I ran after her before she reached the main street.
"Ayla, wait!" I caught up and, on a stupid instinct, tried to grab her by the shoulder.
Bad idea.
She turned faster than my eye could track. In a blink her hand was closed around my wrist. She didn't squeeze, but I felt the latent force—hard as a hydraulic press. If she wanted, she could have crushed the bones in my wrist right there like dry twigs.
She let me go with a sharp shove.
"Don't touch me," she growled. Her eyes weren't my weird neighbor's eyes anymore. They were the eyes of a cornered animal. "You said you'd feed me. Keep your promise."
"Okay, okay," I raised my hands in peace, rubbing my aching wrist. "Let's get something to eat. But change that face, please."
I took her to El Gato Tuerto, a dive three blocks away that served greasy ribs and, most importantly, didn't ask questions. We sat in the darkest booth at the back.
I ordered four plates of meat.
Ayla didn't wait. She ate with her hands, tearing meat from the bone with a silent, efficient violence. She crushed cartilage with her teeth. The sound made my teeth itch.
I didn't take a bite. I just drank a beer, watching her, trying to fit the puzzle pieces in my head. Combat drugs? Genetic experiment? What the hell are you?
The bar was full. At the next table a group of truckers drank and watched TV. One of those viral clip shows was on.
One of the men let out a booming laugh, slapping the table. "HA HA HA!"
Ayla froze mid-chew with a bone half eaten in her mouth. Her head turned mechanically toward the neighboring table. She tensed. The table knife in her other hand bent slowly under the pressure of her fingers like it was made of plastic.
"That male," Ayla whispered, never taking her eyes off the trucker. "He's baring teeth. Diaphragm contraction. Prepares a sound attack."
"What?" I looked at the guys. "No, Ayla. He's laughing."
"In nature, showing the teeth of the mouth is a death threat," she hissed, lowering her voice into a growl. "It means 'look what I will tear you with.' Should I attack first before he lunges?"
She was already rising from her seat, eyes fixed on the man's jugular.
"No!" I threw myself on the table and placed my hand on her forearm—carefully. "Sit down! No one is going to attack anyone!"
She looked at me, confused and aggressive.
"Shows fangs. Hostile."
"He's not hostile. He's laughing. It's… happiness. Fun. We do it when something is funny or to release tension. It's a sign that everything's okay."
Ayla frowned, staring at the man who was still laughing, oblivious to how close he'd come to being throat-slitted.
"Opening the mouth and making noisy spasms is happiness? Looks like a seizure."
"It's a social signal," I explained, desperate. "It means 'I am not dangerous,' 'I am a friend.' If you want to go unnoticed after the truck stunt, you have to learn to interpret this. You can't look at people like you're going to rip their throats out every time they tell a joke."
She dropped the bent knife on the table with a clang. "Teach me."
"Now?"
"If it's camouflage, I need it. I must seem harmless. Teach me that sound."
I sighed. I paid the bill (leaving a huge tip for the bone mess) and pulled her out. We walked down a quieter side street.
"It's not just the sound," I said. "It's the face. Look at me." I smiled, a forced, tired cop smile. "The eyes crinkle. The mouth relaxes. You don't bare your teeth like a rabid dog."
Ayla stopped under a flickering streetlamp. She studied my face with the clinical cold of a coroner inspecting a corpse.
"I'll try," she said.
She turned to me. She parted her lips. It wasn't a smile. It was a grimace of pure terror. She stretched her lips back, exposing every tooth and the red gums, but her eyes stayed dead. Cold. Fixed on mine without blinking. She looked like a poorly fitted skin mask.
A shiver ran down my spine.
"Stop," I said, stepping back. "Please, stop. That's scary. You look psychopathic."
She dropped the grimace in an instant.
"The muscles are correct. I copied the male from the bar."
"But not the intent. It looked like you were going to eat my face. You have to… relax your jaw. Narrow your eyes. Imagine seeing something you like. Something that gives you pleasure."
Ayla thought for a moment. She looked at my neck—right where my jugular throbbed. Her pupils dilated, swallowing the iris. Her lips curved gently upward. Her eyes half-closed with an expression of genuine, dark pleasure.
"Like this?" she asked softly.
I froze. That smile was perfect. And terrifying because I knew what she was looking at with that hunger.
"Yes…" I murmured, loosening my shirt collar, feeling heat. "Like that. Don't do it too much."
We kept walking toward the building. The silence between us was heavy.
"The laughter ritual includes the exchange of false data," she said suddenly. "The 'joke.'"
"Yes. We say absurd things to laugh."
"I understand the pattern. Incongruity plus surprise equals laughter."
She stopped in front of our building's doorway. She shoved her hands into the pockets of my oversized hoodie.
"Evan," she said. "I will execute a joke. To practice."
I stopped, surprised and a little relieved. At least she was trying to be normal.
"Okay. Show me. Surprise me."
She stepped toward me, invading my personal space. She leaned close to my ear.
"Do you know why I like sleeping near your door at night?" she whispered.
I smiled, expecting something tender or awkward. "I don't know… to protect me from bad people?"
She shook her head very slowly. Her predator's smile returned, one that bared too many teeth.
"Because I like to hear your heart beat," she whispered, and I felt her lips brush my ear. "It's fun to hear it pound… knowing I could stop it with a single finger whenever I wanted."
I froze. Blood ran cold in my veins. The smile vanished from my face. I didn't move. I barely breathed. I felt the weight of her threat, the physical reality of what she could do. I remembered the crushed truck.
Ayla stepped away. She looked at me, pale and terrified. Then she let out a sound. Jum. A dry snort through her nose.
"Incongruity plus surprise," she said in a totally flat voice. "You got scared. You were supposed to emit the convulsion of happiness."
I stared at her, my heart hammering in my ribs like a mallet.
"That… that's not a joke, Ayla," my voice came out thin. "That's a death threat."
She shrugged and opened the building door, calm as anything. "Human humor is defective," she tossed over her shoulder. "But your heart rate spiked. I like that sound."
I watched her go up the stairs. I touched my chest. My heart felt like it would burst. Damn.
She wasn't learning to be human. She was learning to play with her food.
---
POV: Ayla
I climb the stairs two at a time. I hear Evan's slow, heavy steps behind me. It smells of panic. Sour sweat.
I reach my door and stop. The "joke" served my purposes. The human knows his place. He knows who is predator and who is prey. Fear will keep him alert; it will keep him alive.
I enter my empty, dark apartment. Evan goes into his, across the hall. I hear the sound of his deadbolt turn hard. Three locks. Useless. If I wanted in, that wood would not stop me. But I like that he feels secure in his burrow.
I move to the window and look to the street through the broken blind. I smile. This time it is not imitation. It is possession. He is my pet.
Suddenly a flash on the glass. Not a reflection. On the street, at the opposite corner, a black vehicle is parked. Tinted windows. Engine off but warm. I see it in the thermal spectrum. There are two lifeforms inside. One of them is watching here through binoculars.
My smile disappears. My lips pull back, revealing my true fangs. A low growl rises in my chest and makes my ribs vibrate.
"Hunters," I whisper.
The comedy game is over. Evan thinks my joke was the worst part of his night. Poor fragile creature.