Jackal (The End of Men Book 2)

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Cover Design by Hang Le

  Formatted by Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing

  Proofread by Erica Russikoff/Erica Edits and Christine Estevez

  Copyright © 2018 Fisher & Aster

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1721620869

  ISBN-10: 1721620869

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  REFERENCES TO SOLIDIFY THE CRAZY ANIMAL FACTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  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…

  The women start yelling, things getting heated, and I jump off my perch, landing right in the middle of them.

  “Ladies, ladies! Why ruin the night with all of this negativity? Let’s be drunk and in love instead.” I throw an arm around Hioki because it looks like she’s going to murder someone. There’s general grumbling around the group, but it seems to be the consensus to drop the issue. Hioki leans into me, and I kiss the top of her head.

  “That’s right,” I say. “Make love, not war.”

  The women laugh, they always laugh. Their shoulders relax and their thoughts redirect to a worthy topic: me. I scan my audience and that’s when I notice her: a fringe girl. She stands on the outside of the circle, wearing a leather doe mask that covers her nose and most of her lips. It’s simple—inconspicuous—and bears none of the jewels that the others are decorated with. I catch her mid-eye roll. Startling eyes, aquamarine. If she’s trying not to draw attention to herself, she shouldn’t wear eyes like that. I strain my neck to get a better look at her, but she’s hard to keep track of, moving fluidly through the group of women, pausing for a moment next to each one. I want to see what she’s doi
ng and ask why no one else has noticed her. As if she can sense me staring, she looks up. Her gaze is offsetting. We blink at each other—caught—and then out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of metal, something shiny. My eyes leave hers just in time to see her slip a heavy bracelet from a woman’s arm. It disappears into the folds of her dress and I choke back my surprise. A thief! How charming. Someone says my name, Selfish has found me. I frown at Selfish’s hand on my arm, and when I look up, the little doe is gone.

  “Excuse me, ladies…”

  I shrug Selfish off and break through the middle of the circle. The women part like the Red Sea. My name is being called; goddamn, if I don’t get sick of hearing my own name. I come out on the other end, scanning the crowd for the deer mask. Being the tallest person in the room has its perks. I see her heading for the main entrance, almost floating through the crowd like there are wheels under her feet. No one stops her, no one wants to talk. She came here alone. I move through the room, less agile, much less unnoticed. Hands grab for me; I’m a fun toy.

  “Sorry, ladies, have to pee,” I say when they try to stop me to chat.

  “But the bathroom’s that way,” an older woman points out.

  “I prefer to water the flowers,” I call over my shoulder.

  They laugh, of course they laugh. Once I’m outside, my head swivels around looking for her. Her dress was dark. I catch sight of her skirting between the cars out front, the drivers in the kitchen probably drinking and watching the game.

  Will she steal a car too? I definitely want to find out. I’m quiet as I trail her to the edge of the treeline. I see her stop once she’s a few feet into the woods, her back to me.

  “What do you want?” she asks. Her voice is surprisingly husky. She won’t turn around; she doesn’t want me to see her face.

  “That’s a loaded question.” I stop a few feet away, watching her curiously. She’s tiny, narrow in her shoulders and waist. Five foot six, to my six foot four.

  “What do you want from me then?” she asks.

  “I wanted to meet a thief!” I say. “I’ve met every sort of woman but never a thief.”

  She spins around, the bottom of her dress whipping at my ankles.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says. “I’m going for a walk.”

  “A walk in the woods at night?”

  “Yes, I love it. Do it all the time.”

  “Well, let’s go then,” I say. “Show me the route.” I walk forward, passing her by a few feet and stop. When I turn around, she’s glaring at me.

  “What is this? You have a ballroom of women fawning all over you like you’re one of the last twelve men on earth. Why are you out here harassing me?”

  “Because you’re the only one who doesn’t want to sleep with me. It’s refreshing!”

  “I’m not here to be your refreshment,” she says. “Go grab another bottle of champagne.”

  She stalks past me, slashing a tree branch out of her way, and stomping into the darkness in front of her like a general marching to war. A tiny, tiny general. I’m afraid of her. I like the feeling.

  “Good night, little thief,” I call after her. “Till we meet again.”

  I’m still smiling when I walk back into the ball. Too bad I couldn’t get her to take off the mask. I wanted to see what she looked like underneath.

  Selfish is waiting for me by the doors.

  “Lottery, Jackal,” she says. She taps an imaginary watch on her wrist. People don’t even wear watches anymore.

  “Yeah. Let’s go.”

  She looks surprised when I’m agreeable, trailing on my heels like a puppy. I turn around and give her a dirty look when the toe of her shoe clips my heel.

  “Personal space, Selfish.”

  “Says the orgy king,” she shoots back. “Walk faster, or I’ll make sure you’re fucking ugly crones for the next week.”

  I pick up my pace. Her threats are valid; she’s done that to me before.

  The lottery drawing always happens on stage where everyone can see the generosity of the Society in giving the poor folk babies. Personally, I think it’s an asshole move. The lifestyle of the rich and famous is built on the backs of the lower end. If they run out of people, they’ll have to do all the dirty work themselves. I’m halfway to the stage when someone grabs my arm. I glance over thinking it’s just someone who wants a second of my attention. My face is ready; I smile. My gaze lands on a man’s face. He’s not wearing a mask.

  “For you,” he says, forcing something into my hand.

  I look down and see dirty fingernails drop something hard and round into my palm. The sleeve of his jacket is covered in dog hair. My eyes drag from his arm back up to his face, confused, but he’s already turning away. Before I can respond, he’s gone.

  Selfish shoves me from behind, oblivious to what just happened. I clutch the object in my hand, sharp edges digging into the fat of my palm. Wiser not to look now with all of these eyes around me. The stage is in front of me. I jog up the stairs, waving around the room. The governor is waiting for me, applauding along with the room. He’s wearing a bear mask, though the guy couldn’t be further from a bear.

  “Sean.”

  I slap him on the back and he gives me a thumbs up. None of that stiff, professional bullshit. Half the time, he walks around with a lollipop in his mouth, his teeth stained pink. The Blue Region has more trans men than any other Region in the new America. With the Black Region condemning them, most get reassigned for work and flock here. I almost forget about the object in my hand when I’m handed the microphone and nearly drop it.

  A few words of greeting, praise for the Blue…I end my speech and the room erupts into applause. The Blue Region especially likes the grandeur. Other Regions have declined far more than this one. There is still elegance and culture here, albeit in only a small portion of the Region, but they’re holding onto the drama with everything they’ve got. Every time I do this little performance, I have a vision of Maximus in Gladiator holding out his hands and screaming, “Are you not entertained!”

  While the governor draws numbers for the lottery, I glance down at my hand, opening my palm just enough to see what I’ve been clutching for the last ten minutes. It’s red, the size of a large coin, with scalloped edges and a small white dot in its center. A bottle cap to a beer I haven’t had a sip of in years. I keep my face neutral, but my mind is swimming. When the governor announces the first number, I nod and smile without hearing anything. A memory is creeping up on me, the blurry edges taking shape. And just like that, I know.

  Folsom.

  TWO

  PHOENIX

  Female octopuses strangle their mates once the deed is done.

  And then eat them.

  Javi hands me a towel as I walk backstage and I wipe my face and neck, still winded from the performance.

  “It was perfect,” he says.

  Liar. We both know I could’ve done better in the last act, my triple tours not as clean as I would have liked. I’ll work on that sequence later tonight so it’ll be better for tomorrow’s show.

  “Brava,” Mistress Sinclair cheers, clapping briskly. “Well done, Phoenix, Lex, Sami.” She nods to the rest of the dancers. “I will see you all tomorrow at one.”

  A “well done” from Mistress Sinclair is what we strive for, so once she says those words, we nod and disperse.

  I round the corner of the narrow hallway toward the dressing rooms. The New York City Ballet and the Lincoln Center are iconic; one of the few remaining companies and theaters still standing. I’m fortunate to do what I love.

  “She won’t last long if she keeps that up,” Bellange says to her little cluster of parasites as I walk by.

  Eyes straight ahead, I ignore them and keep walking, but it strips me of some of the optimism I was feeling. I’ll be better next time. There is always a next time and I try to remember that when this time haunts me. I hear the peals of their laughter behind me, and I know I’m the b
utt of their joke. Bellange is good, all legs. It is the passion she has trouble with: she dances; she is not the dance. She makes no secret of the fact that she is working to replace me, and as four years my junior, it is entirely possible.

  “Armor up,” my mother would say. “Hurt is something you allow.”

  I wonder how many noticed the slight pause before my final grand jeté. Lex was especially sweaty tonight, his golden skin so slick I’d slipped. Tonight I’ll dance until this pair of shoes softens, possibly on a slick floor. I’ll see how tired I am.

  As soon as I enter my dressing room, the replay of tonight’s performance begins. I fill my cheeks with air and blow out slowly. This is what they do to dancers: play your failures over and over until you almost go mad. Chin up, I walk right through the recap, the image blurring around me, but as soon as I do, I see that my mothers have left me a stream of messages—a different kind of assault. Their faces follow me into the bathroom. I pick up a bottle of mouthwash and take two long pulls of vodka from it before tapping on play. When it opens, they’re sitting side by side on the couch.

  “Phoenix!” They speak in unison.

  I take a third swig because I know what’s coming. My mothers have perfected the art of verbal harmony. Not only do they say the same thing at the same time, they sometimes sing their most stinging words: a three syllable “terrr-iii-billlll,” or my personal favorite—”you can do bet-terrr…”

  “Hi, peanut! We watched you live!” Mama B, who carried me, starts.

  “Suuuuper hot weather today,” Moma says. Moma is the mom who drove me to all of my lessons while Mama B critiqued the fuck out of them over dinner. “We took the boat out but made sure to set the timer so we could watch you.”

  “Are you getting rest, honey?” Mama B asks. “You looked a little lackluster out there. We think that you—”

  I tap End before they can say anything else and turn the shower on. I’m an expert at blocking things out, but I’m not good enough to allow my parents’ harsh critique to affect the rest of my night.

  I have pre-show and post-show rituals and it wrecks my mood if I don’t do both. I rub the cold cream on my face and get some of the heavy makeup off while the hot water sluices over my tired muscles. A fusion of colors from makeup, blood, soap—the essence of a prima ballerina—swirls down the drain. Soaking my feet comes later, once I’m home.