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The sensation of a chuckle and a grin from deep inside my mind is the only answer.
But it’s enough.
“Just tell me you didn’t kill whoever it was here in the house.”
A dry, offended feeling comes up, so strong my own eyebrow twitches as if it wants to arch at the question.
“Oh, please. Like you haven’t made that mistake before.”
Bulging eyes narrow. She doesn’t like to be reminded of the times she’s messed up.
I sigh. “Fine. Could you at least try brushing our teeth before we pass out next time?”
A glower. She hates toothpaste, no matter what flavor I buy. It’s not like it does much for her teeth anyway.
I roll my eyes and swing my legs out of bed. There aren’t any blood spots where I can see, but I’ll run the UV light over this place later just to be sure.
Ah, the joys of life as a Jekyll.
Over the centuries, supernatural scholars have held plenty of theories as to what we are. Our Jekyll sides look human—regular skin, regular eyes, teeth that have seen a dentist in our lifetimes—while it’s really just a free-for-all with the Hydes. Because of the Hydes, though, scholars lump us in with monsters, even if it’s a rough connection at best. Gargoyles, wraiths, and so on aren’t the same as us on multiple levels, not the least of which is that they know they don’t come from this world. We’re fairly certain we do, though since our origins are murky, we can’t be one hundred percent sure.
But throughout history, there’ve been theories about us, practically one for every age. In ancient times, some people called us children of Janus, the god with two faces. Others said we were connected to Hathor, the Egyptian goddess of multiple forms, or Kali, the Indian goddess with several aspects. Then Christianity came along and colonized whole chunks of the world, and in those places, we were suddenly considered souls possessed by Satan, in need of exorcism or—when that failed—death to save us.
Not fun.
Robert Louis Stevenson ambled in several centuries later, writing the book that gave us our current names, though he got more than a few details wrong. Eventually, modern medicine jumped on the “explain us” train, with supernatural doctors trying to say we were byproducts of radiation or shapeshifter twins conjoined in unusual ways. Then came psychology, which our Hydes never really trusted. It didn’t get any easier when those professionals claimed the Hydes were really just suppressed emotions or figments of our imagination that we could be counseled or medicated out of possessing, because they actually only existed in our minds.
Yeah, folks didn’t hang on to that theory for long—and not just because the Hydes liked to prove their existence by eating the ones espousing it.
But as much as I know the rest of the supernatural world would like a way to explain our kind, the reality is, it doesn’t much matter. We may not have legends telling where we came from like the wolf shifters do, or ancient origin stories like the vampires claim, but we have a calling and our Hydes do too.
Though in their case, it’s one that tastes awful and sometimes gets a bit messy.
A hot shower and a visit with my toothbrush later, I’m feeling enough like myself to face what remains of the day and so I head for the stairs. There are three other doors in the hall on this level, and four more on the next floor down. They’re all closed, same as they always are unless some of my associates are passing through and need a place to stay.
In their circles—the circles of the underground that save supernaturals from being the victims of predatory humans called traders—this house is code-named La Fleur, and it offers a place for all kinds of people to hide.
But right now, my home is so empty, so quiet, that the high ceiling makes my footsteps echo and I can hear every creak of the old wooden floor as I walk.
The sounds are all familiar and comforting in their way, as are the smells of herbs and flowers that carry from the ground floor and give the house its code name. I hang those everywhere, partly for use in the magical spells I concoct for clients and partly for comfort. Just one more way to ground myself back in who I am. What I’m doing.
The life I’ve built in my family home, even if I’m the only one left here.
Creepy glowers at me again from the darkness of my mind. She doesn’t like to be reminded of that either.
The fact we’re alone.
I exhale sharply, reminding her it’s for the best. Mom and Dad passed away years ago, and as far as family is concerned, that just leaves Auntie, who lives in the Appalachian Mountains so she can protect the locals there, and Uncle—her brother—who lives out in the Pacific Northwest for the same reason. And yeah, there used to be more of us. People who weren’t my relatives. Other families my parents mentioned from time to time. But life saw fit to fuck that up too, and since I never met any of those folks and they’ve never tried to come visit, by this point I’m guessing none of them are still alive.
Add to that the fact we can’t just tell what one another is on sight—as Jekylls, we look the same as any other human on the street—and that means Creepy and I haven’t laid eyes on one of own kind in years.
Truth is, there just aren’t enough of us anymore, so the ones who are left spread out and help where we can. And besides, we’re doing fine on our own.
If we don’t get too close to anyone, we can’t really lose anyone else, now can we?
She mumbles unhappily in my mind, but she doesn’t argue. She knows I’m right.
I push open the swinging kitchen door and freeze. “Oh, for the gods’ sakes, Creepy. Are you kidding me?”
