Heiresses of Russ 2014 Read online

“Seriously?” the asshole asked. “You think you scare me with your gold mask? You’re shaking, little girl.”

  She really was. I admired her chutzpah since this didn’t come naturally. I briefly wondered what degree belt she had, and whether she’d had to fight to earn it. I had no idea how that all worked. Since I could have teeth, claws, and instinctual knowledge of where the jugular vein pulsed, I skipped martial art classes. I spent my adolescence trying on different skins.

  The guy advanced on her. Anya jumped in the air, one leg extending and meeting his chin. He staggered, obviously surprised, and went red with anger. Now, realizing he’d underestimated the masked girl, he evidently felt like he had to amp up, and he withdraw a switchblade from a sock in classic bullshit style. Totally loco West Side Story.

  I lost it. My newly protective sensibility toward Anya and my little squirrel brain exploded in a rodent frenzy of gnawing incisors and needle-like claws. I climbed the nearest curtains and launched at the bully, rabbit kicking his throat and attacking his face. He quickly dropped the knife to flail at me. After a minute or so, he managed to swat me off, sending me flying into a wall.

  I shook myself off, momentarily stunned.

  I almost went back in but saw Anya standing in shock. I felt mildly ashamed, trying to calm my little fidgeting claws as I stood upright, but then she smiled. “See?” she said, addressing the asshole. “I told you something bad would happen if you didn’t change your ways.”

  Whoa. She totally turned a freak squirrel attack to her favor.

  The guy’s face was a shredded mess, and one clenched eye appeared to be bleeding. He cowered now, the tables turned.

  “And by someone a fraction of your size. That’s poetic.”

  “That didn’t rhyme,” he mumbled.

  I sidled up next to her in solidarity, before realizing the preposterousness of that visual and running into the darkness to dart up the nearest tree. Done with her task, Anya soon appeared. She walked out underneath me and headed home. I waited to make sure he didn’t follow, and then shadowed her from above.

  She fell asleep that night with a smile on her face, the picture of an angel. Back in Brigitte, I lay next to her and stared at this increasingly fascinating woman. Generally, I try to get back to my body within four hours, but I lingered and basked in her presence.

  Not only was I in love, but I realized I’d just experienced the most interesting night of my life. Blood-pounding exhilaration mixed with a little do-goodery. I mean, maybe that jerk-off would stop hurting people. If nothing else, he was totally pharm’ed with a taste of his own medicine. And, better yet, a little vigilantism made Anya happy.

  I hoped it would happen again…

  Armed with Anya’s name, I soon learned more about her. On paper, she seemed pretty ordinary. She worked in the lobby of a local bank, she liked iced chai and bran muffins, she walked Brigitte each night, and, better yet, she broke up with Sean (sayonara! I know, I’m a brat).

  As to her newly launched crime fighting career, the odds of Anya finding another bully seemed slim with her being a respectable bank teller by day. Plus, she seemed settled back to her routine, to the extent that I worried that one night would be our one and only hoedown.

  Two weeks later, I figured out how to make it happen again.

  With my voyeuristic excursions in the skins of the town pets, who knew more dirt on the people around us? Me. Duh. I knew how awful people could be behind closed doors because I was the fly on the wall, so to speak. I heard the nastiness they screamed at each other, saw the back-handed hits and forward-thrown punches, felt the searing pain from a kick to the ribs. And worse. I’d just never figured out what to do with that information. Until now.

  So, I sent an anonymous tip to Anya. A little heads-up on another bully.

  Anya studied the note. She paced a lot that night but didn’t act on it. So, I sent a victim’s name and some details. Then another.

  About a week later, she donned her costume again.

  That time she didn’t need me, though I lurked nearby in feline form. She knocked the guy on his back with a foot sweep, stood with one leg on his chest, and read him the riot act.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  She had a quick answer. “The Gold Mask. And I’m watching you.”

  Cool.

  Being my catty self, I contributed my bit. I padded up to his prone figure and swiped him once across the cheek. Then I sat and cleaned myself, not wishing to be sullied.

  I closely followed the late night news after these encounters. Nothing. Not one report of a masked woman, a crazed squirrel, or a slapping tabby. Admittedly, I was a little disappointed, but it looked like the guys were keeping their female butt beatings to themselves. Maybe it was for the best. Anya risked the most from exposure.

  We paid a visit to another bully before I tipped Anya about a guy beating his dog. This round, she took a little more time to plan and placed an order on the internet. Meanwhile, I made a point of checking out the neighborhood dogs between Anya’s place and the next target’s to see who had weak points in their fencing, and found an elegant Doberman with the legs of a gazelle.

  Anya polished her shtick on the night of the visit to the dog beater. On this fourth outing, she also grasped that the odd animal showing up was to be expected. No doubt it puzzled her why, but, as I approached her as a Dobie, she paused to ask if I was coming along for the ride. I nodded my black-and-tan head, and she smiled.

  My choice of skin was useful. The man’s shepherd mix, though limping, still attempted to protect him. I felt awful—for myself, the Dobie, and the shepherd—that I had to fight him until I could switch into his mind. In the chaos of snarls, lunges, and bites, it was damn hard to focus. I had to retreat and let the Doberman take over to make the leap. Once I switched out, the Doberman got its bearings and eagerly left the scene, a little worse for wear.

  At that point, Anya was standing over the abused dog’s shitty owner and telling him how it was going to be. He started to sit up, but she looked to me, while pointing at him. “Throat,” she said. I obliged. I walked over and gently placed my opened jaws over the man’s neck, while emitting a low growl. When he started to struggle, I bit in. He yelped.

  “I’d stay still if I were you,” Anya said.

  He relaxed, at least as best as he could, given the circumstances.

  She then pulled out her new toy: an electric branding iron. She plugged it in a nearby outlet. High heat soon emitted from the head of the iron, glowing a dull orange. The head wasn’t very big, only a couple inches at its longest, but when she tested it on the wooden surface of the coffee table, it made an impression on the furniture, as well as the man. His eyes grew large.

  Anya told him to extend his arm. Naturally, he was reluctant. The shepherd and I encouraged him. He squeezed his eyes shut and whimpered.

  The process took all of thirty seconds, with the smell of burnt hair and flesh assaulting my sensitive nose. The man’s scream was also unnerving, but Anya stood firm. “I’m the Gold Mask and, as you can see, I’ll always be watching you. Hurt another dog, and I’ll hurt you.”

  The man stared at his seared forearm. In miniature, no longer than an inch and a half, was a raw replica of her mask.

  Damn, girl.

  I howled with delight. Then, for effect, I whizzed on him.

  I was nervous what the man might do to his dog after that, so I stayed inside its skull and followed Anya home, hoping she might adopt the poor fellow. She told him/me on the way she couldn’t though, because the brutal owner would find him and then her. She called the police instead and reported the cruelty.

  I didn’t blame her, but I felt responsible for the animal. I went to the local shelter later and adopted him myself. My mother wasn’t thrilled, but her Yorkie was. And, despite the abuse he endured, Whiz is a gentle boy, and I enjoy having a friend who’s excited to see me when I come home.

  Fast forward to today.

  I’ll skip the play-by-pl
ay action on all our good deeds. Basically, I sic’d The Gold Mask on every bastard I could find who beat and molested the weakest of us: children, animals, women. They were going down.

  After the application of some street justice, Anya would turn the police loose on the worst via her own anonymous tips. The uniformed officers showed up the doorsteps to escort them downtown, letting the formal justice system take its turn.

  I was even aware of an embezzler, but Anya just sent some incriminating paperwork that a little bird found to the woman’s employer. Of course, others misbehaved—vandals, adulterers, shoplifters, et al.—but I narrowed our focus to the cruel.

  Somehow, we’ve continued to elude the notice of the authorities. Maybe it’s because the perps don’t want to admit to the young woman knocking them down, or the animal at her heels that alternates between rabid and strangely calm and aware. Of course, they want to avoid the connection between us and what they’ve done…probably because they file it away in some crevice of their brain so they can live with themselves. Yet, there’s no escaping the mark of shame The Gold Mask left to remind them.

  I find it hard to believe the scars have gone unnoticed by everyone else. Sure, when I see any of these guys on the streets, they always wear long-sleeved shirts. They have no clue as to the larger club in which they belong. But haven’t the police and jailers noticed a strange fad amongst those most craven of criminals in their custody? Do they just turn their heads?

  At least one of these assholes ran his mouth. A rumor is on the streets. A couple of times I’ve overheard “The Gold Mask” in conversations, but it’s like something people heard on the wind. “What’s that?” Nothing definitive. No one seems to know that there is a hero among us, let alone that our hero is a woman, all of 5' 8" with a heightened sense of justice.

  I’m proud of her. She’s beautiful and quietly fierce. Again, on a lunch break from my job, I sit across from her on the sidewalk fronting the café, admiring her from afar. Yes, I’m in human form, in my pallid body that I rarely exercise.

  I find myself feeling a little braver today. Perhaps Anya has rubbed off on me in some way. I want to say “hi,” maybe introduce myself. Too bad I don’t have Whiz by my side. She’d recognize him and maybe that would provide a nice segue into something more.

  I tuck a strand of blonde hair behind my ear and pick up my cooled latte.

  “Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

  She looks up from her book and smiles.

  She may never reciprocate my love, I know, but the arrangement I stumbled on is more than satisfying. I’m her partner in crime…fighting it.

  •

  Counting Down the Seconds

  Lexy Wealleans

  16 years, 3 months,

  and 8 days

  I have my clock fitted the weekend I turn sixteen. It sits flush against the skin of my wrist, fuelled by my heartbeat, counting down the seconds to destiny. On the way home, I trace the outline of it, the skin red and sensitive. It hurts, dully, throbbing with my every pulse, like a toothache.

  The clocks are new, trendy. They were only released last year, and within weeks they’d been seen on the wrists of the rich and famous. It was best though, to have them fitted young. The papers were full of people who had paid for a clock, only to find their timer already zeroed, and their chance at meeting their soulmate gone forever.

  The next day at school, my friends crowd round, checking their dates against mine.

  “God, Imogen,” they say. “You’re going to be totally old by the time you zero.” That’s the phrase now—to zero. It’s a clinical phrase for a moment that, by all accounts, is anything but.

  Julia is the last of the crowd to leave for lessons. I’ve always liked her, always noticed when we stood next to each other in the lunch queue, when my arm would press against the side of her breast. She ducks her head to catch my eye and smiles, ruefully.

  “Not us, then.” She shakes her head.

  “Only five years for me.”

  I’m less disappointed than I thought I might be. Instead, I take to imagining the moment I zero. I imagine the weather, all blue skies and heat. I imagine the things I’ll say and how she’ll laugh and smile.

  My dream world carries me along from day to day, and the clock on my wrist buffers me from heartbreak.

  •

  13 years, 10 months and 20 days

  My eighteenth birthday comes and goes, and university calls. I throw myself into the life—the work, the parties, the sex. I sleep with the clockless, and other slow-burners like me. There’s no need for commitment—the countdown embedded in my wrist is a better deterrent than a wedding ring ever could be.

  One night, the hall bar runs a “speed meeting” night. Like speed dating, but with no romantic intent. Or at least, it’s not supposed to have any romantic intent. The bell’s just rung and a new partner moves to sit in front of me, when from somewhere in the room comes the distinctive beeping of two clocks zeroing together.

  The girl opposite follows my gaze.

  “You clocked?” she says. I hold up my wrist, pulling the cuff back.

  “I’ve got years left.” She does the same, just enough to reveal the edge of the number display. The line of digits is long, but not as long as mine.

  “Me too. Still, that means we get to have plenty of fun in the meantime though right?” She winks, and runs a hand through short hair.

  I don’t go back to my own room that night, or the night after. It’s easy, comfortable, with Jen. It tends to be, when there’s no expectations, when both of you know you’re only a stop-gap girlfriend.

  •

  12 years, 2 months and 13 days

  It is just an ordinary day, an ordinary lecture. I’m late, which is also entirely usual.

  Jen sits at the back, paying no attention at all, texting under the desk. There’s no seats near her, and I have to slip into the closest empty seat.

  “Sorry,” I whisper, too loudly, to the girl next to me. She turns to me, shifting sideways on her seat. I’ve never really believed those stories, you know, where noise fades and your world narrows to just one person. I want to say that in that moment I understand, that she turns in slow motion, the light catching her hair and our eyes lock in sudden and inevitable understanding.

  It’s not like that at all. She rolls her eyes, and turns straight back to the lecture, her pen barely breaking stride as she takes notes. My stomach is not so easily settled, twisting and churning with the sickening pull of attraction.

  I’m afraid I don’t pay much attention to the lecture—the finer points of drug quality assurance go quite over my head. Instead I’m watching her, as she pays attention. Her pen moves across the paper, writing notes in a handwriting so small I can barely read it. It’s only when the lecturer calls the half-time break does she turn back to me, the side of her mouth slightly upturned and I know I’ve been caught staring.

  “I’m Imogen,” I say, plastering on what I hope is my most charming smile.

  “Kate.” Her smile is tight, fixed. “Excuse me.” She slides past, down the stairs and out of the theatre. Jen calls to me from the back of the room, shifting and making space for me to join her. I pay just as much attention after the break as I had before, my eyes fixed to the back of a head of golden hair, my thoughts drifting pleasantly.

  •

  10 years, 6 months and 7 days

  “Come on, Jen,” I whine, “we’ll miss the start of the match.” She’s dragging along behind me, holding doors open for the world and his wife.

  “Oh, there’s no hurry. You know England’s gonna smash Tonga to bits. We won’t miss anything.”

  I wait, impatiently, barely stopping my foot from tapping. Finally, when no-one else seems to be approaching, Jen finally lets the door swing shut, and follows me down the steps towards the students’ union bar.

  There’s a girl coming up the other way, and we dance awkwardly from side to side. Finally, we manage to move past each other, but as we
do she trips, and her bag tumbles from her shoulder, books and notes flying down the steps.

  Jen bends down, stopping to help the girl pick up her files. I see it almost in slow motion, as they reach for the same piece of paper. They pause, eyes locked together, hands touching. Jen laughs, shakily, her breath coming in machine-gun bursts of nervousness.

  I wait, but neither of them seem to plan on speaking any time soon.

  “This is Jen,” I volunteer. “Jen, this is….”

  “Jenna. I’m Jenna.” Oh god. Not only are they wearing matching lovesick grins, but they have matching names.

  We sit at the sticky tables, the three of us. I’m the only one watching the rugby. I knew it was coming, of course—I couldn’t miss the soft tick of her clock as we made love, couldn’t miss the date circled in her diary, or the way I’d catch her hunched over her wrist in the early morning hours, watching the seconds slip away.

  At half time I stand up, the chair legs scraping sharply across the floor.

  “Do you want another drink?” Neither Jen or her new girl answer, and I go to the bar alone.

  There’s no shame in being dropped so unceremoniously, I tell myself. Not when soulmates are involved. Yet as I stand waiting for my drink, I look down at my still counting clock and, for the first time, feel the faintest stirrings of regret.

  England lose to Tonga, 57 to 12.

  •

  10 years, 5 months and 21 days

  The campus is knee-deep in unexpected snow. It’s also deserted, only the foolish and the desperately keen bothering to wade across to lectures. I’m not sure which camp I fall into—probably both. After all, there’s only one reason I hauled myself out of bed and into freezing temperatures, and as I turn a corner, I see that reason picking her way towards me.

  I smile and wave, watching her cautious progress. She’s bundled up adorably, with a thick red scarf and a knitted hat pulled right down over her ears. My heart flips, one-two, and the feeling is lustfully echoed in other parts of my anatomy.

  I’m not watching where I’m walking, and tread on a pebble buried under the snow. The soles of my boots slide on the ice. I wobble, arms windmilling to keep my balance, but my ankle gives way and buckles sideways. My feet slip out from under me, and I go down with a thud. The wind’s knocked out of me, and I lay on my back in the snow, panting. I hear footsteps crunching closer, and then Kate’s there, hovering above me. She crouches down, one hand resting on her knee, the other readjusting scarf tighter around her neck.