Page 8 of The Danger Kiss

Close enough to be seen and spoken to, but far enough so as not to be touched.

Because I could not be touched.

Not since fifteen years ago.

Not since I first found out the bitter truth about my Manifestation.

two

The Family

Ihaven't spoken much with anyone in months.

My family sent messages and requests and commission offers; sometimes they spoke with me on the phone. The conversations had always been about money.

"How about a DNA-specific poison? Ingestion only."

"Two billion."

"Induce incurable catatonia. Probably an accelerated hallucinogen, one that would overload the brain circuits."

"A square billion."

I have seen Timur walking past the greenhouse every now and then. Sometimes I would see him lurking outside the greenhouse, peering through the fortified, filtered glass, trying to look at me while I pored over the chemicals and formulas on my laboratory table. Just when I would call out to invite him in, he would disappear.

There was once a brief visit from my Grandfather, Tenno, on his way out to a mission. He had only stayed for about twenty minutes, long enough to take a look at my hybrid Venus flytraps and have three cups of cut-black tea.

Every now and then I would see my mother outside, occasionally with poor Timur in tow, walking up and down the path to the mansion. It was always my mother screeching something, with my little brother trailing quietly behind, biding his time until he was old enough to forge his own way into our strange little world.

It was Mirosh with whom I spoke the most, at least in matters concerning work. He was painfully ambitious, yet painfully lacking, only two years younger than myself yet still a vainly jealous child.

If Timur and I had long since resigned ourselves to Rukko's inevitable inheritance of our family business, it was different with Mirosh. He believed that he worked harder and was better, more responsible and therefore more deserving as the rightful heir in leadership of the family trade.

"I'm offering half a billion for a granule of nerve cyanide, Blanca. One I could place on the back of an ant."

"Three quarters of a billion, Mirosh."

I'm also thinking of inventing a bomb I could strap onto an insect. Any idea how we can tell the fly – or maybe a bee—to detect the target?”

"We can try out the pheromone principle. We make the insect think that the target's scent is a pheromone. I can do that with a bit of gene manipulation, as long as you have the target's DNA signature."

"Do you think they'll like this idea of mine, huh?"

"It's very...innovative. Um...very stealthy."

"I knew you'd see it my way, Blanca. Us middle children should always stick together, you know.”

It was all very sad, with him. He will always be like that, Mirosh. Sometimes it is very difficult when you do not know your rightful place, when you so desperately want to be something you're not.

Once upon a time, I had fooled myself with an illusion of the Blanca Zola I wanted to become. When the illusion crumbled so suddenly, the pain was something I had barely escaped from with my life.

Sometimes I wonder about escape, the real kind, about living like most other people would. In one of the many cities, I could perhaps find my own way, find freelance jobs with corporations and other families that needed my formulations. I had neither allegiances nor loyalties, save to my own trade and to my family.

It would be interesting to live like that, wouldn’t it?

To move freely, to trade as I see fit, to have lovers and, perhaps, friends.

Friends.

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