, finishing brushing her hair as she did so. She scrambled for her clothes as the banging continued. Whoever it was—had she been expecting company?—really wanted in.

Was it the Rook?

She pulled a shirt over her head, took one last look at the broken mirror, and trotted down the hall to answer it. She wasn't expecting anyone, at least no one that she remembered. And one didn't get too many unexpected guests when living on the top floor of the apartment building. The knocking intensified—until it stopped altogether.

Tuesday paused in the hallway, gripping the frame of the doorway. Had her guest just left? Why had it stopped? She took a cautious step forward, but she was only greeted by more silence. That was a little alarming. She may have been paranoid, but it didn't mean that it wasn't weird.

Suddenly, her front door flew clean off its hinges. It skidded to a halt in front of her feet. Eyes wide, Tuesday looked up at the silhouette in the doorway.

Though she had never actually seen him before in her life, she recognized him immediately from the Rook's description. Pale curly hair, hazel eyes, and it all came with a glare that could peel paint. "You're Tuesday, then. I'm here to talk about your book," the Ram spat.

She could only stare at him. She didn't even hear him. The Ram, the Ram, the Ram—he was the Rook's nemesis, his enemy, his killer in her story. He was Remington, he was a fake businessman, he was a character in The Rook.

He was real.

Which meant that, by association, the Rook himself was real as well. It hadn't been in her mind. None of it had been in her mind. It hadn't been her mind torturing her; it had been a demon. A real, live demon. She hadn't done all those things to herself like her psychologist told her and scolded her for. The Rook had done them to her. The Rook was real. The Ram was real. Everyone else was real.

Tuesday pitched backward in a dead faint.

THE RAM STARED AT THE suddenly unconscious human. He certainly hadn't been expecting that reaction. He had been expecting—well, he wasn't exactly sure what he had been expecting. He'd never met the girl, and only knew of her from the tiny "Authored By Tuesday Olson" on the corner of the cover of her book.

And yet, she somehow knew of him.

Like most of his species, he had been trying to adapt to living more with humans. There was only so much he could take of his world, after all. It was a wasteland, dead and cold. No one preferred it to the human world, and only the stupid young ones stayed there. It was easier to wear a disguise and a fake smile in the human's world. Of course, it was hard to pretend to be a human when he spotted The Rook and saw a charcoal rendition of his skull staring out at him from the cover.

The local news stations were still trying to figure out who had left the small bookstore in bloody shambles, complete with five corpses inside.

He stared down at the unconscious girl, lying haphazardly in the hallway. Her dark hair was splayed out around her head and her skirt had fallen just above her knees. The Ram's lip curled in disgust. It wouldn't be much fun to kill her while she was out cold. Moreover, he had come there for some actual answers as well, not just slaughter. He wanted to know how she had known of them, of him!

He knew it had to be the Rook's fault—the stupid bird always seemed to have a hand in most catastrophes—but he still wasn't sure how. It was true that he had quieted down in recent years, but then the book came out, and it was starting to gain attention in the human world. Why, why had the stupid bird thought it was a good idea to write a story specifically about them? Of course, he probably was only stroking his own ego, especially placing himself as one of the main characters...

So where did the human called Tuesday Olson fit into all of it?

The Ram sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He went over, picked her up, and dumped her on the couch. He had been half-hoping that the jostling would've woken her, but no such luck. Damn it, the Ram said to no one. She still didn't stir.

He tugged on her hair, even going so far as to pick her up and drop her again, but she really seemed out of it.

Rolling his eyes, he stood up and wandered off to find her kitchen. Cold water woke up humans. That much he knew from his experiences with them. After much rummaging and two broken plates, he managed to locate a glass, fill it with the coldest water he could get the tap to produce, and empty it on her face.

Tuesday bolted upright, coughing and spluttering.

What—?

Nice to see you're awake again, he snapped, sitting down on the arm of the couch. It took a couple moments, but she slowly came to recognize him all over again. He knew she knew what he looked like; the Rook had apparently filled her in on that. His character in the book had answered that for him.

Y-You're the Ram, she told him. Her eyes were impossibly large, reminding him of the Owl's, and a little glassy. He hoped she wouldn't faint again.

Yes, I am. And I believe you owe me an explanation or two.

She tore her gaze away from him. Survival instincts took over, good. She scooted to the far end of the couch, curling up as much as she possibly could, running her hands through the ends of her hair soothingly. The Ram recognized it all as a defensive posture against him, while trying to calm herself down by placing the barrier of her knees between them. It was all too easy to read humans.

I-I don't know what you want, but—

Don't play dumb. You wrote a book about me. He didn't have a copy with him, otherwise he probably would have thrown it at her face. Hard.

I didn't mean to offend you.

Offend me? That's what you think I'm here for?

There was a look in her downcast eyes that told him she wasn't that naïve. The Ram reclined against the couch, tapping his fingers on its back. Tuesday fidgeted at his movement, drawing her knees closer to her chest. No... You're angry and you want to kill me. The Rook won't like that, though, she said, all too obviously hoping that would deter him. Though if the Rook had told him anything about their relationship, she couldn't honestly be that stupid.

He's told you that he and I don't get along.

Yes.

Then you should know I don't give a flying fuck what the Rook thinks. One of the more minor details, minor considering the situation at hand, which had irked him was the fact that she had all of the non-human characters talking so... awkwardly. They really had a better grasp on the human language, including colloquialisms and swearing, than she thought. Or perhaps she was just trying to distance them from humans. Then again, that might've just been him, since he was currently masquerading as an English teacher. While his disguise never ceased to amuse him, right now, it only served to annoy the hell out of him.

Tuesday had withdrawn further into herself. Yes, she repeated.

You better start cooperating with more than 'yes' if you don't want me to start breaking bones, he said in a deceptively light tone. She flinched as though he had just carried out his threat. So she wasn't lying about knowing the Rook, then; she knew what it felt like to get hurt. That was good. It meant that she knew what would happen if she didn't cooperate. The Ram smiled smugly to himself and reclined against the back of the couch. He turned his smile on her, folded his hands over one knee, and asked, How did you come to meet the Rook?

A-A-A shipwreck. An island. I was there. He—He found me, after I-I— She suddenly had the look of a blind person. She looked back and forth sightlessly, trying to find something that was missing. The Ram raised an eyebrow at the behavior. I-I—Michael didn't—I did something bad, an-and the Rook liked it, said I was—was a friend of his, but—

Calm down. The words had an interesting effect on her. She immediately shut up and returned her gaze to him, sitting up straight. Such a well-conditioned animal. The Ram smiled again at this. You're a friend of the Rook's? Sometimes, he forgot how fragile humans were. Since the Rook was currently (still) missing, he couldn't ask him about it. This human was his only link to the truth—and, potentially, the Rook—he couldn't afford to break her just yet. Though it was fun to toe the line.

He calls me his friend. ...That annoyed him more than it probably should have. He—He won't leave me alone.

You're alone right now, he pointed out flatly. No more smiles or cheeriness. The annoyance wouldn't leave, and that only further annoyed him. He took a breath to stop himself from losing his temper.

He checks in on me every few weeks. He keeps tabs on me. Tuesday started fidgeting again, playing with the hem of her shirt. She kept her eyes in his vicinity, though, apparently not daring to fully look away. She really was well-conditioned. He distinctly remembered that the Rook liked eye contact.

Are parts of your story true?

It took an ungodly amount of time for her to answer him. The Ram was starting to lose patience when she finally opened her mouth and said, ...No. I don't think so.

He knew that none of the parts about himself were true, but he was a little curious as to how much the Rook had been up to with her, or if any others had been dragged into it. There was a lot of nonsense in the story, but not all of it was nonsense. That worried him. Did the Rook tell you everything?

No.

No? he repeated, narrowing his eyes at her.

I-I changed the story. A little. The Owl came and told me things to put in.

...You've met the Owl? He hadn't been expecting that, even less than he'd been expecting her to faint. He had thought this entire idea of making a human book about them had been the Rook's idiocy combined with a human's penchant for making ridiculous stories. But if the Owl of all the beings in the world was in on it, it meant that this was worse than he'd feared. It also meant that she was just as crazy as the Rook. Didn't either of them realize what this could do? They were disguised as humans for a reason, and that reason wasn't to be uncovered as the monsters they were.

Once. She came to me in the—the asylum and explained things to me, things the Rook couldn't, Tuesday continued, unaware of his internal strife.

Asylum? The Ram perked up and snapped out of his mental plotting. He had never bothered to find out anything about the human author of that nonsense other than her location. He was unaware that part of the fact her story was so popular lately was because of the circumstances of its creation.

I... I was there, in one. For a little over three years. I'm better now, though! I promise! Tuesday leaned forward, pathetically hopeful. The Ram personally doubted her. She was prone to nervous habits and could hardly speak properly when it concerned certain topics. And he had known her for twenty minutes. It's been a year since I've been released.

When was the book published?

Just after my... stay ended. The compliance and shyness was back. She returned to her corner of the couch. Almost a year ago now.

What about Michael? Does he know anything more? He merely wanted to know how many humans he had to kill for that stupid idea of a book. She recoiled and looked away from him, curling into a ball again. She didn't answer him. Well? he pressed with a frown. She definitely wasn't stable; she was prone to emotional outbursts and withdrawal from his presence at random.

She had that blind look again. Her eyes sought something—perhaps something to comfort her, to stabilize her, or perhaps something for her to latch onto for answers. He'd have to have a talk with whoever was in charge of her mental health. Obviously whoever it was needed a head examination.

The answer to the Ram's question came in the form of a head of black hair peeking into her doorway and calling, Hey, Michael, your door's missing.

The Ram and Tuesday turned in sync to the newcomer. The Ram narrowed his eyes and couldn't help but break out into a grin. Why, Rook. So nice to see you.

Chapter Two:

Road Kill

WHEN THE ROOK FAILED to squawk in terror and run off, the Ram was annoyed.

He was even more annoyed when instead of squawking in terror and running off, he merely sauntered over, vaulted over the back of the couch, and sat in between the two of them.

What the hell do you think you're doing? he couldn't help but demand, letting his irritation seep into his voice. The Rook hardly glanced at him.

I live here.

When you want to, Tuesday added in a low voice, messing with a charm bracelet.

He nodded wonderingly. When I want to, I live here, he amended. He gave the Ram a sly glance. "What are you doing here?" As if he wasn't nervous at all, as if the Ram was just another guest.

That story of yours. What the hell was that all about?

Oh, you read it? The Rook perked up, giving him his full attention for the first time. This only further annoyed the Ram. The Rook beamed and reached back, grabbing Tuesday and pulling her forward. He had his arm around her shoulders and held her there; she was obviously too scared to try to get out of the awkward position. "Michael and I wrote that a couple years ago. Isn't it just a great story? Most of it was Michael's doing—"

Why are you calling her that? The Ram regained his composure—at least outwardly. On the inside, he was still fuming. The Rook was being stupid again, he had been expecting that, but it didn't make it any less aggravating. He looked them both up and down coolly. Tuesday was still tense, leaning forward with her arms splayed out uncomfortably at her sides. The Rook, unaware or uncaring, kept his arm very firmly in place around her shoulders and continued smiling vapidly at the Ram.

"Why, you read the book. This is Michael, he said matter-of-factly. It's pretty much all a story, of course, but it doesn't mean that that simple fact is any less true."

It would certainly explain how she wouldn't tell him who Michael was, and it also explained her stay at the asylum. But those were the only questions it answered. After that, it raised more. ...How much of it is fiction?

Tuesday opened her mouth to respond, but the Rook cut her off. Wouldn't you like to know?

I hate you. The Ram kept his temper in check—but just barely.

The Rook chuckled and finally released the unfortunate girl. She sprang back to her end of the couch, practically clinging to it. Keep telling yourself that, Ram. Did you like the story? Michael thought the writing was weak, but I helped to make it better. Oh, and of course, there wouldn't be a cast without me—

That's what I wanted to talk to you about. It was all he could do to stop himself from reaching over and breaking the Rook's face. Never mind the fact that the fronts of human skulls couldn't be broken so easily; the Ram would accomplish it through sheer force of will if need be. "What were you thinking, making a story about us? Do you know how popular it's gotten?"

The Rook shrugged, then looked over at Tuesday. She only gave him a wide-eyed look in response. "I was thinking it was a great story. Besides, it was her idea, not mine." She shrunk back from the accusation.

All it takes is one brighter than average human, one stupid mistake on your part, and suddenly, we have a war on our hands.

They couldn't kill—

Yes they could, the Ram interrupted coldly. "They've done it in the past, and they could sure as hell do it again. It only takes one human, Rook. One human." He turned to Tuesday. The message was clear.

TUESDAY WAS PRESSED up as hard as possible against the arm of the couch. Both men were now looking at her, almost expectantly. What did either of them expect her to say or do? Apologize? Declare she wasn't a threat to them? Commit suicide to get out of their hair?

I wouldn't—

Ram, you are such a worrier. Chill. Michael's one of the good humans. The Rook came to her rescue, much to her shock. (And the Ram's, judging by his face.) He snorted at their expressions, which quickly turned into a chuckle. Here, he ordered, gesturing the Ram over. When he didn't move, however, the Rook sighed and leaned over. He whispered something into his ear.

It was almost, almost comical how the Ram's eyes widened and he turned to the Rook in shock. No. Are you being serious?

Yeah. See why I keep her around now? The Rook leaned back again, triumphant. The Ram didn't seem to mind his expression in the least and was instead staring at Tuesday with something akin to awe.

She didn't have time to ask what had just been said before he leaned over the Rook and, taking her chin in his hand, captured her mouth in what could only be described as a very possessive kiss. A small whine escaped from her and she shakily raised her hands, placing them oh so lightly on his shoulders—the closest she could get to pushing him away. She knew it was a terribly feeble attempt but she was too terrified, too shocked to do much else.

As if the feather-light touch was magic, however, he pulled back. The Ram, eyes lidded, set his forehead against hers and smiled. Tuesday was sure she was a moment away from getting her neck snapped, but she couldn't look away. It wasn't as if this was new to her. The Rook was physical and in more ways than one, but the Ram was different. His smile, while just as frightening, was also... softer, somehow.

Rook, she's mine now, he said, eyes still on Tuesday's.

"Bullshit she is. I found her, I created her, so she's mine."

The Ram finally looked away from her, instead turning in annoyance to the dark-haired monster. Tuesday reeled away from him, but he grabbed her by the back of the neck and pulled her up against his chest. You owe me, Rook.

Hm, maybe, he replied flippantly. Tuesday shifted so that her face wasn't buried in the Ram's shirt. The Rook had been between them, but at some point he had wiggled out of the way and was now perched on the back of the couch. His wings were out now, fully extended; the entire effect reminded her far too strongly of a gargoyle. His wings also blocked most of the light from the broken door, casting his face in shadow.

"You stole my skull. You owe me. You're either going to give me Tuesday or I'm going to break you. It's your choice." The Rook's wings also created a diagonal slash of darkness over the Ram's face.

You... You would really take her in payment? For a moment, he sounded unsure. His wings relaxed slightly. But then he continued in a rush, How do I know you would? You could do both. You could go back on your word. I don't think it's a fair deal.

Without warning, Tuesday was pushed roughly to the floor. The Ram sprang at the Rook, who could only squawk and shed panicked feathers before he was tackled. Tuesday reluctantly peeked around the corner of the couch, unsurprised to see them fighting. If it could be called that; it seemed pretty one-sided. The Ram was sitting on the Rook and while his back was shielding the Rook's face, Tuesday could see, when he reached back for another strike, that his fingers were already covered in scarlet to the second joint.

Alright! The Rook's voice sounded like nails on a chalkboard. Tuesday had never personally heard that song of death of his, but she immediately likened it to that; her heart froze in her chest and her breath caught painfully. It seemed to have a similar effect on the Ram, judging by the way his movements halted. Take the bitch and get off of me, the Rook added wetly.

As if nothing had happened, the Ram got up, straightened his shirt, and wiped the blood off on his pants. The Rook wasn't so quick to follow him and instead rolled over to spit out a mouthful of blood. He curled his wings around him—something Tuesday had rarely seen but recognized immediately as his only physically defensive gesture—and instead knelt there like a feathery little ball.

We're even, he said, voice muffled.

Yes. We are.

Tuesday had no idea what had really just conspired, except for the fact that things changed for her from then on.

The first obvious change was the fact that the Rook didn't immediately leave. In fact, she woke up the next morning with him in bed with her. One major difference between her story and reality: demons didn't sleep in their human forms. She nearly died of shock when she woke up to downy black feathers strewn all across her bed and a bony claw millimeters from her face. The ram skull staring at her brought back too many memories, too.

The second and equally obvious change to her life was the woolly, half-rotted thing sleeping on her living room floor.

Perhaps because she had never been that close to the Rook while he was in his demon or real or whatever form those monstrosities were supposed to be, or perhaps it was simply because of his dark coloring, but she had never truly realized how gruesome their bodies were. Entirely too thin, their joints and vertebrae invisible only by sheer virtue of thick wool or feathers. Skin hanging loosely off of the bones, patches of fleece bloody or rotted or entirely missing. Unlike the Rook's talons, however, the Ram had hooves. It was to be expected, at least at face value; these were unlike any hooves she had seen before. These were cloven to the point of being toes—no, claws, she decided, unable to tear her gaze away from the edge she couldn't help but imagine was serrated.

Serrated hooves. I'm going crazy. These—these things are not here. They can't be here, her mind feebly declared. Tuesday shakily raised her hands to her mouth, fighting back the bile rising in her throat. The Ram looked dead, pure and simple. Like a corpse, like a carcass, like a huge demonic sheep with only a skull for a head that had wandered onto the highway and got itself hit. Road kill.

Are you going to stare at me all morning or is there a reason you got up and wandered out here? the Ram asked quietly, bottom jaw clicking shut on the last syllable. He raised his head, empty eyes staring at her.

Wh-Why are you still here, she whispered through her fingers.

I'm staying here from now on. He got up and stretched out his front legs, not unlike a tame little house cat, rotted tail stuck high in the air. You're mine now, Tuesday.

I'm not a possession. Maybe it was the daylight giving her courage, or maybe it was the adrenaline screaming at her to flee from the monster, but she stood her ground. Even if the girl was pressed up against the farthest wall, white as a sheet.

Of course not, he replied. She couldn't tell if he was trying to be soothing or sarcastic. But it does not change the fact. The Rook gave you up in exchange for his freedom.

Does that mean the Rook will leave? The thought excited her more than it probably should have. The Ram had not shown himself to be nearly as abusive, be it emotionally or physically, as the Rook and who knew? Maybe this could be an improvement. Tuesday had always been a hopeful person.

Oblivious to her thoughts, the Ram continued calmly. I will live here with you from now on. I'm not going to leave for weeks at a time like the stupid bird. Do you have a job?

Pardon?

A career. Will you be leaving for hours on end during the day to secure money to pay for your lifestyle? Now she knew he was being sarcastic.

Yes... I mean, of course I do, she muttered rebelliously, looking down at her bare feet. I-I work part time in a bookstore down the street.

You must also take in money from that book of yours, the Ram said mildly. He tilted his head to one side, and she couldn't help but notice that his movements were not nearly as jerky or twitchy as the Rook's.

I-I do.

It's selling well, isn't it?

Y-Yes.

How well?

"I... I made the New York Times bestseller list," she stated. This fact had never brought her any pride. She was not topping the list, not by far, but she was still technically on it. Her agent was probably happier about that than she had ever been.

The Ram stood up on his hind legs, looking absurd as he did so. He rolled his shoulders back, however, and as if he shrugged off his wool coat, the pelt fell off and pooled around his feet. She frowned and took a step back towards the relative (and imaginary) safety of the hallway. The Ram snorted in disdain at her movement and pulled the skull off like the mask it suddenly was. His bottom jaw fell off and clattered to the floor.

Until I secure a new job in this area, you are going to be providing for me. She stared at him in bewilderment. He rolled his eyes before stooping to pick up the pile of wool. He wrapped it around his shoulders again, covering himself, and explained, Clothes, girl. I need clothes. I will work and feed myself, but I need to cover this human body while I do so.

"You... want me to buy you... clothes?" she repeated. She couldn't help but sound stupid, but really, what was she to do? This entire thing was stupid.

Yes.

"Because you have a job?"

Yes. I am a teacher—don't give me that look, he hissed, eyes narrowing. I'll have you know I am a very successful college professor right now.

Why do you need a job? she squeaked.

I don't need one. It's merely something to do and it allows me to have my pick of the good stock in the area. He flicked a pale curl out of his eyes, looking unusually disinterested with the conversation. Even the Rook wasn't so quick to switch expressions and moods. Maybe she would have been safer with him... I'll transfer to something in this area. Teaching is unusually fun, so I will probably stick with that. You can do what you like with my salary.

You're not going to keep the money?

What would I do with it?

Buy yourself clothes? Food, shelter, things? she suggested timidly.

"You're buying me clothes. I catch my own food. You're also providing shelter for me. And I don't have any real need for human possessions, he drawled. The Ram exhaled loudly and sat down on the couch, throwing his feet over one end, after making sure the wool still covered him. ...Tuesday, do you know what we eat?" He actually sounded interested now.

N-No, I don't, I'm sorry... The Rook isn't here often, and he's never told me.

That's what I thought. Probably because that's how it had been in the book. The Ram stared up at her, hazel eyes half-covered by curls. We eat humans. It's why we're so keen to come to this world, why we want to get jobs. It's not for your currency. It's only partly for something to do, something to kill the boredom. We do it to satisfy our needs.

Tuesday had a sudden sinking feeling in her stomach. She knew why the Ram had been so keen on getting her away from the Rook. He planned on eating her. Was that why the Rook had kept stalking her for so long? They had known each other for years—why hasn't he eaten me yet? she thought wildly, glancing back down the hallway towards the bedroom, where the Rook was hopefully still sleeping. Why hadn't he eaten her yet, if that's what he was after? Why was the Ram telling her this?

You have an interesting panicked face, the Ram remarked innocently. Her gaze snapped back to him. He smiled up at her, looking completely harmless, almost sweet. I may not read minds, but I can take my guesses, and don't worry about yourself. The Rook and I have no intention of eating you in the near future. You're too... valuable to do that.

Wh-Why? she had to ask. Why me?

"Because you're like us. You've eaten human, too, Tuesday. Don't forget that. Cannibalism is highly valued. It puts the human who does it on a pedestal, so to speak. It means they're better than