She looked...older.
Julien had heard the saying that women matured much quicker than men, likely from Iman's mouth, even, but he didn't think this was quite what it meant. It was slight, anyway. An angle to her jaw that hadn't been there before, a new definition around her collarbones, her shoulders and neck held stark, almost like a soldier's. Her eyes were the same, he thought. Bright. Alive. Dark brown and birdlike.
Iman was such a warm thing. After being forced into Sera's company, Julien needed time away from the cold.
It seemed contradictory to leave a loud place just to find another, so Julien avoided the noisy, aimless bars lining the street just outside the amphitheater and instead led Iman to a cozy cafe-esque place around the bend. It was a blink-and-you'll-miss-it sort of venue, camped out beneath a Vietnamese nail spa and only accessible via a set of rusting, paint-chipped stairs leading down from the sidewalk. The lighting inside was a sultry, dim yellow and the air was thick with bourbon and hookah smoke; though Julien had been in France in the 1920s and therefore didn't truly know, the posh bar gave him the vibe of a vintage American speakeasy.
Julien saw Iman jolt to attention as soon as he'd shoved open the door, but before she could speak, he shushed her. "I know what you're thinking."
"Do you?"
"Don't worry. It has good Yelp reviews."
Though he walked behind her, he could very well see her roll her eyes.
The two of them claimed a table nearest the empty stage, which was truly three or four plastic crates with a wooden slab laid over them. Julien ordered a Cuba Libre automatically while Iman mulled the menu over for a time before settling on a White Russian. A slow, molasses-like saxophone solo sang over the speakers; Julien's eyes lingered on the group of older men smoking a bong in the corner before landing on Iman again.
Her dress was velvet, plunging, violet. He didn't think he'd ever seen her in anything that wasn't a sweatshirt or a sweater. Then again, he'd never seen her in the present. As she'd pointed out, a lot of things were new.
Old friends? He scoffed at the idea. He didn't know what label they fell under, but he was fairly sure it wasn't that one.
"Three years," said Iman, then again: "Three years?"
Julien counted on his fingers, just to make sure. Time was a muddled thing when you had so much of it. "Yes. More than that. It was 2016 and I was still in San Diego. I was trying and failing at hand-rolling spring rolls in my basement without any pants on and you scared the absolute shit out of me."
Julien watched a slight smirk crawl across Iman's face. "2016," she repeated. "So somewhere else, somewhere back here, my other self was—what? Finishing up my second year of college?"
Julien stirred his Rum and Coke, indolent. "Sounds about right."
"San Diego," said Iman.
"Is it a common habit of yours to repeat random things that I've said to yourself?"
"All the times I saw that yellow door, and I never knew where it was—and now I do," Iman's eyebrows twitched towards each other; she sucked her lower lip beneath her teeth for a moment and exhaled. "What was a vampire doing in California, anyway? That's not too much sun for you?"
"I stayed inside during the day," said Julien matter-of-factly. "The night is when everything real happens, anyway."
Iman drew a tiny circle on the tabletop with the very edge of her navy blue-painted finger, her shoulders slightly lifted towards her ears. Silence nearly settled between them until Iman fixed that dark, birdlike gaze on Julien again and asked, "Why did you leave?"
Julien didn't like to hesitate, but he hesitated. Why did you leave? She asked it as if it were a question only for him, as if she, too, didn't owe him an answer to that one. He cleared his throat, fiddling with his straw. "Boredom," he said. "Besides, some of the older people were starting to realize that I wasn't aging. I had to get out of there before any major discoveries were made."
Iman cocked her head, regarding him for a moment like she didn't precisely believe him. Julien didn't blame her. He wouldn't believe him, either. Nevertheless, Iman just let out a theatrical sigh and said, "Why does it have to be a secret anyway? People raved over the whole Twilight saga. They'd probably love to know vampires were real."
"Same reason your boyfriend doesn't know you're a time traveler, I'd reckon," Julien said without apology, ignoring the choking noise Iman made in response. "It's protection, control. One person knows, everyone knows, the situation gets out of hand. Mass hysteria is a very real thing, Im. I've seen it."
"You think you've seen everything."
"Because I have."
Iman paused a beat, gaze floating down towards the floor again. "I never said Beck didn't know."
"But I know you," Julien replied. He read the conflict as it shone across Iman's face and softened his voice, raking his hair gently out of his face and peering at her. Iman was not the usual definition of a friend: trustworthy, loyal, reliable. She couldn't possibly be when they never knew exactly when they'd meet again, when time was a petulant child and Iman and Julien were its mindless board game pieces. Race car, thought Julien. Damned if I wouldn't be the race car.
And yet Julien knew Iman unlike he knew a fair number of his other friends. Partly because he'd outlived a fair percentage of them, and partly because he had never quite felt so understood as he did in Iman's presence. It was a silent, mutual understanding that had somehow developed through the spontaneous hours she spent in his house, with no premonition or aftermath. One day he had realized it was there, and that was the same day he'd started to miss her.
"I know you," Julien said again. Ice cubes clinked against glass as they shifted within the cup in front of him; he fumbled with the shades hung on the collar of his shirt. "I know you and I know that's not something you take outside of your family unless absolutely necessary. So I guess that's my question, then. When do you decide he's necessary?"
Iman flushed, her skin turning from a gentle brown to a deep russet. Anger lit in her eyes, a slight spark, and was gone again. "I like him. A lot. He's fun to be around. I just don't want to tell him everything if he doesn't turn out to stick around long."
Julien raised his eyebrows.
Iman scoffed, throwing her head back. "No. That would be impatient. Besides, even if I wanted to—it's like I said. It's not that easy."
Julien shoved his drink aside; it skidded across the table and teetered twice at the edge before thankfully sitting down again. Iman frowned at him, judgment in her eyes. "Tell me, then. Tell me how it works."
"I haven't explained it before?"
"I'm sure you have, but I have the most awful memory."
Awful memory was an understatement. What did you call it when everything before your death and undeath was a blur? Surely, Julien thought, there was something there. Surely the film of his life did not begin reeling with his death. Twenty-seven years of his long life, a dark blur. Twenty-seven years of his life he could never seem to get back.
"I see," said Iman. "Well, it's like this. When people aren't well or they're stressed or something like that, they have a habit, yes? Like some people get all lethargic or eat too much, or eat too little—"
"Or impulsively cook things they have no intention of eating..."
"Uh," said Iman. "Sure. That may be what it is for you—"
"I never said I. I said they. We're being hypothetical, yes?"
"Yes. Hypothetical," Iman agreed, dragging out every syllable of the word and glaring at Julien as she did. "Anyway, my habit is time traveling. Yes, I can control it when I focus really hard and I'm well-rested and well-fed. Most of the time, though, I am none of those things, so it just...it sort of happens."
Julien paused. The jazz music overhead switched to something upbeat and he diligently fought the urge to start snapping. Outside, a haze of sticky summer rain had begun to fall, shielding the DC streets in a film of gray and black. He checked his watch, wondered how long it would take Sera to notice he was missing. Hoped she hadn't already.
"By that explanation," said Julien, turning away from the window again, "you could very well be in Beck's presence one day and just—phase out of existence right in front of him."
"Yes. That could happen. But I am really hoping it won't because there's no real way to lie about that one."
"No," Julien agreed. "There isn't."
He reached for another sip of his cocktail but stopped when he realized his fingers were trembling. It wasn't the alcohol. He knew it wasn't the alcohol. It was something else, the sort of something else that started in the depths of your stomach or maybe your heart or maybe both and climbed throughout your body until everything was consumed. It was both thrilling and dangerous and he was afraid of it.
It was hunger.
Iman's phone rang; Julien jumped, not sure he'd ever heard a sound so shrill.
"Speak of the devil," said Iman, hopping up from the table. "It's Beck. Can I take this?"
Julien waved her off, watching as she pivoted on her black platform boots and marched outside into the haze. As his eyes lingered on the window, eyeing Iman as she lifted the phone to her ear and watching as her happy-go-lucky expression immediately plummeted, that was when he sensed it.
Cold pressed against his neck and his diaphragm seemed to stutter beneath his lungs. He looked sharply to the back window, catching only a flash of flaxen hair, long and buoyant and attached to the most irresistible person he'd ever met.
He would not wait around to be found.
Julien left a few crumpled bills on the table without checking the exact value. Then he vanished.
Beck's voice was high, tinny, in her ear, barely audible over the growing barrage of rain. Iman huddled underneath the bar's awning and dipped her toe in and out of a miniature puddle. "Are you okay? Are you hurt? Are you safe? What happened? When you didn't come back, I started to think the worst—"
"I'm talking to you right now, aren't I?" Iman pointed out. Beck sighed in her ear. "Beck, I'm fine."
"You left without telling me, Iman," he said. Somewhere behind his voice, a siren wailed. "I was worried sick. What the hell's wrong with you?"
Iman's face fell; she felt it, the sudden dip to her mouth. Her fingers shook as she held the phone. "I met an old friend, Beck. He was in a pinch and he needed some help. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."
"He?" snapped Beck. Iman shut her eyes, resting back against the wall. "You could have told me. You could have told me you were leaving and then at least I wouldn't have to worry about where the hell you were!"
"Beck, I said I'm sorry! He needed help, okay? I'll make it up you. I'll make it up to you, I promise—"
"You said you're safe, right?" Beck asked then, interrupting her. His voice had grown quieter but no less acidic.
Iman frowned, eyebrows knitted. "Yes?"
"Good," said Beck, then hung up.
Iman slid her phone back into her pocket and exhaled, a tension leaving her shoulders she hadn't noticed was there before. A familiar, uncomfortable feeling, like air was slowly bubbling in the chamber of her stomach, stretched through her abdomen—but she yanked herself back to the here and now. I can't leave now. I can't. Julien—
Julien.
Her head jolted sideways, peering into the window. She was stunned to find that their little table by the stage was empty, Julien's drink sitting untouched, like he'd get back to it later.
Iman ducked back into the bar, mopping sweat from the back of her neck. As she approached the table again, she noticed a small white napkin laying beside her phone, folded intricately into the shape of a bird. Confused, she unraveled it in her fingers. Scribbled in black ink was a brief message:
122-0207
XOXO, JULES
Iman shook her head and slid the napkin into her coat. She paid the bartender and left.