She and Hers

10 - Uncanny

Holden

I crawl out of bed and stagger to the bathroom, turning the shower on and stepping under the cold blast. Opening my mouth under the spray, I do my best to relieve the dry feeling in my throat. I let the water hit me like ice pellets until I'm shivering, then I crank the handle to warm. It takes only seconds before the water heats. A luxury that I had never imagined I would have while growing up. I never even thought it was possible, and this isn't even magic, just great plumbing.

It's the little things, ya know?

I scrub myself quickly and step out, still feeling overwhelmingly thirsty. I drain the glass of water on the side table by the bed that someone, probably Cort, left there for me. When I set it down, I don't even let the condensation ring on the walnut and pewter tabletop bother me. I'm too agitated to care.

Getting dressed, I head out to find my wife, my husband, or Sam. I still feel bleary and... damnit... pissed off- but I hope they haven't killed each other. I can smell food, which is a good sign. Someone's still breathing.

I freeze in my tracks. Sitting at our table is a stranger, dressed in dark grey and black fatigues, hair shorn tight to his head, eating a plate of meat lasagna I made for Sam. The entire lasagna.

Thin, white scars skate along his face and hands, stretching and pulling with each small movement as he cuts into the food and chews. He doesn't stop eating when I walk out of the bedroom hallway but pins me in place with a blank stare. He's a predator, like Cort—like Sam—but nothing about him entrances me like my lovers do. He screams, 'Danger!' and I don't need to be a witch to sense it.

"Holden," he grunts what I believe is meant to be a greeting.

"Who are you?" I ask bluntly. I feel myself bristle. I know who he is, but what audacity makes him think it's ok to eat someone else's food?

"Devel Grim, Sam's commander," he replies, confirming my guess.

"Sam let you in?" I'm suspicious. Sam is too polite to allow a stranger into the penthouse.

"No," he says.

I sit down at the table with a hard thud. He stands up, grabs a plate and another fork- as if he lives here- and cuts a piece of lasagna before sliding it over to me.

I dig in. I don't waste food, and I'm hungry.

"Had an interesting night," Devel Grim says.

"Did you?" I snap. My skin feels tight and itchy. The part of me always waiting for the other shoe to drop screams in the back of my head, derisively telling me that I'm not worthy of being here in this 10,000 square foot penthouse, eating with a stainless steel fork that cost $400. One fork- and it's not even real silver. Oh no, the very important silverware set is used downstairs in the very important gilded dining room when we have very important guests. Chiara claims its silly to use the silver for everyday use, so instead we use stainless steel for $400 a fork. I don't know how much the plate is worth. I'm afraid to ask.

"You know the haunt in Windsor, Connecticut?" Devel rumbles casually.

The forkful of lasagna pauses on the way to my mouth. I feel like I've just shoved my head into the icy shower again. I set the fork down and stare blankly at the scarred wolf. "Chiara hates haunts," I mumble.

"She's on the balcony," he says. "Meditating or some shit."

I'm halfway across the room as soon as he says, 'balcony.' As I leave the table, I see him pull my plate to him. I'm stupidly grateful he's finishing my food.