The Fire-Bringer

In a world of supes, I am one of the walking Mundies. A norm. A bloody Muggle. Take my good friend Olive who is one of the rarest supes in existence: a purebred vampire sprung from the preternaturally beautiful loins of a daddy vampire and a mommy vampire. Or my best friend Nikki who is the only daughter of the chieftain of the local werelion pack. As a cub, she has yet to transform into a fearsome leonine beast, but she's stronger than five human males combined and once punched a hole through the driver's side of her cheating boyfriend's truck.

Or my frenemy Lizzie--mostly friend, but I knew she was the bitch who told the entire high school that I went down on Derek Ramsey at Mike Stern's back-to-school bash in the eleventh grade because I was stoned and drunk off my ass so everyone, even the stupid freshmen, made blowjay gestures at me for the rest of the year. I was really popular for a bit, though, so there was that. Anyway, she got scratched on the boob by an overly amorous werewolf suitor in college and now has to chain herself up in her mom's basement three days out of a month for fear she would lose control and eat the dogs in her neighborhood. And then there is me, Liánhuā Chang, the token human whose main purpose in the group is to crack-wise and occupy the Asian spot in our United Colors of Benetton crew. My friends call me "Lottie."

The blame for my complete and utter mundanity lay at the feet of my father, Robert L. Chang, D.D.S. He is as human as human can be. There were no witches or warlocks in his family tree, not an Uncle Dracula in the closet or a grandmother who turned hairy and growly during a full moon. The Chang family are a nice bunch of intelligent, hard-working, salt-of-the-earth people who came over from mainland China a hundred years ago to build railroads and become dentists and dry-clean the clothes of rich, fancy Supes. My mother Serena, proprietress of a small arts-and-crafts store, is half-Fae. Flowers never fail to bloom under her care and tiny furry critters seem to follow her around wherever she goes--which is hell on my father's allergies--but that is about the extent of her powers. She is, however, endlessly beautiful despite being eighty years old and therefore thirty years older than my father. She looks slightly older than my own twenty-one years. It's kind of mortifying. She is a tall, willowy redhead with huge green eyes that take up half her face and skin so white she practically glows in the dark. Why she fell in love with my stout, balding father who stood about five-nine in his patent leather shoes, and seems to be perpetually suffering from a bad head-cold, is one of the mysteries of the universe I shall never know the answer to. What happened to Amelia Earhart? How much Law & Order reruns can one person actually watch in one sitting before her limbs completely atrophy? How many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll part of a Tootsie pop? Why did Serena Caellum marry a schlubby dentist when she could walk into the Victoria's Secret corporate offices and proclaim herself the queen of Victoria's Secret models right then and there?

"Maybe you have secret powers you just haven't tapped into yet," says Olive.

She is browsing Facebook on her new iPhone and idly sipping her favorite drink: a caramel latte with a liberal splash of Type-O blood ice-blended with an obscene amount of whip cream on top. I try to keep the distaste out of my face and avert my eyes as she idly wipes away the dark brown smudge on the side of her mouth and licks her finger. She gives me a dirty look. I shrug. I love the girl and all, but let's face it, drinking blood is nasty.

"As much as I like the idea of being able to wiggle my nose and voilá, new outfit, I doubt it's ever going to happen." I pick up a stick of celery and swish it around in the cup of creamy blue cheese dressing in front of me. The four-alarm hot wings that accompanied them are long gone, the pile of bony carcasses the only evidence of my gluttony. "My mother is the living embodiment of a Disney princess. It'd be one thing if she were a powerful being like Maleficent or something. But hey, if you want your enemy to be attacked by really cute animals, she's your gal."

We are sitting at our favorite table at Queen's, the diner we frequented during our lunch hour. It's cheap, the food's delicious, the owners know us, and best of all, it's vampire-friendly. The glass windows are reinforced with interwoven microscopic titanium fibers invisible to the human eye and serve to filter ninety-five percent of the sun's UV rays while still allowing bright light into the place. As a purebred vampire, Olive can withstand sunlight, but prefers to be out of it. She says sun exposure feels like having her skin abraded with a cheese grater. Every morning before she goes out in the day, she slathers herself in sunblock SPF-80, slips on a long-sleeved shirt and pants, gigantic sunglasses, and puts on a big floppy hat. Somehow she manages to look like Audrey Hepburn instead of Grandma Chang about to do some serious gardening.

One of the regular diners, a were-fox named Sylvie who is a clerk at the law firm where Olive interns, sees us and bares her teeth. She makes a beeline for our table, but another were-fox grabs her arm and pulls her to a chair. Sylvie plunks down her tray laden with greasy, deep-fried foods drowned with a mountain of shredded cheese, sniffs the air, and growls.

Olive and I stare at each other. Hers perturbed, mine holy-oh-holy-shit.

The little bell above the front door tinkles and Nikki walks in, all six-one and one-hundred-and-fifty pounds of her, looking like she had just stepped off a runway in Milan instead of the store down the street that sells baby couture where she is an assistant manager. She is wearing black tights, a red sleeveless empire-waist dress showcasing her buff, golden arms, and a black bandanna covered in red rosettes wrapped around her black and gold corkscrew curls. The smile on her face disappears as soon as she sees Sylvie and I swear to God, the whole restaurant darkens as storm clouds form in the sky and block the sun. The other patrons, sensing that some shit is about to go down, look at each other with worry and grip their own tables. The ghoul wiping down the counter, as though anticipating a bloodbath, flashes a grin wide enough to split his pallid cheeks.

"Ah, fuck," Olive mutters.

She glances over her shoulder and I know she's checking out the exit. If a rumble goes down, Olive can make the fifteen feet from our booth to the back door in a blink of an eye. I, on the other hand, probably can't take more than three steps without getting my throat slashed by an errant were-talon or bleeding out as I drag myself to the door carrying my own amputated arm. I am always the loser in worst case scenarios.

I reach across the table to take Olive's cold hand. "I don't want to die."

Olive bats away my touch. "Look on the bright side, at least you won't have to go back to your shitty job."

But Nikki does not march over to Sylvie's table to knock her head off. Instead she thrusts her proud chin forward, puts a bright smile on her mug, and struts over to us, taking the open chair to my right so she has her back to Sylvie. It is a horrible strategy on her part because she won't be able to see Sylvie coming up behind her, but I don't say anything. If she wants to ignore Sylvie, that's one thing. As the only Mundy in a group of supes, I've learned never to piss one off if you're attached to your jaw and don't want to lose it. But Sylvie is so not ignoring Nikki. And I really don't want to be caught in the middle of a were-rumble. I have to get her out of here. Fast.

I tug at Nikki's elbow and lean toward her. "Hey, maybe we should go somewhere else."

My best friend snorts and looks at me like I'm crazy. "Do you think I'd let that bitch push me out of my favorite diner? I've been going to this place for years!"

I implore Olive for help with a stare, but she only shrugs. I turn back to Nikki. "Come on, dude, I've got a bad feeling about this."

"Shut up already, Lottie, I mean it. I'm not scared of that ho," she growls. She glances down at my empty plate and pushes out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout. "You ordered hot wings without me?"

"I was hungry. And you were late. Again." I tear open a packet of lemon-scented hand wipe and clean off the orange goop from my fingers. I consider asking her again to leave with me, but bite my lip. When Nikki has made up her mind about something, there's nothing in the world that could make her change it. A lion would never back down from a fox. "You want to go halfsies on a turkey club?"

"No, I'm in the mood for something bloody. You want half of that?"

I shake my head and she smirks. I don't eat meat unless it's been broiled, fried, or baked beyond recognition. I don't like being reminded that my food was once a bleeding slab of flesh that used to be attached to a living animal. Nikki, on the other hand, enjoys her meat squealing and squirming on her plate when she cuts into it.

A purple-haired elf waitress comes up to our table and Nikki asks for a double cheeseburger, rare, with pickles, and an extra-large plate of hot wings. And cheesy fries. I groan. I can't ever get enough of cheesy fries and unlike my friends, I do not have a fast metabolism. It's another reason I despair being a Mundy. Luckily, my stomach is too busy churning in fear to be accommodating.

Olive leans over toward Nikki. "Did Antwan call you yet?"

Last week, my girls and I walked into Devour, our favorite dive bar, and Nikki caught Sylvie all over Antwan, her man of the week. Nikki can't commit to a guy longer than two weeks, but in those two weeks, that dude is hers and she does not share. Our friend Lizzie launched herself in front of Nikki to keep her from attacking the were-fox and got an elbow to the eye for her trouble. A werewolf waitress and Sylvie's friend Denise also jumped into the fray to break up the two women, but by the time Nikki and Sylvie were separated, Nikki had a fistful of Sylvie's red hair with bits of scalp still attached to it. During the scuffle, I took cover behind the bar and stood next to Brandon, the vampire bartender, who gave me a glass of a pinkish concoction with a neon-green bendy straw and two cherries.

"Shit yeah. Fucker's been flooding my voicemail with sorries. He was all over my Facebook and Twitter, too, so I finally had to block him." Nikki reaches for Olive's drink, takes an experimental sip, smacks her lips, then takes another before giving it back to Olive. "Not bad. Too sweet, though. Type-O?"

"You are a blood connoisseur!" Olive smacks her palm with Nikki's in a high-five.

I shudder. I once accidentally took a mouthful of one of Olive's drinks. The bitter coppery taste of blood mixed with chocolate and rum made my stomach revolt and I barfed in front of all our friends. One asshole took a video of it with his camera phone and uploaded it to Youtube within the hour. I was an Internet sensation for about a month. To this day, I don't pick up a drink unless I am one hundred percent sure it's mine, which is why I keep a firm grip on my drinks and don't let go unless that sucker is drained.

From the corner of my eye, I can see Sylvie and her friend with their heads bent together in a serious conversation. I crane my neck over my shoulder to pretend I'm checking out something behind me and take a slow, careful sweep of the area until my gaze lands on Olive again. She frowns at me and I shake my head. Sylvie is glaring at the back of Nikki's head as though she is trying to drill a hole into her skull with her eyes. Nikki is oblivious to her enmity, babbling to Olive about the lion her cousin set her up on a date with this weekend using elaborate hand gestures. Nikki is a very animated speaker. Around her, if you're not quick enough to dodge, you're liable to get knocked out.

I slide my palm across the back of my neck as I sit up in my chair. Sylvie is still eyeing Nikki like she wants to tap-dance on my friend's spine. Nikki is laughing and joking around with Olive, determined to ignore her. To a were-animal, there is no greater insult than to be dismissed as a pest and nothing more. I have a vision of Sylvie sneaking up on my best friend and slitting her throat open with a steak knife. The were-fox's golden eyes narrow into slits. Her friend grabs her shoulder and gives her a shake.

I shift in discomfort and scratch my throat, but the itch only gets worse, burrowing deeper until I can feel it in the bone. Sharp tiny pin-pricks more annoying than painful. And then it begins to spread. It starts from my scalp, sliding down the side of my face. My fingers form a claw and I dig into the area between my breasts. I rake my nails from my jaw to my collarbone. I pinch the inside of my wrist and twist hard. Scrape my back against the hard plastic of my chair. I plunge my fingers into my hair and scratch hard like I'm trying to shake something off. The pain replaces the itch, but only for a moment. Now it feels like a trail of ants marching from my nape to the base of my spine, little ants with arms carrying needles.

"What's up, Lottie, you got fleas?" Olive asks with a smirk.

"I don't know. I think it's an allergic reaction or something." I am scratching my neck raw, but the itch won't ease. Goosebumps are sprouting all over my arms and my skin is crawling like it's trying to get away from my flesh. "Does anyone have Benadryl or calamine lotion?"

"Yes, right next to my tube of Preparation-H." Nikki chuckles, then stops when she gets a good look at me. "Oh my god, you have to stop scratching, chick. You're bleeding." She grabs my hand and shows me my own nails. "Look."

But I don't stop even when I see the blood crescents under my nails. With my free hand, I begin to work on the arm that Nikki is holding.

Beads of sweat are popping up on my forehead and upper lip, my heart is slamming against my ribcage. The gouges I have made on my skin are starting to burn in the open air. I look down at the fork next to my plate and wrap my fingers around the handle. Nikki notices, guesses my intention, and keeps a firm grip on my wrist.

My eyes dart to where Sylvie is sitting. She is tearing into her chicken-fried steak and baked potato like a woman possessed with a starving demon, shoveling forkful after forkful into her mouth even before she has swallowed whatever is in there. Her anger is a red-orange ball with green and violet spikes growing bigger and bigger. She grabs the purple-haired elf as she passes and points to the menu as she shovels more food into her gaping maw. The elf nods nervously before scuttling away. Nikki follows the direction of my stare and her lips tighten into a straight line.