Page 11 of Below the Shadow of the City
CHAPTER 11
SUNDAY, LATE SEPTEMBER (SEPTEMBER 30, TO BE EXACT)
S omething about “Adam” had overtaken me. Maybe he holds mystical powers that make me little more than a marionette on a string, or maybe I’m still chasing the high of actually feeling like I like someone for the first time in forever. I'd made cookies for him. Again. Baking is easy when it’s a substitute for an apology. I might not know the words I want to say to him, but I know how to make cookies. The first time I’d made them it was uncomfortable and stiff, my body relearning how to do it. This time it was much easier, and it feels like a dance I’ve only now remembered the choreography to.
My peace offering sits in my hands and the second I round the corner in the laundry room I slow my pace towards him as he leans casually in the doorway. He smiles at me, a sweet, crooked expression that makes me wonder why I even was scared of him in the first place. The plastic container holding my apology cookies sit in my hands that are now growing clammy. The fear I’d felt when I first saw him has been replaced by something else entirely, something strange that I can’t make myself unpack in this exact moment. The checkered tiles of the laundry room floor separate us like a vast ocean and I’m paddling in a rowboat trying to cross.
Then, in a flash, I’m moving without any conscious decision to. My body is on autopilot, my legs are trekking across the floor faster and faster. I’m still clutching the cookies, my sweaty palms are slick against the plastic container. My brain has shut off any logical thought, it instead thrusts me to him. He seems to anticipate my approach, he turns and opens his arms wide. I drop the box to the floor and meet him for what I assume is a hug that quickly turns to him lifting me off of the ground like I weigh nothing to him. Logic hasn’t caught up to me yet, so I find myself willingly clutched in the massive arm muscles of a literal monster.
“Hi,” I mutter, still held by him. I have half a mind to lean into the dramatic greeting we’ve just had and kiss him.
“Hi,” he parrots, and my stomach turns over.
He smells incredible, like fresh pine with something smoky and warm lurking beneath. I rest my hand on his arm, then jerk it back quickly once it hits me that it is literal fur I’m touching.
In the split second I feel him, I do make the observation that the thick mahogany fur is incredibly soft. Though, I don’t touch the exposed parts of him again, being especially careful not to pet him like he’s some animal, he’s not an animal right? Fears of this being a semi-immoral relationship cross my mind, but a chuckle from within his chest quells them.
My fingers settle across his forearm, right above where the sleeves of his canvas jacket have been rolled up. I thought most monsters wore tattered shreds and cloaks, not this. Is monster even the right word for him?
There’s a rumbling from within his chest, so strong I can nearly feel it. Fear clenches my gut. Is he hungry? Was he luring me down here to eat me?
“You came back,” he says with such hope in his voice that I can’t fathom him wanting to tear me apart limb from limb and feast on my insides. He sets me down and I take the smallest step backwards.
“I did. This is,” I shakily inhale, “really, really fucking weird for me.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he says sweetly. “Nothing’s changed, it’s been me this entire time. It’s my fingers that have texted you and my voice on the other end of the phone.”
“You’re just so…real?” Normal words have seemed to escape me completely, I’ve turned into some sort of bumbling idiot.
“I am,” he agrees.
I have a bizarre primal urge to climb him like a tree. There’s a twisting in my stomach that’s curled down between my legs. I’m not about to fuck him in this basement a minute after our first real meeting, but I fantasize about him tossing me over his shoulder and throwing me atop the line of laundry machines.
And suddenly there is a complete magnetic pull of my face towards his, an unstoppable force that would not let me hold myself back. I’m about to kiss him, and I don’t quite know the logistics of how.
My eyes graze over his pursed lips, and track to the two points of fangs that stick down on either side of his slightly upturned mouth. I have to go for it and dive right into the deep end here. I reach my hand around the back of his head and tangle my fingers through his incredibly soft dark mane. His eyes flutter backwards a bit and that same deep rumbling noise comes out of him. Listening again I realize the sound reminds me of almost a purr that vibrates deep within him. My heartbeat quickens and he wraps his hands around my waist, pulling my body dangerously close against his.
Our mouths collide, not quite a car crash, but like two bumper cars. It’s slow, and strange, and neither of us quite know what to do. We’re both hesitant at first, our hands desperately grasp at the other with careful caressing. It’s like we’re two teenagers in a parked car after a football game. Then, with a sharp inhale, we find our rhythm.
He bites at my lower lip, carefully with his blunt front teeth. A thought flashes in my mind of how it would feel for those fangs to sink into my flesh, I suddenly crave the sharp pain of it. His tongue juts through my lips and I taste him, he’s hot and sweet and I savor all of it. As I drink him in, he migrates his hand from the small of my back across the front of my leggings.
“This alright?” He speaks so softly, my heart twists.
“Yes,” I peep, he stops for a split second and looks at me, “one thousand percent yes.” I answer more confidently. A devilish grin crosses his face.
His hand spreads my legs and grips between them. I let out a soft whimpering moan, I can’t stop myself as the pad of his finger runs along the seam. It places a slight bit of pressure that makes my thighs tremble.
A stifled laugh escapes his mouth as he feels the heat radiating from between my legs and the layers of fabric I’ve now soaked through at his very touch. I’m barely able to stay upright, his palm keeping me steady. “Must not be that weird for you,” he breathes into my ear. I tremble a bit, I’m on the verge of collapsing onto him. I’m starving for him, I didn’t even know I was hungry until now, and this is only the appetizer.
“Where did you come from?” I shake the lusting thoughts away for now, at the very least I should know something real about him.
“New Jersey, obviously,” he chuckles, a little nervously, his clawed fingertips rubbing his brow. “I’m kidding, uh, how do I explain this. There’s another city, underground.” I stare blankly.
He continues, “so, this is your basement, right?” I nod. “But where I’m from this is the top floor, actually above the top floor. ”
The information is so baffling I can’t process it as fact. What does he mean there’s another city, how is that possible? I’ve been underground, everyone in the city has. There’s a network of subway stations and tunnels stories below ground. What he’s proposing would be something straight out of a fantasy, right?
“Let me get this straight, there’s another city, below this one, filled with a bunch of?—”
“Monsters?” He cuts me off with a snarky grin.
I stutter a bit, saying what he is to his face feels wrong. “That isn’t the word I’d use.” What would the correct word be for him? When I saw him in the alleyway he was a monster, but whoever is before me is something else entirely.
“What, people of monstrous traits? Something more politically correct? We’re monsters. Orcs, ogres, minotaurs, centaurs, shifters, run of the mill fae beasts like myself, and many, many others.”
“Fae beasts,” I repeat quietly. Only one of him existing was something I’d barely wrapped my head around. I could write it off as folklore or a fairy tale come to life, I’d seen the movies and read the books. Stories were based in truth, right? But the thought of an entire society of these beings? “I’m sorry, what the fuck?” My thought slipped out before I could stop it, my eyes dart to his, looking for any bit of anger.
“It is New York after all,” he smiles with a wink, then pauses for a moment, thinking. “Do you trust me?”
I release any apprehension I’ve felt. I think I trust him, I’ve poured my heart out to him over the phone for weeks now. And for the first time, I don’t have a shred of doubt about what I’m about to do. I’ve been curious for a while, I need answers, and this is the best way to get them.
If I believed in fate, it would appear that every failed date and lonely night in the apartment has led me to this precise moment. I nod nervously and he extends his hand. I get a close look at the soft leathery pads of his palms and the thick onyx claws jutting out at the tips.
Briefly, he curls his fingers back and lowers it to his side, but I reach for him. My hand rests in his palm and disappears entirely when he closes his into a fist.
“Wait,” I say. “The cookies. As an apology.” I turn and pick up the cast aside plastic container with my free hand.
He opens the door to his side of the room and leads me down a dark hallway. There are corridors extending what seems like infinitely from the main hall we’re walking down. It’s a grid system that appears to be a replica of the streets above, each leading off into darkness.
“Now that you’re kidnapping me, can I get your real name?” I say as I trail behind him. Every stride of his is three of mine and he’s practically dragging me by the arm.
“Maddox,” he laughs. “Maddox Canavar.” I repeat it a few times under my breath to sense how it feels escaping my lips. It fits him far better than the fake nickname I’d given him.
As we walk he explains the mechanics of how this city works. How over a century ago the U.S. government quietly exiled large populations of supposed monsters to rudimentary underground cities or hidden rural communities. In the decades since, these places have flourished, most families built generational wealth from the ground up. Or down, in this particular case. Aside from simplistic trade deals to ensure that there’s continued access to food and goods, the government has meddled little since. Which given what I know of American history, is perhaps the most surprising piece of all of it.
“So you have social security numbers, the postal service, and can vote ?” He nods, and I am trying to understand how one of the biggest government secrets in existence has been successfully kept for decades.
We reach an elevator and he presses the button. “An elevator is all that separates your world from mine?” I wait for flashes of magic or something otherworldly to happen, but it’s a basic, if not slightly outdated, elevator.
“Oddly simple, right?” He replies as I watch the numbers tick up, each flashes with an amber glow. “There are a handful of folks who have managed to establish lives and careers up above. Usually those with appearances that are easier to hide than mine. My sister doesn't have the same traits I do and is a lawyer. I know a vampire who’s a high ranking tech executive, and a wolf shifter who was on New York’s city council for a bit.” The elevator reaches our floor and the doors slide open to reveal a fluorescent-lit box. He enters and I pause. It’s unbelievable. Almost.
He and I stand on opposite sides, each thrumming with a nervous energy. I watch him interlace his fingers and nervously pick at his claws. I’m similarly twitching, I hear a thumping sound and look down and notice my foot tapping without any conscious input on my end. I forcefully stop it and proceed to drum my fingers against my side. It’s silent, but not awkward. He seems like he’s about to speak a handful of times, but each word stops itself before escaping his mouth.
The elevator slows to a stop and dings on a floor in the upper teens. I realize I don't have a single clue what to expect from this society below. It could be dark, dank, and haunted. It could be a veritable prison cell. The elevator opens to a vast brick hallway with warm reclaimed wood floors. It…is the nicest hallway I’ve seen in an apartment building. Across from the elevator is a high end side table with a glowing lamp and a goddamned linen-scented candle burning on it. The place feels expensive, I’m suddenly concerned I’m underdressed in my leggings and thrifted flannel.
“This is me,” Maddox says carefully, he steps out of the elevator and takes a right. I quickly follow, mouth agape at how much more luxurious this is than my own building. Shortly down the hallway he fishes around in his pocket for a set of keys, then unlocks the heavy steel door to his unit.
Stylistically it’s incredibly similar to the hallway, the walls are made of warm brown brick and the floors are a dark rustic wood. The ceilings easily stretch over twelve feet tall, he looked cramped in the laundry we’ve been in, here he’s proportionate. It’s a loft style, completely open with a massive kitchen ( oh my god those marble countertops ) and a spacious living room. There’s slight clutter, a pile of mail on the kitchen island, a hoodie tossed over the side of the couch, and a few chairs askew. It’s disheveled enough to make the space look lived in. The heart of the apartment is a very large flat screen TV and surround sound system. It looks like any other apartment a wealthy NYC bachelor would have, except the windows look to be made of light panels. They’re currently dimmed to appear as though it’s early evening.
If you took a gander at him you’d assume he lives in a haunted castle or hidden cave deep in the woods. When I first saw him in the alleyway I firmly believed he would toss a shroud over his shoulders and run off to some crumbling stone tower. I can’t tell if I’m incredibly pleased or somewhat disappointed that he instead resides in an apartment far nicer than mine.
I can’t stop focusing on his kitchen, that glorious kitchen, that is glowing like a beacon to me. He has a high end induction stove, massive marble countertops that I can picture myself rolling out dough on, and a double oven. If I had a kitchen like this I’d make sure to use it to its full potential. It’s the stuff of Pinterest boards.
Amidst my gawking at appliances I’ll never afford, Maddox settles in quickly, removing his massive jacket and draping it over one of the stools at the kitchen island and crossing the room. My eyes track down his body to a pair of bare feet that are very clearly paw shaped. His biceps stretch in the faded graphic tee he’s wearing. It’s the most I’ve seen of his arms. His chest is wide and sturdy, and tapers to a narrow waist hugged by a pair of expensive looking jeans, notably with a hole cut in the back to make room for his fluffy tail.
“Want a drink?” he opens an upper cabinet and pulls out two wine glasses. When he reaches up, his shirt lifts and reveals a strip of dark fur across his hips. There’s an unfamiliar animalistic lust I have to swallow down every few moments. Every time he stretches, cracks his jaw, or speaks there’s an iron ball that’s dropped in the pit of my stomach. It is…distracting, to say the least. I really fucking need a drink.
“Uh, yeah, what do you have?” I'm desperately attempting to be normal and casual. I’ve been in someone’s apartment alone with them before, I know what the glasses of wine and light conversation lead to. It’s a pattern I’m familiar with, with a few slight differences. Mainly, the someone.
He flings open a pantry across the kitchen that’s a pseudo wine cellar, stacked floor to ceiling with bottles of varying colors, ages, and price tags.
“You have a wine cellar ?” I nearly choke at the sight.
“Family members love to gift wine to me for some reason. I can’t tell the difference between any of them, other than white and red. This is an accumulation of many birthdays, dinner parties, and random holidays,” he shrugs his broad shoulders, the fabric of his shirt stretches. “Take your pick. Drink whatever strikes your fancy so it won’t go to waste.”
I don’t even know what most of the labels are, they’re either out of my price range or not available above ground in the realm I live in. I extract a bottle of average looking Merlot and hand it to him. Our fingers brush and his touch sends a flurry to my center. From the quick furrowing of his brows, I think it did something to him, too.
“You have a wine cellar but not in unit laundry?” I ask.
“Would you believe me if I told you I’m just too lazy to buy the appliances and get them installed? ”
“Considering money seems to be no object for you, yes. It is pretty unbelievable.”
Maddox gestures to a sticky note with “washing machine/dryer” written on it. “That’s been there for two years. I haven’t gotten around to it.” I give him a suspicious glance.
He does a “scout’s honor” style pose, “I swear. I’m a horrendous procrastinator, besides, I didn’t mind the trek to your laundry room.”
“I’m a horrendous procrastinator too,” I smile at him. “My laundry basket has had a broken handle for five years and I haven’t replaced it.”
He chuckles, pops the cork of the wine bottle, and pours the glasses while I lean pensively on the island. I notice his hand shake a bit as he pours, a hilarious sight from such a massive, terrifying creature. From my place behind the marble countertop he can’t see me nervously bouncing my leg, and for once, I think I have the upper hand here. Even though every single thing he’s doing is making me want to pounce on him like a cheetah. I watch him from my spot here, his mane tumbles over his shoulders in glorious chocolate-y waves. I twirl a dark brown strand of my own locks, painfully lacking any volume like his.
He’s far easier to digest in pieces. The silky mane, the voice, the strong hands. Initial shock has all but worn off. Even now, it’s comical how I ran off in fear when he first revealed himself to me. But there’s still a lot to take in, heightened still by the fact that I’m currently standing in his kitchen.
With a nod, he gestures for us to move to the living room and I dutifully follow.
I sit stiffly on the couch, made with high end leather from cows that probably live more lusciously than I do. It feels illegal to relax on it, though Maddox is clearly settled into his well worn spot on the cushions. “Okay, so obviously you’re rich. ”
“I’m…comfortable, I guess,” he nervously replies. Even across species there’s that “oh pssh” body language that every wealthy individual takes on once the money conversation comes up.
“That’s what really rich people say,” I retort.
He stretches his neck and rests an arm across the back of the cushion, the tips of his claws sit a few inches from my shoulders. His open arm seems like an invitation to settle against his broad chest, but I hesitate. My body twitches like it wants to catapult itself into that empty space.
“You know that whole generational wealth thing I’d mentioned? I’m more or less a beneficiary of it. My great grandpa got into business decades ago and managed to find quite a bit of success, my grandpa and dad did the same. Each generation is a little wealthier than the last, though that’ll probably end with me. My dad sold the business to some humans. Now, his old partner runs it while he enjoys the massive lake house he bought upstate.”
“So you could live above ground if you wanted?”
“It’s a risk. One he took because the area he’s in is so rural. Plus, he has the funds to fight anyone who tries to tell him he can’t. His employees sign an NDA, he gets everything delivered, and when I travel to see him I take a private car with tinted windows or I drive myself and hope that no one notices.”
“And your mom…?”
“She passed away when I was around eleven or so. You’d think that a fae could outsmart cancer but it claims us just as often as it does humans.” He shares the information matter of factly, there’s a clear distance between her death and now.
“I’m so, so sorry,” I say quietly.
“It was so long ago. Losing a parent at that age is tough, you know? You’re already at a strange time in your life, and then suddenly someone who’s been your rock your entire life is ripped from you like that. It’s been eighteen years since I lost her. It’s weird to think that I’ve been without her for longer than I had her.”
I feel a knot of guilt in my chest for how ambivalent I am about my parents. How I keep them at arm’s length at all times and never manage to give them more than perfunctory answers about my life.
I try to picture young Maddox, a smaller version of himself klutzy and tumbling around, and then I think of myself at that same age. Back then, my parents were the center of my universe. I’d stumble out of the school bus to warm homemade cookies and my dad would pull into the driveway at night and burst through the door with a bright smile. Then, when I came out a few years later they tried their best to not change how they saw me, but things shifted. Sometimes, I wish my memory of them was frozen in that time before. In a way, I envy that he gets a glossy, rosy view of his mom forever.
“And your parents?” He asks almost perfectly on cue, not wanting to delve further into this particular piece of him.
“They live on Long Island, in the same house I grew up in. They don’t come to the city often, maybe a few times a year, and almost never to Brooklyn. I usually only go out there for Thanksgiving and Christmas. You’d think there was more than the Long Island Railroad separating us. But, those chocolate chip cookies?” I nod to the plastic container I dropped on the counter when we first walked in. “Those are based on my mom’s recipe, all I did was tweak the recipe a bit. So in a way, she’s responsible for us meeting.”
“Tell her I give her my many thanks,” he smiles slightly, with the rest of his face making a knowing expression that bringing him up at all to them is relatively complex.
A piece of me would love to face that conflict, because that would mean we were a true couple. Any other person would also want the same outcome out of this meeting. It’s what I should be pursuing .
Our weeks of virtual communication back and forth were easy. As badly as I had wanted to meet him then, I think I had secretly hoped that we never would.
If we never met, I wouldn’t subject him to my curse, and I wouldn’t inevitably lose him. Instead, I let things go too far already. He’s real now, our chemistry in person is all too obvious. I can’t let it go on. Maybe I’m giving this curse too much power over me, but if I let things go any further, it’s going to get harder and harder when the end comes.
So instead tonight has to be reduced to two strangers waiting for an appropriate time to fuck each other and never see each other again. Because that’s all I could allow this to be.