ONE
JACKAL
In the animal kingdom, women are the hunters and men wear the pretty colors.
A masquerade ball! Imagine that. I wear a mask and I still can’t conceal myself in a room with three hundred women. I should have worn a dress. I move through the room, charm full-throttle, a bottle of champagne in my hand. My motto: why order a glass when you can have the whole bottle? I am a novelty, a hero. Women reach out and touch my sleeve like I can impregnate them through contact. I am a god without power. I belong not to myself, but to everyone in this room, everyone in the Regions.
A she-demon stops me—literally a she-demon, she’s even wearing horns—and asks for a sip. She tilts her head back and I raise the bottle, pouring some into her mouth and purposely spilling some down her chin. The liquid leaves a trail down her neck and across one generous breast, disappearing into her dress. I use my tongue to clean her up. There are squeals all around, and damn, if I haven’t started a trend. They open their mouths like guppies and now I’m going to need a new bottle of champagne. I move on; there’s somewhere I’m trying to be.
“Jackal,” I hear my name called. I know who it is and I pretend to not hear. “Jackal!”
I turn, the smile never leaving my face. “Yessss, Selfish?” Her name is Selfice, pronounced Sel-feece. I’m not even kidding, her parents named her that and they were sober, but I call her Selfish because she’s my handler and I hate her.
“Lottery.” She snaps her fingers in my face. I snap back.
“I’m not drunk enough yet.”
“Well, stop sharing your champagne.”
I wink and hand her the nearly empty bottle. “Be a good babysitter and get me another.” I’m swallowed into a large group of women and she can’t reach me.
“Jackal,” one of them says. “Have a drink with us outside. We were just headed to get some fresh air.”
“Lead the way, ladies,” I say. “So long as you’re buying.”
They titter in excitement. Truth is, I haven’t bought my own drink in ten years, the benefit to being an End Man. There are many benefits—the jet for example, and the fact that when you’re one of the last men on earth, you can have whatever you want, whenever you want it.
We emerge onto a large terrace that overlooks a lush garden. The warm air touches us with sticky fingertips, and I pull off my tux jacket and toss it out of sight. Selfish can find it later. I have a drink in each hand, and I’m sitting on a wall with two dozen women clustered around me, content until the dreaded topic comes up.
“As far as I’m concerned, Folsom and Gwen Allison are responsible for that boy’s death,” one of them says. “She’s a troublemaker, and I’m glad they’ve tossed her in prison. Both of them should have to pay.”
“I’d like to be the one to punish Folsom.”
I can’t tell who that came from and resist the urge to roll my eyes.
“Kinky,” someone throws in.
I inwardly groan. There hasn’t been an escape to this conversation in weeks—it’s all anyone wants to talk about. Selfish brings a new bottle of champagne and I toss back what’s left of the drinks in my hand before swigging from the bottle, a little piece of leftover foil cutting into my lip.
Marie DelaRosa speaks up. I like Marie; she can orgasm six times in a row and still have the energy for a blow job. “Well, I heard that they tried to auction off his virginity and that’s what sent Gwen Allison over the edge. And if you ask me, I don’t blame her.”
Nice, Marie.
“I have a sixteen-year-old daughter. Laticus was no saint, trust me. I know what they get up to at that age…”
I frown at the speaker. She’s on the shorter side—stocky, and she’s wearing a butterfly mask that’s too big for her face.Maybe if you didn’t pimp your daughters out like broodmares, they’d be better behaved.
“They could have just waited until he was of age. What’s that?” She lifts a shoulder. “Two more years? What’s the big deal? We’re doomed anyway, no use stealing his childhood.”
I snicker and she blushes, pleased that she got a reaction out of me.
“But we aren’t doomed yet,” someone else says. “We still have men and they’re willing to help. If the boy had sperm, why not use it?”
“Hioki,” one of them gasps, “women like you are the reason there’s a rebellion in the first place. This whole thing needed to be handled with a gentler touch.”
“If you ask me, we don’t need the End Men at all. It’s just an excuse for the Society to make money off of us.”
I stare at that one. She’s in black and covered in shadow. She’s sounding like Gwen did toward the end. I’d like to know where Gwen got her theories…