The Clone’s Mate by Susan Trombley

One

I stared at the blank canvas in front of me, incredibly frustrated. My preliminary sketches lay scattered on the floor at my feet. I’d painted over the lightly penciled lines I’d transferred onto the canvas from them twice already, unable to gain the same feeling from the larger version of the images that I’d had when I’d sketched them in my notebook.

I couldn’t do this. I was a failure. I was a fool to ever think I could quit my day job. Just like I had been a fool to believe in lasting romantic love. Now, I had neither a job nor a husband, each taken by a woman who was younger and more attractive than me.

Over the years, I’d taken commissions for my art, and though I made a nice amount of pocket change, I’d never managed to make enough to support myself fully, relying on the shared income from my husband’s and my day jobs to pay all the bills. After a brutal divorce, I’d convinced myself that now was the time of my life where I really needed to go for it and do a full show, encouraged by the dealer at my local gallery who loved the samples of my work that I’d brought in.

I was tired of managing a retail store. My husband had convinced me that was what I was meant for and that my art was only a hobby that would never support me. After signing the final papers severing our life together, I’d felt a sudden determination to prove him wrong. Seven months later, I’d proved nothing to myself but that rent and utilities and necessities like food could burn through my settlement money far too quickly, and if I didn’t finish enough paintings, I wouldn’t be having the show the dealer had offered to host.

At forty-two, I should already know what I wanted to be when I grow up, but I was deeply afraid that Mike was right all along, and that my art really was only a hobby. Now that I had to rely on it to support me, I despised this makeshift studio and the stench of oil paints. I hated the sight of those blank canvases mocking me, and worse, all the inspiration that had once filled me had fled the moment I’d determined this would be my future.

In pure frustration, I kicked over the easel, watching the canvas crash to the ground with a guilty feeling of satisfaction. It felt so good after months of struggle only to end up with less than a handful of finished pieces—none of which made me happy. I continued the destruction, flinging the cup of brushes across the room so the glass shattered against the wall, sending some of the most expensive brushes I owned flying.

As they clattered to the floor, the distinct sound of some of them snapping playing like music to my ears, I stomped on my collection of sketches, grinding my shoe into the paper and twisting the ball of my foot until the tearing sound made me laugh aloud.

I knew I was on the edge of hysterical, but I’d been pushed to my limit at this point. I had tried, damn it! I’d made my entire life about living up to everyone’s expectations for me. I’d been an excellent student, a hard-working employee, and a devoted and faithful wife. I’d never had the chance to be a mother because Mike hadn’t wanted children, and since I was fool enough to think I loved him and wanted to spend the rest of my life with him, I’d convinced myself that I didn’t want them either.

Now, I felt like I was too old to have them without risk, and he had a beautiful and pregnant wife who was only twenty-four. Apparently, it was only that Mike didn’t want to have children with me. He’d had no objection to getting Melissa pregnant.

I left the sketches and made my way to the finished canvases propped against one wall of the second bedroom of the apartment I was renting. Picking up the topmost painting, I studied the dark and gritty alien landscape, rendered in sharply contrasted oranges and blues, broken up by vast expanses of many shades of gray and black. The desolate, volcano-riddled alien surface appeared empty and lifeless, but a small hint of hope existed in the slightest bit of green peeking up from a barely visible crack in the shadowy basalt.

I carried the painting I’d spent hours laboring over to the fallen easel, recalling my misery and struggle simply to mix the colors and then move the brush. Every stroke of that landscape had cost me dearly, sucking all the joy I’d once taken in creating art out of me.

With a triumphant cry, I smashed the canvas down over one wooden leg of the easel, and it pierced through the painting right at that tiny green sprig of a plant, completely destroying it.

I tossed the painting aside and turned my attention to the rest of the small pile, a slow grin spreading on my lips.

* * *

Hours later,paint still spattering my clothing, I headed to the local hardware store, still breathing heavily as I bounced between elation and despair after a brief call to the art dealer that had ended with her disappointment but understanding.

I was done. Done with art that no longer inspired me. Done with my ex-husband and the heartache his infidelity had caused. Done with twisting myself like a pretzel to make everyone around me happy when I couldn’t find my own contentment.

It was time to take my own future into my hands and grow up and stop daydreaming about being a great artist—or even one good enough to support herself with her work. Clearly, art wasn’t my destiny. Equally clearly, I didn’t have much of one, so it was time to make my own.

I just wish I knew what that would be as I strolled through the cleaning section of the hardware store while I waited for one of the employees to finish mixing the wall paint I’d ordered to repaint the bedroom after I’d ruined the existing paint with my cathartic destruction.

I’d seen an ad for an online college posted on the bulletin board near the registers, and I planned to study it a bit closer before leaving to see if any of the offered programs interested me. I only had a vague idea of what I’d like to do for a future career, since nothing had ever really appealed to me other than being creative, and there didn’t seem to be many modern jobs that called for the kind of creativity I liked.

With a basket full of cleaning products and wall painting supplies, I returned to the paint counter, slowing my rush to grab my paint when I spotted the drop-dead gorgeous guy standing at the counter staring down at the finish samples.

“Satin is the best for the interior,” I said impulsively, my heart thudding because I’d been so bold as to speak first to a total stranger. That wasn’t my usual MO.

The man looked up from the samples, turning to regard me with eyes that were a striking and unusual purple color that looked unnatural, but coordinated well with dark brown hair tousled in a slightly long cut. His eyes had to be contacts, but the lush, long eyelashes that framed them were probably real, and I couldn’t help feeling a little jealous of them.

He studied me briefly and I couldn’t read the expression on his handsome face. There was no change in the elevation of his finely shaped eyebrows or movement in his chiseled jawline or tilt in his sensual lips.

“Is that so?” he asked in an oddly accented voice, glancing back at the paint samples. “You are an expert?” His gaze shifted to my basket of goods.

I couldn’t place the accent, but it was subtle enough that I could easily understand him. What disturbed me more was his complete lack of expression and the almost disdainful tone that underlay his words. I already regretted speaking to a stranger. I should have gone with my introvert instincts and just grabbed up my paint from the counter without a word to him. This guy was way out of my league, and my already crushed self-esteem could not take a brutal brush-off after such an ugly divorce.

Still, now I couldn’t avoid speaking to him again without making things even more awkward than they already were, so I shrugged, giving him a hesitant, sheepish smile. “Not of wall paint. I’ve just found from personal experience that satin gives a nice finish that doesn’t show too much of the wall’s flaws but it’s still easy to wipe down.”

He frowned, tapping long, elegant fingers on the counter. “I did not come here for paint,” he said abruptly, just as the cute, young woman who did all the mixing returned to her station, her eyes lighting up when she spotted the man.

“Hello again, Jason!” she said with that tone in her voice that told me I’d been a complete idiot to even think of flirting with the guy.

Obviously, he was interested in this other woman.

She was clearly more his type than I was, being a good fifteen years younger than me at least, and probably thirty pounds lighter, with not a single hint of gray in her long, thick, shiny hair.

Her name was Amy, according to her tag, and she had been unfailingly kind and polite while I’d ordered my paint. I couldn’t hold the fact that she was younger and adorable and attractive to a man like this against her.

The man suddenly breathed in deeply, and his inhale was loud enough that I heard it. Then he glanced from Amy to me, nodding slightly. His gaze drifted from me to the aisle behind me, and I reflexively turned to look over my shoulder, seeing a woman standing there studying the rollers and drop sheets.

If Amy was cute, this woman was stunningly beautiful on a whole new level that belonged in Hollywood or on some Paris runway. I was surprised I hadn’t seen her when I’d passed through that aisle, but I could hardly miss her now. Her eyes lifted to meet the man’s and I could practically feel something between them crackling in the air as she also nodded slightly, a slow smile tilting her full, bee-stung lips. They looked naturally that large and shapely, rather than the odd duck-face look that sometimes happened with fillers. Her eyes were large and stunning, the deep purple color visible even from a dozen feet away.

Suddenly, the man turned to face me fully, completely ignoring poor Amy, whose face fell at being summarily dismissed by the hot guy that had to already be taken by the beautiful woman in the aisle.

“Will you join me for a drink?” he asked, his bizarre purple gaze fixed on me.

Even though he was looking right at me, I blinked at him in confusion. It took a long, awkward silence before I realized he was addressing me, and it was only Amy’s expression that cinched it in my head.

She looked shocked and then offended, her eyes hardening as her gaze raked up and down my form, taking in my slovenly clothing, mussed hair sprinkled with grays, and extra weight. The sweet, friendly employee was gone as she shoved my paint can across the counter, her eyes shifting back to the man, who still watched me as if she weren’t there.

“Your paint is done,” she snapped, “you can go now. I have other customers to deal with.”

I huffed, taken aback by her rudeness. If I were her manager, I would have counseled her on her tone. Since I wasn’t her manager, I took offense at her attitude, and I hate to admit it, but that was what made me tilt my head coquettishly and beam at the man with the most charming smile I could muster as I fluttered my pathetic excuse for lashes.

“I am getting thirsty. I suppose I could use a drink right now.” I gestured with one hand towards the front of the store. “There’s a coffee shop a couple stores down from here, if you’d like to meet there.”

I shot a triumphant glance at Amy, who glared at me, even as she slapped a wooden stir stick onto the top of my paint can.

“I can walk with you to the coffee shop,” the man said as he grabbed up my paint and the stick, then reached for my laden basket. “Please, allow me to help you with your burdens.”

I couldn’t remember the last time a man had offered to carry something heavy for me. Or hold open the door, or do anything chivalric, for that matter. I was pretty convinced such gestures were out of fashion now—much to my disappointment, as I’d always found them romantic.

Still, I was hesitant to allow him to take my basket, pulling it close to me and eyeing my gallon of paint in his hand with doubt. I shouldn’t follow this complete stranger, even to a coffee shop that was public, without knowing more about him than his first name. It also almost felt like he was holding my paint hostage.

“Maybe it’s better if I check out and load these things into my car before meeting you,” I said, reaching one hand towards the can.

He shifted it away from my grasp, giving me a slow, devastating smile that bared perfect white teeth. “Your burdens look heavy. I’ll carry them for you out to your vehicle. Then I will enjoy treating you to a… coffee.” The way his lids narrowed around his eyes made that last offer sound like a promise of something far more delicious than a simple coffee.

Damn, he was so handsome he was almost beautiful. I didn’t think I’d ever seen anyone so attractive in person. He looked more like an airbrushed photo of the hottest male model come to life. The only thing he was missing was the bit of scruff that was so popular with male models nowadays, though I personally liked that his flawless jawline was smooth shaven. Combined with the perfection of his skin, that smoothness seemed almost otherworldly, like he was some ethereal fae prince suddenly revealing himself to a mere mortal—and asking her out for coffee.

All in all, a pretty mundane offer, but one I couldn’t refuse, because quite frankly, Amy was getting nice and pissed off that he didn’t even glance her way again. I knew my satisfaction about that was petty, and perhaps it was a transfer of my rage about the woman who’d ended up with my husband—and the baby I’d never been allowed to have—that fueled my pettiness towards this young woman. I didn’t like acknowledging that about myself, but hey, I’d just violently destroyed months of my own hard work. I wasn’t exactly in a healthy emotional place to begin with.

I shrugged, giving in to the offer. How often did a girl get an offer like this? I’d be a fool not to see where it went. If nothing else, perhaps I could hook up with the hottest guy I’d ever seen. Sure, I wasn’t likely to be able to keep him around for long, but even a brief affair would be a boost to my self-esteem at this point. He made Michael look like Quasimodo.

Still, although I lowered my free hand and even held out my basket for him to take it, I glanced with uncertainty towards the aisle where the beautiful woman had stood. She was no longer there, and I wondered where she’d gotten off to. Her appearance and the way she and this guy had looked at each other made me uneasy.

He seemed to sense the direction of my thoughts, perhaps because I was looking in the direction of where she’d been standing.

“My sister still has some shopping to do, I suspect,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, still overlaid by that subtle, unidentifiable accent. “She won’t be joining us at any rate.”

“Oh,” I said, my eyes widening with my surprise, “she’s your sister. Well,” I regarded his ridiculously handsome face, thinking of the woman’s stunning beauty, “your family has excellent genes.”

He smirked and even that expression looked sexy on him. “Yes. Our genes are close to perfect.”

That claim took me aback, but then I supposed I shouldn’t be surprised the man was vain as all hell. Hot privilege and all. That kind of vanity could be insufferable in large doses, but then again, I was really only going along with this date to remind myself that I was still a woman, because after years of marriage to Michael—the last few without any real sexual interest from him—I’d forgotten that fact.

He walked alongside me as I made my way to the checkout, glancing nervously at him multiple times to make sure he didn’t disappear. After all, maybe I had already passed the point of hysterical, and I was now hallucinating super-hot guys to cheer me up.

As we approached the entrance, I spotted his sister standing outside with two other men, both of whom looked from their side profiles to be as gorgeous as Jason. I felt a bit of shock along with my awe, and a tingle of awareness prickled along my spine. Something seemed off about this sudden influx of impossibly handsome people when I’d never seen their like before.

Even the cashier seemed awed, the young man’s mouth gaping slightly as he stared at the man unpacking my basket onto the conveyor belt. Jason stood at least six feet tall, and his brothers—if that was who they were—looked even taller as they entered the store, leaving the young woman staring through the glass storefront at their backs.

Her gaze met mine and she smiled, lifting an elegant hand to wave slightly as she winked one large eye at me.

It was a bit awkward, honestly, but I waved back and gave her a cautious smile as the two new guys passed by our checkout without acknowledging Jason. They headed in the direction of the paint counter where Amy no doubt fumed in outrage at being passed over for a fluffy middle-aged woman in paint-stained sweats and an oversized T-shirt.

Jason wasn’t much of a talker, which made things awkward for me, because I hated long silences when I was just meeting someone. I felt obligated to fill that empty air space, fearing that if I didn’t, they’d realize I was a shy introvert uncomfortable in social situations. Instead, I grappled for topics, trying to ask as many questions as I could as I led him to my car where he stowed my purchases in my trunk.

He answered every question I asked about him abruptly, in ways that gave me almost no information, and discouraged any further queries in that direction. I quickly grew frustrated as I shut my trunk and turned to regard him, crossing my arms over my chest.

This would be a long and painful cup of coffee if he didn’t start to demonstrate some conversational skills.

“Listen, uh, Jason,” I said, shifting my weight from foot to foot out of nervous habit, “I don’t think this is going to work out. I appreciate the offer of a drink and your help to my car, but I’m actually not really looking for dates right now.”

His eyes narrowed and he frowned deeply as his dark brown brows drew together. I braced myself for the inevitable temper tantrum.

In my experience, good-looking men weren’t accustomed to being rejected, and they tended to take it poorly—especially when they considered the woman beneath them anyway. And I was sure he did. I got the impression he was slumming with me, and my suspicions about why were growing enough to make me more cautious about this whole date thing.

Plus, he was as dull as dry toast. Seriously! The guy couldn’t carry a conversation with the help of a cargo lift.

To my relief, his frown cleared away, returning his expression to a neutral one. He nodded briefly and smiled, though it was obviously forced. Then he reached out to pat me on my upper arm.

“I understand,” he said calmly, “it’s probably for the best.”

As I glanced at his hand on my arm, he lifted his other hand, palm upwards in front of me.

I shifted my gaze to his palm and saw a strange powder in it, just as he pursed his lips to blow it into my face.

At first, I hacked and coughed, turning away from the source of that powder. Within moments, I felt an odd lassitude filling me.

“Come with me,” he said in a hard tone. “Make no move that I don’t tell you to make.” He started to walk away.

I straightened into a stiff stance, then my feet moved against my will as I turned to follow him. I wanted to scream and shout for help, but I no longer had control over my own body. I also experienced a strange, almost disconnected feeling, as if I weren’t even inside my body. It felt more like I was watching myself from a distance.

Jason ordered me to follow him to an alleyway near the hardware store, and as I passed the store, I saw one of his “brothers” walking out of it with Amy at his side. Her gaze looked distant, staring right past me, but her almost zombie-like movements matched my own.

The two men walked side by side into the alleyway, and Amy and I followed obediently, unable to even turn our heads to look at each other. Once we reached the alleyway, we saw the sister—although based on the passionate kiss she gave Jason and then the other man, I got the distinct impression they weren’t related.

Or maybe they were. Who knew at this point? I sure as hell wasn’t worrying about that as much as I worried about the fact that I had zero control over my own body.

Then I was glad I wasn’t entirely in control of myself, because I probably would have crapped my pants when a small, sleek spaceship suddenly appeared in front of us as we reached the furthest depths of the alley. It became fully visible just as the last of the three “brothers” appeared with another young woman in tow, obviously as afflicted by the strange powder as Amy and me.

When Jason ordered me to climb into the vessel, my mind screamed in terror and panic, even as my body moved to obey.

I was being abducted. Now I knew why these people were so otherworldly beautiful. What I didn’t know was why they wanted three human women, none of whom looked particularly special in any significant way.

I never got the chance to ask why, because after entering the narrow confines of the spaceship, Jason ordered me into a coffin-like box and then told me to lose consciousness once I laid inside it. I didn’t even remain awake long enough to see the other women climb into their enclosures.