Kerry Allen

Harried Writer blamed the loss of her train of thought on the sudden appearance of the scruffy 13-year-old boy crouched gargoyle-style on the arm of her sofa, although the station had been deserted for hours, even days, before his arrival. “Thanks for coming.”

“It will cost you.”

“Yeah, I know. Once a mercenary, always a mercenary.”

“If you even suggest killing me off, you and I are going to have words.”

“I can’t kill you off. You’re a legendary figure in my fictional universe. Besides, I just wrote the most amazing prologue for you and Edan. I have a question for you.”

“That will cost you extra.”

She would protest, but there was no doubt a fee for that, as well. “I’m writing an essay about djinn so I can keep my facts straight.”

“You’re procrastinating.”

She jacked up her chin a haughty notch in defiance of that load of utter… truth. “I am taking a breather from the manuscript in order to gain a fresh perspective, and this little project is actually important. Do you want me to be reviled for my crappy world building and get dropped by my publisher before I get to your book?”

“You don’t have a publisher.”

Obnoxious little brat.

“I heard that.”

“Bite me.”

He grinned, revealing one slightly askew eyetooth. “That you can have for free.”

“No thanks. Prison orange isn’t my color.”

“I’m six thousand years old.”

“Yes, but you look like pedophile bait at the moment. Can we get back to our mutually dependent futures, please?”

“Do I get the girl?”

“It’s a romance novel. Of course you get the girl.”

“Forgive my skepticism. My faith in your generous nature is a bit thin after you’ve made me wait a few thousand years.”

“It’s not my fault she doesn’t like you. Read the prologue. You were a monster.”

His eyes narrowed on the pages she waved in his face. “Ryder had a good idea with that shredder. I demand a rewrite.”

“Sure thing, sweetie.” She poised her pen. “How do you spell ‘impotence’?”

“T-w-e-l-v-e  i-n-c… Oh, quit banging your head on the desk before you ruin the finish. I won’t even charge you for that ridiculous question. What do you want to know?”

“This thing about the king being all djinn. How do you do that?”

All trace of humor left him. “You don’t want me to tell you.”

“Yes, I do, and that doesn’t count as an answer. I figure there has to be some kind of transference of power from old king to new, but I can’t figure out how it’s done. Vampires can learn things from sucking blood.”

“Let that be your last comparison to those parasites.”

She continued as if he hadn’t confirmed he was a judgmental, racist asshole. “Zombies eat brains, but it doesn’t seem to make them any smarter. Is it like acquiring your anir, you have to consume its soul, and how do you do that, anyway?”

His response was a flinty stare.

“That was one question, note the single question mark. To take the place of the one you didn’t answer.”

More staring.

“Is this one of those ‘don’t tell the ebil humans or they’ll destroy the universe’ things?”

“You’re all right, for a human. It would pain me to see you die for possessing knowledge you’re not meant to have.”

“Now you’re being melodramatic.”

“No. I would be pained, but I would kill you.”

He didn’t bluff. She knew because she’d written him that way. She felt an urgent need to pee. “What do I put in my essay, then?”

“Make something up. That’s what you do.”

“It’ll be something gross if you leave it up to me. Cannibalism. Necrophilia. Both.”

“Better than the truth.”

“What’s worse than cannecrophibilism?”

“Most of my interpersonal relations for the past six milennia. I’m a monster, remember?”

“You’re supposed to reform in the name of true love.”

“Right. Good luck with that. I’ll send you a bill for the personal appearance and six questions.” He didn’t trouble himself with anything so mundane as departure through the door. He was there, then he wasn’t.

Her bladder distress left with him (mostly), surpassed by an overwhelming urge to apologize to Edan for sticking her with His Royal Inflexibleness.

Right on cue, a hand slapped down on top of the jumbled reams of notes blanketing the desk. “The prologue stays,” Edan announced in a tone chill enough to shrivel Jack Frost’s balls, “but if you even suggest I’m to care for that barbarian, you and I are going to have significantly worse than words.”

Harried Writer decided the WIP was looking better and better all the time. Gabe was perfectly happy with his story.

A feverish hand settled over the nape of her neck, turning her spine to melted mozarella. “Actually, cupcake, I do have some issues…”