The Truth About Lies [Jesse Fforde]

[Phoenix]

It had been days since Micah had contacted me, wanting to know why I'd failed in my duty as not only a sire, but as a teacher as well. Thinking back on the conversation - something I'd been doing for the better part of the past week - still set my teeth on edge. The situation left me feeling sour, sick to my stomach with a combination of betrayal, sadness and something else I couldn't quite put my finger on. I had taught Jesse how to perform a ritual properly. Despite his baseless accusations, I'd never rebutted his belief that I'd been reluctant to teach him, if only because that was his perception. He’s so stubborn that nothing I said would change anything. I'd been shocked that he could speak - who wouldn't have been? - but I'd been thorough in my teachings. If he wanted to think I'd been reluctant, that was his problem and I could ignore it. Deliberately lying about that night, however, is a different matter entirely. Lying, I will not forgive.

And here I thought we'd been on the road to making amends.

So here I sit in front of the fireplace, swirling a glass of scarlet liquid at the top of my ivory tower like some kind of cliche super villain. The only real difference is that my pretty red drink came out of a sterilized bag labeled AB+, not some fancy, aged bottle of wine. Even so, here at the top of my rough-hewn palace, I’m safe. Safe from the world, safe from everything life can throw at me, with the exception of my own rage. There are countless ways I could let this play out, but ignoring it is also not an option.

"Jesse." I hiss the name under my breath like a curse, finding it as distasteful as a mouth full of rat poison. Yes, I can make that comparison - there was a trip to the hospital involved, and the whole experience is something I'd rather never repeat. The lights flicker, symptom of my irritation, as I finally set my now empty glass down. In the same motion, my phone is plucked off the table. What do I say to get him to meet me? I stare at the blank space where a text message should be for a long time. Finally, painstakingly, I manage to type out the message that I end up sending. The message that leaves me feeling empty inside, and so very false.

"It's been a while since we've had a chat. You want to meet up at Nightmode in a bit?"

And I wait for a reply. I'm content to wait as long as it takes to get this little prick alone, somewhere private enough that I can beat the tar out of him. Axel probably won't be all that happy when he finds out, but I'll deal with that later.

[Jesse Fforde]

It does not seem to matter.

The last night I spent with Grey, I told her I loved her. I knew it, all along. Had to have known it, on some level. It’s why I had been avoiding her, because I didn’t want to admit it to myself. The confession had slipped out of me, however, post and pre climax. In that moment, wrapped up in the warmth and the heat of her, I had been delirious. The happiness that I felt in that moment was unrivalled by any that I had ever felt before. I’m not sure I’ve ever experienced true happiness, not since Jordan’s death. But there it was, in that room, on that carpet, with the fire raging. The sentiment had been reciprocated. She loves me, too. And I would do anything to protect her. She is my secret, my joy, my escape.

And yet it does not seem to matter.

The hut around me should have brought me joy, too. The Eyrie has become a home that I never had before; a place filled with people whom I can respect, and whom I can learn to care about – so long as they are aware of what my brand of care looks like. I’m sure I piss them all off more than I please them, however. I’m almost one hundred percent certain of it. I fail now more often than I used to, and I am disappointment to myself. So why should I not be a disappointment to others, too?

Sure, yes, I do scold myself. I scold myself for being a coward and a pussy. Where is that ego that I once had? I once thought myself a God amongst Gods, but now, more often than not, I feel like some kind of leech, a beggar, a pauper trying to be a prince.

I’d come home to the hut. I’d planned, maybe, on drawing. On at least tending to the greenhouses, and making sure the plants were all flourishing. Instead I folded myself down onto the mattress on the floor. I’d curled up in a ball. I remember where it is that I go when I happen to fall asleep, and the urge is stronger tonight. For so long I have tried to avoid sleep, at all costs. But I am exhausted, after being with Grey. So exhausted. And that place… it’s so quiet. It’s so…

…before I knew it, the Shadow Realm billowed out around me. Whispers catch on the wind that is both there and not, at the same time. The darkness and the shadows are ever shifting and all-encompassing, as if the entire place is doused in an acrid oil spill. Shapeless forms drift in and out of my vision, and I feel at home here, too. Maybe Jordan is in here somewhere, trapped, unable to get out. I wander, aimless, until I find a neat little alcove – maybe the same one that I always find my way to, when down here. I don’t know how long I stay, this time. I don’t know whether it’s only minutes or hours, or whether it’s whole days. But I am comfortable here, in the darkness. It embraces me like a warm blanket, and I pretend that I am a kid again, at home, with Jordan asleep in the bed below mine. We’re going to school the next day. It’s our first day…

…I don’t know if I drift into a dreamless, thoughtless state. Whether I become one with the dead. But when I open my eyes, it’s bright again. I left the lights on in the hut. I have been there too long. Nature does not like it when I’m there too long. I feel rested, kind of, in an odd kind of way. There’s a keening in my chest; I can feel the solidity of the atmosphere around me. It’s heavy. It’s real. I don’t like it. The phone beside my head is blinking at me, the little green light alerting me of a message. I check it. Maybe it’s Grey. Maybe if I go and stay with her, I can regain that state of blissful happiness. But what good does it do, really, if it doesn’t last? If, in the end, it doesn’t seem to matter?

It’s not Grey. It’s Phoenix. The message had come through an hour ago. Maybe more. I stare at it, unblinking. It’s not that I have anything against going to see Phoenix, specifically. It’s just that, at this moment, I have nearly zero enthusiasm to go anywhere or see anyone. Anyone. I just want to go back to that place, where the shadows live. I rub at my eyes and sit up. I open my eyes a little wider and shake my head, as if to knock some sense into it. And some wakefulness. This is going to do me no good, sitting around like some ******* Goth emo. It’s detestable. Loathsome. I tap out a reply:

”Sure. See you in about half an hour.”

I get up. I clench my teeth and force myself to get dressed--leather pants, white shirt, leather jacket, boots—and exit the hut. I catch the elevator down to the ground floor, where I have parked the bike. It won’t take me long to reach the club.

[Phoenix]

There are so many thing I could do while waiting for him to reply, but instead I simply wait. At least for the first half hour - that's when the tick tick ticking of my watch starts driving me up the wall. It's almost as if I can hear each little cog turning and ticking down the seconds until I get my revenge. Why hadn't he replied yet?

Frustrated, I grab my phone and vacate the chair, leaving the warmth of the lit fireplace. I wonder what people think when they see smoke curling out of the top of the hill. They probably assume it's a cabin hidden in the trees - not that I really care what they think. The warmth of the fire feels nice, but the cold doesn't bother me as I step away in search of something to occupy my racing mind. I'd had days to plan what I wanted to say to Jesse. I'd had days to contemplate exactly how I'd lull him into a false sense of security and then pounce. But now that a text message is all there is between this moment and the moment of truth, none of my planning seems adequate. Nothing I'd rehearsed seems to convey how I feel. So I pace, and wait, and pace some more until the vibration of my phone nearly startles me into flinging it across the room.

Half an hour - that's all the time I have.

"Sure, see you then. I'll be at the back in one of the booths," I reply and then hit send.

A quick glance to my watch and a minute has already passed since Jesse's text came in. At least I'm already dressed and ready to go. Not that I plan on using any of it, but I'm also armed well enough to put him down if need be. All I need is the book - my personal ritual notebook that I'd kept hidden from everyone except the stupid childe that I'd tried to teach. It was a private little log of all the diddling I'd done with the fae over the past year and he'd spat over that gift. I'm not sure if I want to make that clear - that he'd spat on everything I'd done to try to help him - or if I just want to shove it in his face as proof of exactly what kind of horrible person he is.

Then again, with my new found ability, I could guilt him without so much as opening my mouth. If I want. But I'll keep that power to myself unless I think I can skewer him with it. I have enough ammo without resorting to underhanded tactics.

Now that he's replied, I force myself to calm down, grab the book of faeish glyphs and just leave, car keys in hand. It's not a long drive, but I want to make sure I'm there on time. Or... early. I want the seat facing away from the door, just in case he tries to flee. With fifteen minutes left before he's said to arrive, I pull up to Nightmode and park the car.

The atmosphere of the club is always reminiscent of some nerdy teenage gamer's Ninja Turtle fantasy. It's like industrial sewer meets high tech hacker, and the only thing missing is pizza. Though a call to Domino's would fix that quickly enough. Like I'd said I would in the text message, I make my way past the bar to slide into one of the many unoccupied booths at the back. Once Jesse gets here, I'm confident he'll spot me from a distance easily enough. Vain as it is, I know the greenish glow of the place accentuates the coppery highlights in my hair. It makes standing out pretty easy.

While I wait, I pull out the book and flip through its pages, all the way back to July 2013. The date of Jesse's training is marked by a smattering of blood droplets. My fingers trail over those crimson dots and it saddens me to feel nothing. Not anger, not betrayal... not a lick of remorse. Sighing, I close the book and lean my elbows on the table, deciding to just wait in the company of my own thoughts.

[Jesse Fforde]

The wind is cold and harsh against my skin, but it does not affect it, like it might an ordinary person. I relish the stabbing sensation, allow it to sink deep into my skin, to push into the murky cobwebs of my mind. The blast of ice helps to clear the space, to awaken some of the demons and force them into their small crawl spaces. I know it won’t take long for them to come out again, those nagging, foreign emotions that I have no idea what to do with. They don’t feel like my own. To begin with I’d rejected them completely, outright. Now, they’ve been living there so long that I’ve grown accustomed to them; I’ve grown fond of them, almost, regardless how much it lowers any respect anyone else might have for me.

And as I push my face into the wind, I conclude that this meeting has to be something other than what it seems. This isn’t just a catch up. Can’t be. I almost wonder whether Phoenix is trying to be courteous, this time telling me about her engagement to Axel face to face, as if I haven’t already heard it from someone else. I wonder whether I can make myself look happy for her – whether I can show that emotion when I feel no emotion at all. I feel nothing but that cold yearning for a darker place, where such things as engagement and marriage have no meaning. I know that Phoenix must harbour some kind of hate against me; or, if not hate, indifference. Once, she had told me that I was dead to her. Afterwards, she had apologised. Membership to the Altaire Crownet had been reinstated. Recently, that membership had been removed again. Such a small thing that also failed to bother me, as not much these days tends to. But a reasonable, thinking mind would conclude that such an act would indicate hate or indifference. Hateful, indifferent people do not message the objects of their hate and indifference out of the blue just to ‘catch up’, as if they were friends.

With that thought in mind, I am wary as I park the bike down a side alley of the club, hooking the helmet onto one of the handlebars. Sure, it could get stolen. Again, I can’t seem to summon any kind of care. I’m leery as I look up at the building, as the thumping music pulses from within. I slip inside, pausing just within the doorway to let my gaze sweep the room. It’s not really my kind of place. I’m not sure I’ve ever actually been inside. Finally, I see her, in one of the back booths. I stare at her for a few seconds, cautious.

The ice that had so awakened me now melts. The demons are released and the murk curls comforting fingers around my heart, numbing the caution and the wariness. Who the **** cares? Why be so ******* cautious? I saunter through the club easily. I reach the booth and slip in opposite to Phoenix. There’s a book sitting on the table in front of her. I recognise it. The one that she had photocopied for me. Even now, that recent fury that had near overwhelmed me isn’t present. It takes a back-burner, with every other emotion and every other care.

”Doing some rituals, are we?” I ask, arching a brow at the book before lifting curious eyes to my maker.

[Phoenix]

I hear footsteps approaching my table, but I don't care to look around. If it's Jesse, the little prick really isn't worth the effort of turning my head to look. Besides, I'll find out in about 10 seconds anyway. So I stay perfectly still, staring at the empty space across from me until the faux leather creaks under someone's weight.

It is Jesse. The only acknowledgement of his presence is a quick flick of my eyes while I continue staring at nothing for just a moment longer. Time seems to slow between when he sits and when he opens that treacherous mouth. I half expect to catch a glimpse of a forked tongue between his teeth, but nothing so interesting flops out. He just asks a stupid, rhetorical question. 'Why yes, Jesse, I'm about to start performing a ritual right here in front of all these nice, human people' I bite my tongue on the remark and reply with silence. Silence accentuated with a scathing, hateful look meant to scorch whatever remnants of a soul he has. People always used to tell me that my eyes are inviting and warm, but right now, I know the look I gave him was pure, molten rage. All pretense of that little catch up is gone. I'd lied – so what?

My fingers flex on the spine of the journal as I lift it an inch off the table. For a moment, I consider lifting it and slapping him across the face with the hard cover. He'd spat on everything I'd taught him, so he did deserve it. But his hard head might damage my precious book, so I let it fall back to the table. Ignoring his question, I force a smile to my lips.

"You're going to explain exactly why you lied to Micah about me." The words are clipped, precise and cold. It isn't up for debate. And if he argues with me or tries to evade, I will turn my memories of that night into weapons.

[Jesse Fforde]

I cant my head to the side. The hatred rolls from Phoenix like a steady wave; maybe I’m imagining it, but it’s evident, right there in her smoldering eyes. I was right, then. Catch-up was pretense. This is something else entirely. I’ve done something, obviously, that I am not aware of. I take a sick kind of pleasure in the look that she levels at me—as if she is the harbinger of doom, and in any second I will be dead. I revel in the feel of it, that hatred. It fuels my own wants and desires. There, that – that’s how I think everyone feels about me. No one will show it to me quite like this, however. At least that’s one of the things I can fully appreciate about Phoenix. There’s no ********, not really. You get what you’re given. Though I suppose if we were this forward with each other from the very beginning, we might not be in this predicament.

I narrow my eyes as she demands information out of me. At first I cannot remember ever talking to Micah about Phoenix. But of course, I do remember, then, fully. The last time I said anything to Micah about Phoenix was when he informed me that I was not properly fortifying the barrier when doing rituals. Of course, I’d thought about that just before, hadn’t I? My mind feels like a swamp filled with muck and fog. I have to wade around and struggle to get anywhere, to make any kind of progress. What, exactly, had I said about Phoenix that could be a lie? I shake my head.

”I don’t know what you’re talking about. Perhaps I could be a little more illuminating if you would expand. What, exactly, are you accusing me of lying about?” I ask, my voice calm and perhaps a little flat, indicative of my mood – of my lack of care about absolutely everything. I might appear bored, maybe, if it weren’t for that gleam that I know is probably there, hidden at the corner of my eye. There’s that one part of me that recognizes the fire in Phoenix. That one part that yearns for that fire, that wants to throw me, headfirst and reckless, into the very depths of its destruction.

[Phoenix]

"You don't know what I'm talking about," I repeat, incredulous. Had he spewed so much ******** that he couldn't keep track of it all anymore? The more I think about it, the more likely it seems that that's why he doesn't know exactly what I'm talking about. Though the book on the table should have given him the big fat hint he needed to figure out what I was talking about. Then again, maybe he is just that broken, damaged and dense.

I feel the corner of my eye twitch in irritation as a glare at him. If looks could kill, all that would be left of him at this point would be a charred, smoldering corpse. For a few milliseconds, I actually consider dousing him with gasoline, lighting a match and watching him go up in flames. Maybe I could use his burning corpse to toast a few marshmallows... If only I carried a cherry can in my back pocket at all times. Hellequin would probably forgive me for burning down his place if I paid for the repairs. It's quite sad when someone's greatest contribution to society since their birth is slated to be their use as kindling.

I suppose he did give me Axel, but I'm sure someone else could have done that eventually. It really wasn't enough of a boon to make me hate him and less. Finally, after another long, drawn out and awkward silence, I laugh. It's a cold, mirthless sound that scares me. My fingers tighten on the spine of the journal until it creaks in protest.

"Expand? You want me to explain something else to you in minute detail?" Again comes that humorless laugh. "Look, you spineless little waste of skin, I've put up with so much ******** from you. I'm done. I was fine with you spouting **** about how reluctant I was to teach you rituals, when I was more than happy to do so. Even in spite of your sad, ungrateful attitude. Crying to Micah that I completely failed to mention how to fortify a ******* circle is a step too far. You know full well I showed you exactly what to do. I don't know what your sad little end game is, but it ends here."

I stop for just a moment to let that sink in before continuing. My voice was shaking - angry - but it calmed as I spoke again.

"Now I get why you decided to cover yourself with all that bad ink - to try to hide the horrible, worthless thing that you are. You're not even worthy of being called a ******* person." I spit the words at him like so much venom. "And all that ink hides nothing - everyone sees right through to your pathetic, rotten core."

By the time I'd spit it all out, I'm shaking. Livid. Before I can stop myself or even think the action through, I see the book in my hand hurtling through the air towards Jesse's arrogant face. It seems to be happening in slow motion. I have enough time to be amused - who the hell backhands someone with a hardcover book in the middle of an internet cafe?

I suppose it's better than punching him, though I'm sure that's what I'll follow up with if he bothers fighting back.

[Jesse Fforde]

The silence is never awkward for me. Though it blossoms between us, I use that time to try to figure out what’s going on inside of my head – it’s a constant struggle, and has been a preoccupation for quite some time. Here, in this place, with Phoenix looking so furious, something changes. It’s as if one of those demons has leapt out from his corner and is shaking me by my metaphorical shoulders, urging me onward, cheering me. To what end? Little to I realise that I don’t have to figure it out. Instinct and basic desire will drive my actions, rather than reasonable thought.

I listen to Phoenix with an arched brow as she finally gives in to my request; as she finally expands, in a way both expected and surprising. The insults only feed that demon, make him slather and lick his lips; they contribute to the vast and spreading self-loathing that spreads itself like a cloak around my soul—foreign and unwanted, but accepted and welcomed nonetheless. I find it highly amusing that Phoenix thinks I’m playing some game. Of course she does. Of course she has ego enough to assume everyone’s thinking about her, and that my only purpose in life is to bring her down, somehow. When, in all honest truth, she rarely crosses my mind, these days.

Of course it inspires anger when she admits to thinking she knows what I know. I could defend myself, of course. I could tell her that I have no game, that to me, she did seem very reluctant to teach me a thing, and that whatever she might believe, I don’t remember anything about fortifying barriers. If I did remember, then I’d have been doing it all along. And, again, we wouldn’t be here. I could willingly admit to my mistake. I could laugh, and tell her to calm the **** down. People have their weaknesses and a bad memory can be included amongst them. Could she blame me, really, given that specific night and the revelations surrounding it? These are reactions that would befit a reasonable person in a reasonable scenario. But Phoenix is not being reasonable. She does not stop, either – she continues to spew vitriol, as if words are acid and she could burn my face from my skull with them.

Each and every word acts like a stone, stirring up rings and waves in the growing pool of darkness within. I may not have been playing a game. I may have come here not because I’m moving a piece on a chessboard, but due to innocent curiosity, and the desire to try to get out of me head. Maybe I knew, when I left the Eyrie, that coming to see Phoenix was going to do nothing to abate my growing depression (I hate the word). Perhaps even then, a plan had formed. Maybe I am playing a game, though it’s one that even I am unaware of.

The book comes flying at my face and, at the last second, I am able to wrench my head to the side and reach up a hand to snatch the edge of it; the leather slaps against my open palm before I close my fingers around the tome. I tug not hard enough to pull the book from Phoenix’s grasp, but hard enough to pull her that tiny bit closer to me, even as I lean forward.

”Do you really want to hit me with a book, Phoenix? Or would you like to take this outside, hm? Use big girl weapons?” My voice is low, still slightly husky, and tense.

[Phoenix]

As soon as Jesse's hand closes on the book, I yank it away and slam the abused cover against the table with a resounding thud. After all that I'd said, that was his answer!? He's just going to let me turn his face into a pile of ground meat? Pathetic. I'd seen him pull this stunt before at Fight Night, so I'm not worried about the repercussions. More than bringing it on himself, he ******* invites the pain, and he deserves every last ounce of it. Nearly leaning across the table, I'm close enough enough that I could almost have leaned out and taken a bite out of his ******* nose.

Amid the stream of abuse I'd spat, there'd been a question. One he'd neglected to answer when he opened his mouth. A lack of answer just wasn't good enough. 'Why?' Disgusted, I pull back, slapping my hands on the tabletop - another noise drowned out by the technogarbage pounding through the speakers.

I want to scream at him, berate him until my raw throat refuses to make a sound. I feel like I should be frothing at the mouth - that's how angry I am with him. If rabid animals feel anything like this, then I don't blame them for lashing out and attacking. If I had claws right now, I'd be trying to claw his face off. Maybe even gouge those pretty blue eyes out, leaving only bloody red holes. After all, he was the one to suggest taking a trip outside.

Once I manage to simmer down a few degrees, I push myself to my feet, leaning over the table to stare down at him. My face feels funny. It takes a few seconds for me to realize that I'm smiling, but it's not a nice smile. It's about as happy an expression as anyone in my state of mind could muster - in essence, it looks like I'm about to go full on Exorcist *****.

As I keep staring at him, the floor starts shaking. The whole room seems to darken by a few watts, as if someone had knocked the dimmer switch. The longer I stay standing there, staring, the worse the shaking gets. Not this again. I feel like the epicenter of an earthquake. Before glasses start shattering and the lights start flickering like some bad rendition of Poltergeist, I grab the book off the table and shove it into my bag. I need to get out of here before something nasty happens that has nothing to do with Jesse and everything to do with me unleashing a fadebeast on a club full of people.

"Fine," I snap. "We're going outside. And on the way out, you can tell me what the **** you were thinking. I'll give you the chance to be honest for once in your miserable life."

There's no threat there - not really. Jesse has already managed to drive off his own line with the exception of Axel, and even that bond was getting more and more strained. Not to mention how Micah had reacted when he'd found out Jesse had lied so thoroughly. It would be easy enough to find a few more cracks to exploit and slowly chip away at what little he has left to lose.

Without looking back, I slip out of the booth and storm to the exit. He could either follow or he could sit there and rot. I fully expect him to drag his ***, wait as long as he can to react just to piss me off more. But this time, it won't needle me at all. That firey rage has been replaced by ice - ice doesn't need fuel to keep it cold. It just needs to be left alone in the cold.

[Jesse Fforde]

The ground begins to shake and the atmosphere almost seems to darken. Phoenix is a force of nature, and I imagine what it might be like to be torn apart by her; if she uses that power to cause that storm inside of me to thicken and overflow, if she starts an earthquake, a volcano inside of this body of flesh and blood. I imagine the searing agony as I explode from the inside, as blood pours from eyes and airs, froths from my mouth. I imagine what it might be like if I were to internally combust, and I like it. I pray for it. And yet it doesn’t happen. I am left, bereft, as she walks away from me. Commanding me like I am some dog to be commanded. As if this were her idea, rather than mine. Whatever. I stand, and I follow.

I don’t bother trying to tell her anything on the way out. She stalks ahead of me with that Queenly attitude, as if she’s some almighty being. There’s that singular urge to bring her back down to earth, to cut her legs out from beneath her. I’m not stupid, though. I know that if I were to try, she’d get the upper hand and her ego would only be inflated. I won’t give her that pleasure. I won’t give her what she wants. Does she want me to react? Does she want to make me angry? I laugh and shake my head; I vibrate with the intensity of my desire, as I realise the game that I’m playing. But the thoughts are all muddled in my head, throwing themselves around in the veritable tornado of despair and equal horror. This isn’t me. I know this isn’t me. But I can’t stop myself.

It’s only when we’re standing outside that I bother to speak; only when we’re out reach of that ridiculous music.

”Honestly? I think your ego is far too big for that pretty little body of yours. You think I’ve got some sick game? That I’m single-handedly trying to bring you down? **** off. You’re not worth that kind of time,” I tell her. A member of Tytonidae, I am still true to the cause. I make sure that when we are outside, we are along. I make sure that the two of us end up in a secluded little spot, away from the prying eyes and curiosity of humans. I honestly have no idea what the **** is wrong with her. I thought we were getting along. This one tiny little thing, however, and I’m again the scum of the earth – so perhaps, to her, I was the scum of the earth all along, and everything else was just an act. It sickens me, now, to think I’d actually wanted to help her, wanted to offer her some kind of comfort in that raid, when she was miserable over Juliet’s death. It sickens me to think that it’s not me playing any kind of game, but her. And I fell right into the trap.

Doesn’t matter, now. What will be, will be. It works in my favour, if she hates me.

”But go on. Go on, assume that I’m some conniving snake who’s no good at his own game. Immediately conclude that I would lie to someone who I respect, and whose respect I wouldn’t want to lose, for once. Go ahead and assume I’d be that ******* stupid, without thinking that maybe, maybe I’ve got other **** going on in my life, just as I did back then. That maybe I forgot, and overreacted. You’re ******* ridiculous, you know that? You’re petty, and immature,” I tell her, words a rush of impatient frustration, rather than anger. She is like a child, sometimes. And I do not have the patience for it.