The Divergence

Valerie plopped herself into Lavinia’s lap without the slightest warning, straddling her thighs and settling comfortably against her. 

The sudden movement made Lavinia blink, although she made no attempt to stop her. 

Across the table, Saelorian raised an eyebrow, while Aeloriane paused halfway through a bite of dessert. 

A few humans seated nearby glanced over as well, apparently uncertain whether they were witnessing an ordinary display of affection or something considerably stranger.

Valerie ignored all of them.

She reached forward, caught Lavinia’s cheeks between her hands, and gently squished them together until the golden-haired vampire had little choice but to look directly at her.

“What’s wrong?”

Lavinia blinked.

She attempted to tilt her head, but Valerie’s hands made that rather difficult.

 Her pointed ears twitched instead, which only made Valerie narrow her eyes.

“Don’t give me that look,” Valerie said. “You were perfectly happy a minute ago. Now you look like someone told you all the cake in the world disappeared.”

“That would be terrible,” Gwendolyn remarked.

“Gwen.”

“What? It would!”

Lavinia giggled weakly, but Valerie wasn’t fooled. The orange-haired vampire leaned closer, her empty red eyes searching Lavinia’s face.

“Seriously. What happened?”

Gwendolyn’s expression shifted. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Did you go somewhere again?”

Evangeline, who had been examining the last piece of pastry on her plate, immediately looked up.

Lavinia hesitated.

Then she nodded.

“It wasn’t anything much.”

Adelaide exhaled softly.

“That,” she said, “is becoming a rather concerning sentence coming from you.”

Rosaline set her cocktail aside. “Especially considering your definition of not much seems to involve conversations with God.”

Saelorian glanced at his sister.

Aeloriane glanced back.

Their pointed ears twitched almost simultaneously.

“Right,” Saelorian said after a moment. “I think that’s our cue.”

Lavinia looked toward him. “Hm?”

“We should probably get going. Our parents are going to start calling again if we don’t.”

Aeloriane nodded, rising from her chair. “And I have approximately twelve hundred questions about what you just said, but I think I’ll save them for another time.”

Saelorian pushed his chair back. “You have twelve hundred questions about everything.”

“Because I possess intellectual curiosity.”

“You asked me whether Elf ears could get sunburned.”

“That’s a legitimate question!”

“You asked it at night!”

“I was planning ahead!”

Saelorian laughed and headed toward the counter to settle the bill. Aeloriane watched him go, then turned toward Gwendolyn with a bright smile.

“Hey, give me your number.”

Gwendolyn perked up immediately.

“Oh! Sure!”

The two exchanged phones, and within seconds Gwendolyn was happily typing away while Aeloriane leaned over her shoulder. 

Their long hair brushed together, blonde and white mingling as they compared contact information.

“There,” Aeloriane announced. “Now you can tell me when you’re doing something interesting.”

“We do interesting things all the time!”

“Perfect.”

Gwendolyn laughed, and Aeloriane surprised her with a hug. The vampire immediately returned it, squeezing the taller Elf with considerably more enthusiasm than Aeloriane had probably anticipated.

“Oof! You’re strong!”

“Sorry!”

“No, it’s fine!”

Saelorian returned a moment later, slipping his wallet into his pocket.

“Ready?”

Aeloriane released Gwendolyn and nodded.

Saelorian looked toward Lavinia. “Thanks for hanging out with us. It was fun.”

“Likewise,” Lavinia replied, smiling.

“And if you ever want to explore the Diverged Lands,” Valerie added, “we could probably show you around.”

Saelorian’s eyes brightened.

Aeloriane immediately grabbed his sleeve.

“No.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“You’re such a coward.”

“And you’re such an idiot.”

Their argument continued as they walked toward the exit, Saelorian laughing while Aeloriane tugged him along. 

The restaurant doors closed behind them a moment later, leaving the vampires alone at their table.

Valerie turned back toward Lavinia.

“Now.”

Lavinia smiled faintly.

“Now?”

“Talk.”

Evangeline folded her arms. “Was it something about us dying?”

Lavinia glanced toward her.

Then she shook her head.

“Not exactly. I know you can all take care of yourselves. I’m not particularly worried about any of you getting yourselves killed tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Rosaline repeated. “How reassuring.”

“You know what I mean.”

Adelaide smiled slightly.

Lavinia rested her hands against Valerie’s waist, considering how much to explain.

“The Thing in the Darkness told me something.”

“That sounds ominous,” Gwendolyn murmured.

“She said I’d be using my last wish soon.”

The table fell quiet.

Valerie’s hands loosened against Lavinia’s cheeks.

“Soon?” she repeated.

Lavinia nodded. “Apparently.”

“Did she say what for?”

“No.”

“Did she say when?”

“Not really. Just that I’d know when the time came.”

Adelaide tilted her head.

“I thought you said she didn’t know the future anymore.”

“I did.”

“Then how would she know that?”

Gwendolyn raised one finger. “Well, if she can know literally everything, I don’t think turning that off would make her stupid.”

Rosaline laughed.

“That’s certainly one way of putting it.”

Lavinia shook her head.

“I don’t think her omniscience was on. She seemed pretty clear about that.”

“Then?” Evangeline prompted.

“She said she’s watched different versions of the world play out before. Lots of them.”

Lavinia looked toward the windows.

“Maybe she doesn’t know exactly what’s going to happen this time. But if she’s seen enough similar situations, she can probably recognize when something is approaching.”

Adelaide considered that.

“So she’s making an educated guess.”

“An educated guess from someone who created reality.”

“Wonderful.”

Evangeline frowned.

“Wait. Different versions?”

Lavinia looked back at her.

“Do you mean there are other versions of us?”

Lavinia hesitated.

“I don’t know.”

She genuinely didn’t.

The worlds the Thing had shown her were strange, sometimes horrifying, and often so different from her own that she had difficulty imagining how they could have developed from the same beginning.

She hadn’t recognized anyone in them.

Not Valerie.

Not Gwendolyn.

Not any of the others.

And she was glad.

Seeing the remains of unfamiliar vampires had been terrible enough. She wasn’t certain what she would have done if she’d recognized a particular dress among the ash.

Adelaide reached across the table and gently poked Lavinia’s hand.

“Then why are you worrying so much?”

Lavinia glanced down at the finger touching hers.

She sighed.

“Valerie.”

“Hm?”

“Could you move for a second?”

Valerie’s expression immediately became offended.

“Am I heavy?”

“No.”

“Am I uncomfortable?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Because I’m trying to have a serious conversation.”

“You can have a serious conversation with me sitting here.”

Lavinia smiled.

Then she caught Valerie around the waist, lifted her effortlessly, and deposited her into the neighboring chair.

Valerie pouted.

Lavinia ignored it.

“God,” she began, “said the world was going to devolve into chaos.”

Rosaline’s smile faded slightly.

Evangeline leaned back.

Adelaide remained quiet.

Valerie studied Lavinia for several seconds before asking, “Are you worried we’d lose?”

Lavinia looked at her.

“If we ended up fighting humans,” Valerie continued. “Are you worried we’d lose? Or die?”

Lavinia inhaled slowly.

Then she looked down at her hands.

“I’ve killed humans.”

Nobody interrupted.

“They attacked me,” Lavinia continued. “And I know that matters. But I wasn’t really afraid for my life.”

Her fingers curled slightly.

“I knew they couldn’t hurt me permanently. Not unless they managed something very specific.”

She looked toward Valerie.

“I killed them because I was angry.”

Valerie listened.

“Because I was annoyed. Because they actually thought they could hurt me, or hurt someone I cared about.”

Lavinia reached up and caught a lock of her golden hair between her fingers.

“And that’s the problem, isn’t it?”

Gwendolyn tilted her head.

“What is?”

“I can understand why I did it. I can even justify it. But if everyone starts doing that, if every species decides its own people matter more than everyone else...”

Lavinia looked toward the city.

“It feels like the world is absolutely done for.”

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

Then Gwendolyn reached across the table and placed a hand against Lavinia’s cheek.

“Lavinia.”

The golden-haired vampire turned toward her.

Gwendolyn smiled gently.

“Even if we do end up fighting humans, we’re not just going to give up and die.”

Lavinia blinked.

“We’re not,” Gwendolyn repeated. “I don’t want to die. I don’t want you to die. I don’t want any of us to die.”

Evangeline nodded and rose from her chair.

“Exactly.”

Her bright red hair slipped over one shoulder as she straightened.

“We deserve to live too.”

Adelaide smiled.

“And honestly, wouldn’t it be rather disappointing if we died before living at least ten thousand years?”

Rosaline laughed.

“Only ten thousand?”

“I’m setting reasonable expectations.”

“For vampires?”

“Fine. Twenty thousand.”

“Much better.”

Lavinia stared at them.

Then she laughed.

A small laugh at first, followed by a genuine smile.

“You’re right.”

She rose from her chair.

For all the things that had changed about her, Lavinia still thought about time like a human.

A day was a day.

A year was a year.

A decade was an enormous stretch of time.

She could remember being human and thinking about what she might be doing in ten years, twenty years, perhaps fifty.

But those measurements no longer meant the same thing.

A century would eventually come and go.

Then a thousand years.

Then ten thousand.

And if nothing killed her, Lavinia would still be here.

Valerie would still be here.

Gwendolyn, Adelaide, Rosaline, Evangeline, and all the others could remain beside her through ages that human civilization hadn’t even existed long enough to comprehend.

Perhaps that was part of why vampires cared so much about one another.

A human life was finite.

That didn’t make it worthless. Quite the opposite, perhaps. A mistake that ended a human life destroyed all the years that person might otherwise have lived.

But vampires were different.

A vampire could be cruel.

Terrifying.

Capable of killing when mercy might have been possible.

Yet somewhere beneath all that, perhaps they understood something humans couldn’t fully appreciate.

If one vampire died, the others would have to live with that absence forever.

Not a few decades.

Not a lifetime.

Forever.

Lavinia looked at Valerie.

The orange-haired vampire smiled back.

“Okay,” Lavinia announced. “I’m done moping.”

“Finally,” Valerie said.

Lavinia stuck her tongue out at her.

The vampires collected themselves and headed toward the restaurant doors, Gwendolyn happily recounting something Aeloriane had said while Rosaline teased Evangeline about the pastry she’d been saving on her cheek.

Outside, the night air was pleasantly cool.

Lavinia took several steps forward, then spun around.

Her black gothic dress flared outward, golden hair sweeping around her shoulders as she faced the others with a bright smile.

“I’d love it if everyone got along.”

Valerie tilted her head.

Lavinia spread her arms.

“But if that can’t happen, then I suppose we’ll just have to survive.”

Adelaide regarded her thoughtfully.

“That’s a rather different attitude.”

“Maybe.”

Lavinia lowered her arms.

She couldn’t impose morality upon the entire situation.

Not when every species possessed its own needs, fears and desires. Not when the consequences of a single mistake could ripple through centuries.

Had every action committed by vampires in that future five years ahead served a valid purpose?

Probably not.

She remembered the casual cruelty. The human pens. The way vampires had laughed about things that would have horrified them when they were human.

But she also remembered the precarious position they occupied.

There were more humans than every supernatural species combined.

Humans possessed armies, industry, technology and numbers. If vampires and the other species appeared weak, if they failed to make the cost of attacking them sufficiently frightening, humanity might decide it could eliminate them.

And so cruelty became a deterrent.

Brutality became policy.

Then, perhaps, those things became habits.

Lavinia didn’t know where necessity ended and indulgence began.

That was what frightened her.

She could understand the reasoning without wanting to become the person who accepted every consequence of it.

“Lavinia?”

Valerie was watching her.

Lavinia blinked.

Then she smiled again.

“Coming!”

They entered the elevator together.

As the doors slid closed, Lavinia’s empty red eyes rolled playfully toward Valerie. 

She stepped closer, draped herself over the orange-haired vampire’s shoulders, and buried her face against the side of her neck.

Valerie laughed softly.

“Feeling better?”

“Mhm.”

Lavinia nuzzled her neck.

Then she opened her mouth and lightly nipped at the cool skin beneath her lips.

Valerie exhaled.

Her head tilted almost instinctively, exposing more of her throat.

“Oh, you’re definitely feeling better.”

Lavinia giggled against her neck.

Gwendolyn watched them for several seconds before pouting.

“I’m definitely joining next time.”

Valerie turned her head slightly.

“Joining what?”

“That.”

Rosaline snickered.

Valerie laughed and reached back to stroke Lavinia’s golden hair.

“I don’t have a problem with that.”

Gwendolyn brightened.

“Really?”

“Of course.”

Valerie smiled.

She liked Lavinia.

Quite a lot, actually.

And she could understand perfectly well why the others did too.

That didn’t mean she intended to give Lavinia away. Absolutely not. 

There were certain things Valerie was perfectly willing to be selfish about.

But sharing affection?

That was different.

They had forever and ever.

Surely there was enough time for everyone.

Lavinia lifted her head just enough to look at her.

“Valerie?”

“Hm?”

“Are you volunteering me?”

Valerie smiled sweetly.

“Maybe.”

Gwendolyn giggled.

Lavinia narrowed her eyes.

Then she leaned forward and bit Valerie’s neck again.

Valerie’s laughter filled the elevator.

───

Helena stared at the files scattered across her desk.

There were dozens of them.

Some were neatly stacked. Others lay open beneath half-empty cups of coffee, annotated reports, handwritten calculations and several folders whose contents had become so thoroughly mixed that sorting them would probably require an entire afternoon.

Helena rubbed her forehead.

She was tired.

Exhausted, really.

For weeks, she’d been pulling all-nighters, attempting to find something useful among the Institute’s growing collection of research.

And every time she thought she’d made progress, another Divergence arrived and rendered half her assumptions obsolete.

The Third Divergence had been particularly irritating.

Vampires and werewolves had already provided enough unanswered questions to occupy a research institution for decades.

Now there were Witches.

And Elves.

Magic.

Actual magic.

Helena leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling.

“Wonderful.”

As Director of the Institute, she possessed extraordinary resources.

Funding that most researchers could only dream of.

Access to specialized laboratories, advanced equipment, classified reports and the cooperation of numerous government departments.

Unfortunately, none of those things could make the impossible behave logically.

She picked up a report concerning vampire physiology.

The numbers were absurd.

Vampires were considerably stronger than humans, despite generally possessing smaller, lighter bodies. 

Their speed exceeded what conventional biological mechanisms should have supported, and their ability to regenerate rendered most forms of physical injury temporary inconveniences.

Even their resistance to blunt force was strange.

A vampire capable of striking with forces amounting to thousands of pounds-force under the right circumstances would ordinarily risk damaging her own body in the process.

Yet vampires routinely exerted enormous force without suffering corresponding injuries.

Their tissues appeared unusually resistant to deformation and tearing, particularly below certain thresholds.

It wasn’t merely a matter of having stronger muscles.

Their entire physiology seemed to operate under different rules.

Helena flipped another page.

Then another.

“Ridiculous.”

Her phone buzzed.

She glanced toward it.

The name on the screen made her expression sour.

Gideon Rourke.

Vice President.

Helena stared at the phone for several seconds before finally accepting the call.

She said nothing.

“Director Strauss.”

His voice was clipped.

Helena closed her eyes.

“Mr. Vice President.”

“I want an update.”

“On?”

“Don’t play games with me, Doctor.”

Helena looked toward the scattered files.

Gideon continued.

“How much progress have you made toward discovering ways to resist these supernatural species?”

Helena exhaled.

“Not as much as either of us would like.”

Silence.

Then Gideon’s voice sharpened.

“Explain.”

“None of them follow conventional biological principles. Vampires possess physical capabilities their bodies should not support. Werewolves transform in ways that violate our understanding of conservation of mass and energy. Their regenerative abilities are similarly difficult to reconcile with known physiology.”

She paused.

“And now we have two additional species.”

“Exactly!”

Gideon’s voice rose sharply enough that Helena moved the phone slightly away from her ear.

“Even more unnatural species have appeared! Humans are weaker than them, Doctor! Every single one!”

Helena said nothing.

“This world was given by God to humanity,” Gideon continued. 

“Humanity built its civilizations, its institutions, its nations! And now we’re expected to accept creatures that can overpower ordinary people whenever they please?”

Helena glanced toward a photograph on her desk.

A group of Institute researchers stood together in front of the building, smiling beneath the afternoon sun.

She looked away.

“We need to be able to protect ourselves,” Gideon said.

“I agree.”

“Then give me something useful!”

Helena rubbed her forehead again.

“I’m doing everything I can. But there’s a fundamental problem with your expectations.”

“And what would that be?”

“We don’t have adequate experimental subjects.”

Gideon fell silent.

Helena continued.

“We can examine publicly available recordings, collect environmental samples, study blood obtained through voluntary donations, and compare witness accounts. But that’s not the same as conducting controlled experiments on living subjects.”

She picked up a pen.

“We cannot reliably determine the upper limits of a vampire’s physical resistance without testing those limits. We cannot establish how werewolf regeneration responds to specific injuries without controlled observations.”

She set the pen down.

“And we certainly cannot develop dependable countermeasures based on speculation.”

Helena didn’t bother mentioning Witches or Elves.

They had appeared only hours earlier.

What was she supposed to have accomplished already?

A complete anatomical analysis?

A classification of Witchcraft?

A comprehensive understanding of Spirit Magic?

She barely knew what either species could do.

Gideon remained quiet for several seconds.

Then he spoke.

“If I provided you with a live vampire and a werewolf...”

Helena stopped moving.

“...would you be able to find something?”

She looked toward the phone.

“Something?”

“A weakness. A method of restraint. A reliable way for humans to defend themselves.”

Helena considered her answer carefully.

“Given sufficient time and appropriate research conditions, I could certainly investigate possibilities.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“Then your question doesn’t have an honest answer.”

Gideon’s breathing became audible.

Helena continued before he could interrupt.

“Science doesn’t operate on guarantees. Especially not when the subjects appear to violate established physical laws.”

Another silence.

Then Gideon’s voice lowered.

”Listen carefully, Doctor.”

Helena’s expression remained unchanged.

“You have been given extraordinary resources. Extraordinary authority. More funding than most research institutions receive in a decade.”

“Yes.”

“And I expect results.”

“I understand.”

“If I arrange for those specimens to be delivered to your Institute, you will find something useful.”

Helena looked down at the files.

“And if I don’t?”

Gideon’s voice became cold.

”Then I’ll replace you with someone who can.”

The call ended.

Helena stared at the screen.

For several seconds, she didn’t move.

Then she placed the phone on her desk, leaned back, and stretched both arms above her head.

“Oh, this is all so pointless.”

She yawned.

“Wouldn’t studying magic be a much better use of everyone’s time?”

Something cracked.

A sharp, brittle sound echoed through the office.

Helena glanced toward the source.

A thin line had appeared across the surface of the mirror hanging beside a filing cabinet.

Then another.

And another.

The reflection within it shifted.

For an instant, Dr. Helena Strauss remained seated behind her desk.

Then the woman vanished.

In her place sat someone entirely different.

A beautiful young witch with extraordinarily long, pale blue hair cascading down her shoulders and spilling over the back of the chair. 

Her skin was fair, her features delicate, and her eyes were perfectly black, without pupils or irises.

She wore a simple white blouse tucked into dark trousers.

The witch blinked.

Then smiled.

“Well, naturally I can’t help humans figure out how to weaken the others.”

She looked down at her hands.

“Considering I’ve become one of those unnatural species.”

Her voice was soft and pleasant.

She leaned forward, resting her chin against one hand as she studied the papers on Helena’s desk.

The transformation had been unexpected.

One moment, she had been the Director of the Institute.

A human scientist responsible for investigating phenomena that shouldn’t exist.

The next, the Third Divergence had occurred.

And Helena Strauss had become a witch.

Her name had changed along with everything else.

She could still remember being Helena, of course.

Remembered her education, her career, her colleagues, and the years she’d spent establishing herself as one of the leading scientists in the Unified Sovereignties.

But that name no longer felt quite right.

The name that had appeared in her mind during the Divergence felt much more natural.

She hadn’t yet decided whether to tell anyone.

The witch tapped one finger against her desk.

A small smile appeared.

“Actually...”

She straightened.

“If Gideon sends me captured subjects, couldn’t I simply organize an escape?”

Her smile widened.

It was such an obvious solution that she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it immediately.

After all, she knew perfectly well that the Vice President’s views weren’t universally shared.

The President hadn’t demonstrated the same hostility toward supernatural species.

Several military leaders had actively cooperated with vampires and werewolves during the Tide.

And the Institute itself had benefited from voluntary research arrangements rather than coercion.

Gideon was influential.

But he wasn’t the entire government.

The witch tilted her head.

“And capturing supernatural citizens against their will would be illegal, wouldn’t it?”

She giggled.

“Oh, that’s rather convenient.”

She stood, walked toward the cracked mirror, and examined herself.

Long blue hair.

Beautiful features.

Empty black eyes.

She leaned closer.

“Hm.”

Her reflection smiled back.

She liked the eyes.

They were certainly distinctive.

And the hair...

She gathered a thick handful of it, lifting the pale blue strands and watching them spill between her fingers.

”Very pretty.”

Her thoughts drifted toward the strange power now residing within her.

Witchcraft.

The word felt wonderful.

Not because she fully understood it.

Quite the opposite.

There was so much she didn’t know.

So many possibilities.

So many things to discover.

She had spent her entire career studying the unknown, and now the unknown had become part of her.

The witch laughed softly.

“Maybe Gideon really will send someone.”

She returned to her desk.

“If he does, I can help them escape.”

She sat down.

“And when the inevitable scandal breaks, I’ll already have demonstrated that I’m perfectly willing to help the other supernatural species.”

She tapped her chin.

“Good relationships would be useful.”

Particularly if the situation deteriorated.

She had no intention of becoming collateral damage in someone else’s political ambitions.

Nor did she particularly want to see vampires or werewolves subjected to experiments against their will.

There were plenty of ways to conduct research without imprisoning people.

Besides, the thought of examining Witchcraft was vastly more appealing.

The witch glanced toward the files scattered across her desk.

Then swept them aside.

Several slid off the edge and scattered across the floor.

She didn’t bother picking them up.

Instead, she pulled a clean sheet of paper toward herself.

Picked up a pen.

And began writing.

The first symbols came naturally.

Then more followed.

Lines.

Circles.

Equations that didn’t resemble anything she’d encountered in mathematics.

Relationships between concepts that shouldn’t have possessed measurable relationships at all.

She paused.

Stared at what she’d written.

Then smiled.

“Oh.”

Her pen moved faster.

The formulas grew increasingly elaborate, branching into strange structures that seemed perfectly comprehensible to her despite having no equivalent in any scientific discipline she knew.

A faint blue shimmer appeared above the paper.

The Witch watched it with delight.

“Oh, that’s interesting.”

She wrote another line.

The shimmer twisted.

A tiny blue thorn emerged from the air.

Then a rosebud.

It bloomed slowly, delicate petals unfolding around a center that glimmered with faint light.

The Witch stared.

Then burst into delighted laughter.

“That’s adorable!”

She reached forward and touched the rose.

Its petals felt real.

The thorn pricked her fingertip.

She blinked.

Then laughed again.

“Even better.”

The little flower dissolved into blue motes.

She immediately began writing another formula.

Her pen scratched rapidly across the paper while she hummed a cheerful tune, stopping every so often to reconsider a symbol or adjust a relationship.

Hours of scientific frustration had accomplished almost nothing.

A few minutes of Witchcraft had already given her a dozen new questions.

And she wanted answers to every single one.

The witch smiled brightly and continued writing.

?