As Lei-selle walked the halls of Aalish Secondary School, the students parted like the Red Sea. She used to love it when the other Hybrids around her recognized her status as the Den leader's child, now it only brought unwanted attention and constant hostility. She stomped her way down the old side steps of the building, students hugging the walls. One or two defensively flashed the slashes of their Controls in her direction. Lines of blues and yellows cut through the irises in their menacing stares indicating the booming population of Mixers and Executioners respectively. However, they could do nothing against her, and they knew that all too well. Until the power struggle between her and the four notable Clairvoyagers of the Den was over, they could not touch a single hair on her head or theirs. Once the winner of the current match was announced, the loser would be thrown to these wolves of the school.
Lei-selle's small cloth bag of lunch swayed at her side as she claimed her seat at the head table of the lunch hall. In the reflection of the large clock spanning floor to ceiling and three meters across, she surveyed the activities of the lunch area. Her eyes glared into the reflection, graffitied in anger, all sharp lethal corners and loud fierce colours. Her red slash cut a deep crevice straight down the dark brown of her irises, glinting off the clock for all to see her mark as Clairvoyager. Not that they did not know already. The golden-brown of her skin was muddled in the dingy, old glass and the dark coils of her hair were splayed at odd angles.
A pair of yellow slashes, cutting diagonally from right to left made its way towards her from the wide bay doors. Lei-selle hid her surprise at how early Eitan-Mort Cozbinava was behind a forkful of steamed rice and vegetables. She was not happy being seen with a Cozbinava, their family was ruthless in the conning scene and could never be trusted. That morning, she decided to hear him out on a whim since he pestered her all of August.
"Nice to see you again," Eitan-Mort gave her a wide smile, his dark brown skin glistening to pronounce his dimples.
Lei-selle had to admit, he had his good looks going for him with the combination of dark skin, beautifully kept mop of curly hair and the slight French accent. Those were all good tools to solicit anyone's attention. Why he wanted hers, she still had to find out.
"Did your mom cook for you?" He asked nodding at her lunch.
"What do you want?" Lei-selle did not look up at him.
He chuckled. "Straight to the point, huh?" When she took an aggressive bite from the baked chicken thigh in her bowl, he moved on, "You still need Kin right? I think we both can agree that I'm your best bet." At this, he placed a proud hand on his chest and then swept his other arm like he was presenting piles of gold to a king.
"You lost that bet, Cozbi," she spat out a bit of bone, "I'm not taking your kind into my Kin."
Eitan-Mort smiled as though he had expected this. "Don't be so quick to that decision," he said slowly leaning onto the table like one approaching a sleeping lion. "Rumour has it that you're due for Collection and, without Kin, you can't do that alone."
Lei-selle finally looked up at him, more past him over his left shoulder to regard the reflection in the clock. The number of slashes that were facing their way looked like a sea of blue and yellow glowsticks.
"Who's spreading such rumours," she stretched her forearm casually in his direction, flashing the small razor she hid beneath the sleeve of her burgundy cardigan.
Eitan-Mort took that as his cue to back up. As he leaned back, he shrugged in her direction, "Words in the wind, we can forget about it."
Satisfied, she returned her hand to steady her bowl. "And if such rumours were true, which we can both agree they are not, what are you suggesting, Cozbi?"
As the question left her lips, he visibly tensed, and the blood left his fingertips where he gripped the table. "I'm in a predicament."
Lei-selle's fork froze on the way to her lips, some rice falling back into the bowl. "Oh, hell on fire," she scoffed.
"Please, I really need this!" Eitan-Mort pleaded. "Below is clawing at me to kill something and it's driving me mad!"
Lei-selle placed her fork down. She sympathised with Eitan-Mort. Since she killed her last Kin, a whiny brat of a Mixer from a nameless Den, she had been pestered with the same Dream for days. And the moon's cycle was slowly ending. The next timeframe for Collection would not be for another 3 weeks after Dredging Day, and she was sure she might tear herself apart during that time. The only time Hybrids were allowed the Collection of humans was during the peak days the moon was lit, that is from full moon to last quarter, more commonly known as Massacre Night and Dredging Day. Lei-selle suspected that if the timeframe was any more than that, the Earth would cease to have a population to Collect.
Despite this, Lei-selle still hesitated. The last person in the entire universe she wanted to Claim was a Cozbinava. The Abaddons were known for their grudges and her mother had made sure to hammer home that no Cozbinavas would be allowed in her Den. Yet here Eitan-Mort was, assumedly living with his great-aunt and uncle, and to place the cherry on top of the cake; he was practically begging her to Claim him. Scratch that, he was begging her to Claim him as her Kin, with the way he sat there, his hands clasped in front of him and giving her the most dismal puppy dog eyes, she had ever seen. A snail could play that role better than him.
As Lei-selle's thoughts swirled with the imminent regret of the action she was about to take, her nails dug fiercely into her palms leaving near permanent dents. Suddenly, a force overtook her body, and her heart began beating chaotically in her chest. The force felt like gravity had increased ten times over, determined to drag her right through the grout between the tiles. In her reflection, she caught the flickering of her slashes and could feel how Below affected the veins around her eyes, bursting beneath her skin. The same was happening to Eitan-Mort, and he writhed in his seat, the chair screeching against the speckled tile as he forced himself to sit still. Her hand slowly crawled to the razor in her sleeve.
Before she could cut into her skin and summon her weapon, she slammed a hand down on the table. The sea of slashes in the clock made a visible, synchronised flinch.
After releasing a harsh breath, she finally looked Eitan-Mort in the eyes. "Fine," she spat, "I'll Claim your sorry ass as my Kin."
Lei-selle tossed her chair behind her and barely leapt across the table to grab Eitan-Mort's lower jaw. Terror turned his eyes wild, but when he realised what she was doing, triumph took over his expression.
"Eitan-Mort Cozbinava, spawn of the Den that scourges the Earth with poverty, do you swear to never reach Above?" She growled at Eitan-Mort.
"I swear," he mumbled through her tight grip.
Lei-selle's slashes burned so bright it created a red haze over his skin. From her hands crept the etching of her Clairvoyager's mark, it puckered her blood vessels so that a maze of bright red stretched across her hand. The red seeped from her pores and slithered into his eyes. Soon, his yellow slashes were constricted by thin red strings and his eyes teared up from the discomfort, spilling over to stain her hand. Now any Clairvoyager that sought to Claim him as theirs would be punished by Below's thorns for even trying.
Once the Claiming ritual was done, Lei-selle tossed his head away and collapsed into her chair as she tenderly massaged her eyes. Eitan-Mort rubbed the tears from his face then massaged his chin and cheeks where she had clamped her fist around his jaw. Without another word, Lei-selle gathered her things and stomped out of the lunch hall, every witness fixing firm stares into her back.
At the doorway, she shoved into the strange Mixer she had met that morning to exert her frustration. These Hybrids she despised with all her passion because their Control allowed them to manipulate minds and emotions. It was the perfect opportunity for Lei-selle and she gained satisfaction from the frail girl tripping over the heels of her shoes and falling onto the floor. She justified that the girl deserved it since she was just standing in the middle of the already wide doorway, slack-jawed.
"What did you do to him?" She stuttered.
Lei-selle gained even more satisfaction knowing that she had the opportunity to enact Cicatrix on this Mixer. And she was going to enjoy it.