I could have spent years weighing the pros and cons—that is how one rationalizes procrastination—but various powers in the universe conspired to force my hand. Habit brought me to Union Square for my morning walk. The kid on his skateboard scared a pigeon away. The bird flew straight at my head and made me turn to the newsstand. The tabloid editor penned yet another outlandish title. “Giant Aliens Land on Earth.” I laughed, of course. Elvis was also on the cover, live and well. As I walked away, I felt a shadow pulling at me. The farther I walked, the harder it pulled, like a rubber band tied around my waist. What if? I had, after all, just activated a device whose sole purpose was to bring aliens to Earth. I had summoned my kind. It was at least conceivable that they’d answered the call. There was nothing enlightening in the tabloid piece, of course, but I could not stop looking. I was one of those people now, chasing ghosts, Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster. Like most conspiracy theorists, I found nothing tangible, only rumors, hints, clues, in just the right amount to keep the doubt alive. Then, one morning, I heard a knock at the door. I looked through the peephole and there she was, my Loch Ness monster, standing in the hallway, rifle in hand.

  I could, in hindsight, have answered the door. I could have fought her there and then. I could have talked to her, bargained for my life. There were a thousand things I could have done. I chose to run. It’s not every day one realizes they’ve brought on the apocalypse. I was … unprepared. When she did not pursue, I surmised she had found another target and what had been little more than a philosophical exercise was now very real. I had to decide what kind of animal I wanted to be.

  I chose to save the last of our prey. I think it was a selfless act, but I know that part of me wanted to feel “heroic” again. I killed my entire family to save my mother, and while it came with a fair amount of pain and regret, the feeling of righteousness that came with it was very real, and quite addictive. The line between frog and scorpion isn’t always obvious.

  I must also admit to a certain shortsightedness. I never once considered that this one act would turn into a long-term obligation. I thought knowing Lola meant I also knew her daughter. I was wrong, as I was about having enough patience to care for a clueless child. Perhaps I was never meant to be a parent. We shall see. One thing is certain: if Aster has to die, she should die peacefully, in her sleep, perhaps, and not in a senseless bout of violence. I owe her mother that much.

  10

  Exactly like Me

  I wasn’t sure yesterday, but I had a good night’s sleep and I think I made the right choice staying with Samael. For one thing, I had a good night’s sleep. I don’t remember the last time I slept on something horizontal, with a blanket and a pillow. I didn’t know how good I had it before, but a good place to sleep is worth a lot, like a lot a lot. I just need to remember to close the curtains so I don’t wake up this early. The windows here are as big as a football field. I don’t know how Samael pays for things. He doesn’t seem to have a job, unless he took a vacation to help me. We’re in Las Vegas, so it would make sense. I wanted to ask—I almost did—but I’m afraid he’ll say God gave him the money or something.

  —Eat your breakfast, Aster. We’ll start your training when you’re done.

  He’s a morning person, though, so he must have had a job at some point. I don’t deal with morning people really well. They’re all peppy, and we-have-to-start-your-training intense. Also, I have no idea what he’s talking about. Should I ask? I don’t really want to, but I have to say something. He’ll just stare if I don’t.

  —What exactly are we training for?

  —We are not training for anything. You are. You have to learn to defend yourself.

  —Defend myself from?

  —As I said, there are two more hunters looking for you.

  —Yes, you said that.… Are you sure? I mean, how do you know?

  —I know.

  —But how do you know?

  —Are you always this annoying?

  —I—

  —That was a rhetorical question. On June 20 of last year, one of the largest meteorites ever observed hit near the small town of Kunya-Urgench in Turkmenistan. A giant ball of fire brightened the sky. Residents in nearby villages heard a deafening whistling sound, followed by a loud crash. The impact left behind a relatively small crater—about six meters wide—in a cotton field, yet not a single fragment was found. Cotton farmers who were working the field at the time swear they saw three devs—mythical giants, sometimes called daevas—walking out of the crater moments after the impact.

  —I’m sorry, sir, what? It sounded like you said these people came here on a meteorite. Maybe I heard wrong, but that’s what it sounded like.

  Not that anything he said before made him sound particularly sane, but this … It reminds me of that cult up north who drugged their kids and set themselves on fire because they thought they’d travel to a star. The kids part is what got me. Like, you’re sure enough of that travel thing to pour gasoline over yourself and light a match, but not sure enough to take your kids with you. Mythical giants traveling on a meteorite. I’ll admit, those pictures he showed me shook me a little. That and the blood test and—I don’t really know what to believe anymore, but I’m pretty sure this ain’t it.

  —To the contrary, Aster. I believe it wasn’t a meteorite at all. I think they came on some type of spacecraft. They would most likely destroy it to hide their presence, but judging by the look on your face, I’d say you’re not particularly interested in what I believe.

  Actually, that makes more sense. I mean, it doesn’t make a lot of sense, but it’s way better than a meteorite.

  —I don’t mean to be rude, sir. I’m just … You said yourself this was a lot to take in. You can’t expect me to believe all of it right away, can you?

  —It would certainly make things easier if you did. I take it you haven’t read your mother’s journal either.

  —I told you, I don’t want to read it.

  —Then read your grandmother’s journal! Your great-grandmother’s! Or are you mad at them too for ruining your life? Poor little Aster was abandoned as a child. You can wallow in self-pity all you want, but do not waste my time doing it. You had a home and a loving father. You actually had a childhood. As for what you should or should not believe, let us start with this: Do you think the person I shot on the highway was a figment of my imagination?

  —I— No! Of course not! But—

  —Then trust me when I say there are more. It doesn’t matter who they are, where they’re from, what mode of transportation they used, or whether you accept the fact that they are not human. They are very real. They will find you, and they will kill you.

  —Do you know where they are?

  —I believe one of them was involved in a shooting in Rome three days ago. I don’t know where the other one is.

  —Okay. How do we stop them?

  —I don’t know that we can. The best we can do is make sure you’re ready when they come.

  —Ready how?

  —You already know how to fight, but you’ve spent your entire life repressing those instincts. I can help you reconnect with them. That’s the easy part. You must learn to control them as well. There are other things I can teach you, things your instincts aren’t honed for. Stealth, for example, does not come naturally to us. We prefer open combat to surreptitiousness. Given their size and strength, you would likely fare better in a furtive attack than you would face-to-face.

  —Face-to-face?! I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. I don’t know how to fight! Like, at. All. I never been in a fight, except that one time with Nicole at school. That lasted a whole two seconds. I pushed her. That’s it. She broke her wrist, but it ain’t my fault she doesn’t know how to fall. I got suspended for a week. You wouldn’t believe how much trouble I was in at home. What I mean, sir, is I can’t do what you think I can do.

  —You can fight, believe me.

  —I can fight Nicole! You never seen Nicole, but she’s, like, shorter than me, ninety pounds if she just ate. That lady on the highway? She’s the Terminator. No way.

  —Then you will die.

  —You can fight them, right? You shot that lady, in the face! I was there. One minute she was standing above me then BAM! Dead. Really dead! You did that. You did it without breaking a sweat.

  —She left her back exposed. I doubt the others will be so careless. Even if I killed them all, others will follow. More to the point, I won’t always be there, Aster. You must learn to fend for yourself.

  —You’re going to leave me too?

  —…

  —Figures.

  —You seem surprised. Did you think we’d spend our whole lives together? Go fishing? Did you think I’d help you with your homework before we watch your favorite movie together?

  —I don’t need help with my homework.

  —Good. I’m not your father, Aster. I’m not your friend either.

  —Then what are you?

  —I’m the only chance you have.

  11

  Army of Me

  He just keeps staring. I can’t eat with someone staring at me. Now my cereal’s all mushy, but I have to keep eating or he’ll want me to do things. I don’t want to do things. I don’t want to “train.” I really don’t want to train at 8:00 A.M. Please go away! What I want right now is to lie down and think about nothing. I like nothing in the morning. Another bite. This is … kind of disgusting.

  —That’s enough, Aster. Please move your bowl and put your left hand flat on the table.

  —What? Why?

  —Just do as I say.

  What are the odds he’ll leave me alone if I do? I’m guessing not good, but still worth a shot.

  —Like that?

  —Yes. Thank you. Now imagine I were to pull out a knife and pin your hand to the table with it. What would you do?

  —What?

  —Stop saying “what.” You heard me. How would you defend yourself?

  —I wouldn’t. I’d pass out is what I’d do. Dial nine-one-one. “Please send help: there’s a knife in my hand!”

  —That is not the answer I’m looking for. Think again.

  —Can I finish my cereal first? I’m not even awake yet.

  —Those are no longer cereal. I saw you gag on the last bite you took. Now answer the question.

  —Okay, I … Why would you pin my hand to the table?

  —It doesn’t matter why. What would you do?

  —… Because if you were trying to kill me, then I don’t think stabbing my hand makes a lot of sense. Also, are we talking about you you or is this someone else? If it’s you, then I think it kind of matters why. Like, maybe it’s just a misunderstanding. If it’s a complete stranger, then I don’t know. They could be on drugs, or having a psychotic episode.

  —What difference does it make?

  —Well, I could talk them down, if I knew what was wrong with them.

  —You have to kill them, Aster, not talk to them. You have to kill whoever is sitting across from you before they kill you. It’s a very simple exercise. What would you do?

  I feel like I’m missing something. I can’t really do things if I don’t understand them. It was like that at school. My teachers were always annoyed, just like he is now, but it wasn’t my fault the questions weren’t precise enough. Okay, maybe it was my fault a little, but I still want things to make sense. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.

  —I don’t mind training if you think it’s important, but I thought you would show me how to use a gun. I can shoot someone with a gun, like you did. This is … I’m not going to get into a knife fight, sir. I’m twelve.

  —As I mentioned, you do not have a knife; only your enemy does. This is the last time I ask, Aster. You need to take this seriously.

  —I am! I am. I … I suppose I’d pull the knife out of my hand first. Then, if I don’t faint doing that, ’cause I think I would, but let’s say I don’t, I’d use it to stab you. Well, I wouldn’t stab you you, but if it were someone else and— You know what I mean. I’m defending myself against … someone. Did I get it right?

  Then I’d get out my ray gun—Pew! Pew!—or shoot lasers with my eyes. He’d be all: “AAAH! IIIII’M MELTIIING!” Then I’d fly away in my invisible spaceship. I can do all that, of course, because I’M AN ALIEN! I better not say that out loud; he ain’t happy with me already.

  —No, you did not. I would have plenty of time to stop you from grabbing the knife. Even if you did manage it, you’re too small to reach across the table from where you sit.

  —Tell me what I should do, then.

  —You already know what to do. You just have to listen.

  —I’m listening, but you just said—

  —I did not say you should listen to me. I said you have to listen.

  —Listen to whom? There’s no one else here, sir. Wait, is there?

  —Listen to yourself, Aster. There is a voice inside you—at least that’s how I conceive of it—and it knows what to do. You’ve learned to suppress it over time because you thought it was wrong, but it is in you. It’s like the cat.

  —Londo?

  —Yes. I assume he never lived in the wild. He never had to fend for himself and kill his food, but if you place a mouse in front of him, his instincts would kick in. He would know what to do even if no one in his lineage has hunted for generations. The voice is still in him, just like it is in you. All you have to do is listen to it.

  —I don’t know what you want me to say, sir! There’s no voice. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to fight. I don’t know anything.

  —That’s simply not true. What would you do, Aster?

  —I—

  —SAY IT!

  —Don’t get mad. I told you I don’t—

  —SAY IT!

  —I would grab the kn— AAAAHHHHHH! WHY DID YOU DO THAT?! Take it out! TAKE IT OUT NOW!

  I heard the knife dig into the wood. Thud, straight through my hand. Whoa. My head’s spinning like I got up too fast. Cold sweat pouring out everywhere. I can’t look. Crud, I don’t need to ’cause I can feel my pulse against the FRIGGIN’ BLADE! AAAH! I got the chills now, big-time. I can’t stop shaking. I’m cold, and hot. I got a fever rushing to my brain. That’s it; I’m gonna faint. I see spots. Red spots, blue spots. I see … I see me.

  The knife doesn’t matter. I just leave it alone. I push forward and ram the table against him. He falls backwards on his chair. Holy moly, this feels real. I lean in and flip the table sideways on his throat. His hands aren’t there to stop it—he used them both to break his fall. I hear his trachea crumple. Eeew. Me and the table get back on our feet. He wiggles, gasping for air. He’s dead. Now I take the knife out.…

  Whoa.

  —SAY IT, ASTER! WHAT WOULD YOU DO?

  —It hurts too much! I can’t talk!

  —But you do know.

  —Yes! It’s not a voice. I see things, like a movie. NOW PLEASE TAKE THIS THING OUT OF ME!

  12

  Dry the Rain

  We missed Christmas. Well, we didn’t miss it; we just … I was mad. Take-that-training-of-yours-and-shove-it-where-the-sun-don’t-shine mad. I didn’t so much as look at him for two days, not even a little. That’s hard to do in a hotel room. Somewhere in there was Christmas. I didn’t mind not doing anything—he ain’t exactly the eggnog-by-the-fireplace type—but it felt strange not having Pa around. I miss him. With all that’s going on, I haven’t thought about him as much. I think I missed missing him.

  I’m still trying to make sense of what happened. I can’t believe he actually stabbed me, but then, it was like … I was there, doing it. I could feel the carpet squish under my feet when I sprung up, the weight of the table. I felt my muscles tense. The weirdest part is I knew what to do. I knew how to kill. That’s messed up, but still. I felt … powerful. I kind of liked it. I guess it means there’s some truth to what Samael’s been saying.

  My hand’s still a bit numb, but at least I get a break from whatever ninja boot camp he’s got planned. I been reading Grandma’s journals instead. Whoa. I thought my life was weird. Like, she was a spy! In Germany during the war. She built space rockets for Pete’s sake! Grandma was bad. Ass. I ain’t like her, that’s for sure. I know how to flip a table, but she wiped out a whole squad of Nazis and didn’t even blink. She was impaled! Like, I never even heard of anyone getting impaled before. Bad. Ass. She thought she was different from everyone else, but she never used the A-word in her journal. It’s so much easier to swallow without the A-word. “Different” I can do. She didn’t even know what she was. How does he know? I don’t wanna talk to him, but I have a ton of questions now. Like a ton.

  …

  Maybe just one question. Nah, forget it. I ain’t asking.

  …

  …

  —… Er, sir?

  —Are we on speaking terms again?

  I hate letting him win like this. I’m still mad, just … more curious than mad, I guess.

  —I don’t know.

  —Good. Let me know when we are.

  —I—I been reading, like you asked, and … Well, there are these men in my grandmother’s journal—she calls them the Tracker. Are they the people chasing us now?

  —They are not.

  —Okay.… Then who are they?

  —They were my family. Those you just read about were my father and uncles.

  —…

  Wow. Just like that. I’m not sure there’s a great way to tell someone you come from a long line of cold-blooded killers, but I might want to ease into it a little. If I got this right, though, his dad being the Tracker would make him the Tracker and that’s, well, not good. There’s even a rule for it. “Fear the Tracker. Always run, never fight.” Grandma doesn’t say how the whole thing started—maybe she does; I ain’t got to the end yet—but she says they been chasing us for three thousand years. She might have added a zero or two, but, that’s one long-ass grudge to hold on to. Still, “fear the Tracker and run” is pretty clear. Maybe that’s what I should do.

 

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