In Veritas

by C. J. Lavigne

  “She almost had that.” Santiago has stopped to wait for Verity, though only barely before she catches up and he resumes his pace, Colin a short and sharp contrast that hobbles pale at his side. Verity realizes they both have shadows: the angel’s is long, and the magician’s is narrow, a little too short, and slightly writhing. His gaze is oiled with power, and she is barely able to look sidelong at the illusions that cling to his boots. Around her, the snake wriggles with scarcely subdued energy.

  “She’s been a pro all night,” comments the angel, breathless again. “You should’ve seen her at the hospital. We’re all stronger. Matt was sitting up when I left. You can’t feel it?”

  “I can feel it,” confirms Santiago. “Ouro could be an anaconda if he wanted. And there’s more: there’s a door somewhere around here.”

  “What? I thought you checked it?”

  “I did. Walked around the entire place as soon as those damn posters went up. The building’s old enough, but there was no between. There is now.”

  “Yes,” agrees Verity, who hadn’t thought about it, but is now aware of that subtle vibration in her bones.

  There’s a group of about eight people clustered around the building’s back door; like the others, they are wearing black knit hats and official-looking green jackets, the logo of some company embroidered on the upper right chest. Two are leaning against the wall. At least one more is smoking, the glow of her cigarette butt bobbing as she gestures conversationally to a much taller companion.

  “No hurting anyone.” Colin’s voice is low but sharp, punctuated with gasps as he hurries. “I mean it.”

  Verity glances over and sees Santiago’s lips tighten. Ouro constricts beneath her coat. The magician murmurs, “Remember what’s at stake.”

  “I know what’s at stake. We’d be no better than she.”

  Jihan only strides confidently toward a man who’s silhouetted in front of the pavilion door. He’s of thin build and middling height; he’s not wearing a hat, and his hair is a mess of frizzy dreadlocks slightly too long for order.

  Verity perceives his startling familiarity in the instant before he turns. She remembers an afternoon in the kitchen, with sunlight on his laughter—flour dust and the scent of ginger drifting across her skin.

  “Hold up,” says Jacob. “You can’t come—” He stops. He has caught his own reflection in Jihan’s eyes.

  Verity is surprised he is here. She supposes she is less surprised that of all the guards surrounding the building, Jihan unerringly made her way to this one.

  Jacob is caught short, his lips still slightly parted. His breath frosts in the air, unspent. He stares at Jihan as she walks up; she stops two feet in front of him and folds her arms.

  At the door, the other people working security have now straightened or turned; they cluster in a loose group, watching. One man puts a hand on the walkie-talkie at his belt.

  Jacob stares at Jihan and then looks to Santiago and Colin. There’s another flash of recognition across his face; he gives Colin a particularly bemused look, then catches sight of Verity. A number of questions parade across his wide-eyed features and die unsaid. He settles on, “You’re not supposed to be here. They’re supposed to be helping you.”

  Verity swallows. “They can’t. They never could.”

  “But how did—what are you wearing?”

  Verity feels the weight of the trench coat on her shoulders; it’s growing too thin for the frigid night, and she pulls it closer. She feels Ouroboros slide through the fine hairs at the back of her neck. “I, um.... I think we need to get inside.”

  A burly man with a swath of ginger beard snorts and takes a step in front of the door. “Ticket line’s out front.”

  Santiago gives him a flat look. Beside the magician, Colin runs narrow fingers through the fine ivory mop of his hair. There’s a sheen of sweat developing on his skin. He is agitated, watching Jihan, but she only stands as before, staring at Jacob.

  Jacob looks back at her, then at his coworkers by the door. Muttering something under his breath, imprecations that puff in the night, he takes Jihan by the upper arm—casually, familiarly—and pulls her away from the door, back toward the privacy of a shadowed piece of pavement.

  Colin’s breath catches, but Jihan does nothing except walk with Jacob. Her right eyebrow twitches.

  They all follow; they end up in a little cluster, their backs turned to any enquiring eyes.

  “Vee should be seeing a shrink right now, and you all want to hear music?”

  “Why are you here?” Verity asks Jacob. “We were already security guards. We tried that in the first month.”

  “We were going to be roadies. Except you weren’t here, and neither is the damn band. No one’s showed. Right now, we’re counting down until the guy out front calls it, and then we see if anyone riots.” The normal puppy-enthusiasm of Jacob’s smile is missing entirely; his ebony freckles stand out accusingly against the sienna of his skin, even in the shadows. Verity sees lines at the edges of his mouth that she’s never seen before; they taste of rancid milk and something sharp in her gut. He still has a hand at Jihan’s shoulder, and Colin’s eyes are growing wilder with each passing moment.

  “Look,” begins Santiago, but Jacob cuts him off.

  “I’m not interested in what you say, or in what you’ve got Vee involved in. Leave her with me and I won’t call the cops. How’s that?”

  The snake tenses around Verity, harder than before; she exhales at the sudden constriction, then pokes a thumb into the side of her coat and has the satisfaction of seeing Santiago flinch. Her focus is on Jacob, though. She chooses her words with care. “We need to get inside. There’s a girl who’s going to hurt a lot of people.”

  “Okay. Then you call the cops.”

  “That won’t—”

  Jihan is the one who moves. Her stillness cracks completely and without warning; she is faster than Ouroboros, and faster than Colin’s choked sound of protest when she slides her hand behind Jacob’s neck.

  Verity experiences a moment of sick vertigo where she sees Jacob’s neck snap and the sound of it is sharp as dry-cracking timber; it is red in her nostrils and despair across her tongue, but when the sparks of fear dissipate, Jacob lives, and Jihan has pressed her lips to his.

  They stand interlocked, Jihan an inch taller, Jacob broader across the shoulders and frozen in abject startlement for the second time in as many minutes. She leans into him, and the instant he remembers to breathe is almost palpable; he slips an arm around her waist and leans in, kissing her back.

  Ouroboros wends around Verity’s neck, a shadowed choker. She is watching Jacob—Jacob melting and reshaping, Jacob finally whole—but she reaches up one hand and brushes her fingertip very lightly across the top of the snake’s head.

  When Jihan steps back, she raises both hands to cup Jacob’s face. She looks him straight in the eyes—she waits for him to blink and focus. He only stares at her for a long, bright-eyed moment. A hint of his easy grin plays along his lips before he says, “I’ll come with you.”

  Her hands drop; his smile goes out. Jacob sighs.

  “All right,” he says. “You do you. Just go.”

  He gestures toward the door with one loose hand; Jihan slips past him and strides forward. Santiago and Colin are almost rigid, but then the angel shakes his head and they follow.

  Jacob catches at Verity’s arm. She raises her chin when she turns to him, but he only looks puzzled. “Your friend,” he says. “The kid. Is he ... kind of shining?”

  Verity blinks. “Yes.” But she has no time. She pulls her sleeve free and hurries after Santiago.

  “Hey,” calls the burly man at the door, folding his arms as he jerks his chin toward Jacob. “Rookie. Letting your buddies sneak in isn’t part of the deal.”

  “I’ll match your night’s pay.” Jacob sounds, abruptly, exhausted. “It looks like there’s no show anyway. Just shut up, Gary. Let ’em through. I’ll make it up to you.” At that, t
he security group is suffused with a sudden onslaught of shrugs.

  As the guards peel away, the spotlight shining on the door finally blinks and then dies. “Aw, for ... someone wanna check that light?” Gary thumbs his walkie-talkie, then presses the button again. “I’m not going up there. Is this even on?”

  “Leave it,” comments the smoking woman. “That thing was killing my eyes. The band doesn’t like it, they can complain themselves.” She opens the door and bows sardonically; Jihan sweeps through as regally as any queen. Santiago and Colin follow; Verity takes the rear and resists the urge to look back. She can feel Jacob’s stare pinning her shoulder blades.

  Inside is blissfully warm and rocked by a coasting hubbub of sound that comes to Verity in waves; she is momentarily mid-ocean before Colin brushes his fingertips against the back of her hand and the building around her solidifies. Everything echoes; the broad, long pavilion is all open space inside, and there is clearly a crowd, though Verity can’t see it. She finds herself standing just inside the door at the back of the hall, behind long black curtains that separate the small backstage area from what sounds to be the audience seating at the front. The curtains drape along the back of the low stage that’s been set up, and security guards stand here, too. Some look bored, others agitated (“What do you mean, no one’s called?” “Seriously, no opening act?” “How long are we supposed to stand around here?”). A few shoot suspicious looks at the new arrivals, but Jihan and Santiago in particular move with sublime confidence, stepping immediately to the left and following the line of the wall around toward the rear of the building. Colin holds to Santiago. Verity sets her shoulders back and follows. Within her coat, Ouroboros wriggles up to her shoulder and winds itself around her right bicep. “That’s very distracting,” she murmurs, and the snake holds momentarily still.

  It’s murky backstage—a sharp contrast from the glaring spotlights outside—but there are theatre lights set up for the crew to work. Verity is relieved to see them stay lit, though a few have already begun strobing.

  The rumble of the crowd continues to wash around Verity’s feet like a low river; she is careful not to tread in the currents of impatience. The complaints flow restlessly. Above, tiny winged figures flap amongst the narrow metal rafters that support the hall’s high roof. If she doesn’t look, she can catch other creatures wriggling at the corners of her eyes—not the cat this time, but something scurrying with a tail like a broken disco ball, and something else even smaller that only lurks beneath the back corner of the stage, visible as a single broken-clawed, mangy paw and flat pink teeth.

  Jihan is lost against deepening shadows, but Verity follows Colin’s soothing peace and Santiago’s darkness. The air in the pavilion is close, warmed by breath and sweating bodies, and Verity feels a line of moisture run down the back of her neck that she is fairly certain is actually wet and not an echo of the rippling noise.

  The space between curtain and wall is narrow, not unlike navigating the hallways between. Now that Santiago has called attention to it, Verity too can feel the doorway that waits somewhere ahead and to the right.

  They round the corner at the back and there is only one figure waiting there—ten feet away, half-sitting in what is partly a crouch and partly a slump. She wouldn’t be tall even if she were standing. She has the look of a beetle that’s been stepped on. There’s a light above that doesn’t quite land on her, focusing instead on the bare floor beside her. It brushes the curled fingers of her hand.

  It’s probably Colin’s pale bobbing that catches her attention; when the figure turns her head, Verity sees her round face and the whiteness of the teeth gnawing at her lower lip. It’s Shauna, her breathing strenuous as she draws in her heels and struggles to her feet, one hand against the wall. Orange lines run under her skin, outlining the veins of her throat and hands like slow-running lava. It occurs to Verity that she doesn’t know what Shauna does, or could do, on a night when power thrums in the air.

  Santiago gestures, and the shadows roil. Verity feels Ouroboros slide toward the end of her sleeve.

  “Don’t,” snaps Colin, and Jihan whirls to face him, her knife already in hand. She is a portrait of perfect movement, her glare unmistakeable. It is abruptly clear, human, and eminently frustrated.

  The angel adds, more quietly, “Please.” The shadows at least subside, and Ouroboros settles for wrapping itself around Verity’s wrist; Jihan doesn’t put up her knife, but she holds in place.

  Shauna glowers, but also coughs, then spits a gobbet of blood on the ground.

  “Jesus.” Colin gestures Santiago to stay and hobbles forward alone, leaning on his cane. He touches Jihan’s hand on the way past.

  “Don’t you come near me.”

  “I’m not going to hurt you.” Colin stops, though, and stands there with one hand outstretched. Verity can only see the back of his voluminous coat, flaring with the twitch of his wings, but she can imagine his gaze, its glitter called by someone else’s pain. “She didn’t really leave you here? Alone?”

  “I volunteered.” Shauna spits again, then wipes the back of her hand across her mouth. “I’m the last.”

  “You’re hurt.”

  Shauna’s attention lashes toward Jihan, then back to Colin. “Yeah. Well. You’re still not getting through here.”

  “Let me help you.”

  “Fuck off.” Shauna’s face is hangdog, her ember eyes yellowed, harsh lines of pain etched into her flesh. Her lips are smeared with red; she is more visible in the glow that Colin casts. The angel is brighter in the presence of need.

  “Let me help you,” says Colin, patiently. “You can fight us after that, if you really want. We’re not enemies. We’re all just unlucky assholes. If you know me, you know I don’t have a knife or a dog. I’ve never punched anyone in my goddamn life. All I do is heal people. So take my hand.”

  Shauna stares at Colin for a long moment, then her attention shifts again to Jihan, and to Santiago. She lingers only a moment on Verity before she looks back to Colin.

  It occurs to Verity that she doesn’t know anything about Shauna—where she’s from, what her life has been like, whether she has children or a pet or a job. Her accent is mid-east North American. Her face is ashen now with blood loss. Her hair is brown, but specked with white, and she doesn’t look like a warrior but she holds herself with confidence, straightening her shoulders and forcing that glowing orange something through her veins.

  Indecision flits across Shauna’s face, but she’s locked eyes with the angel, and with one abrupt motion she reaches out and grabs Colin’s hand.

  Verity is expecting a flare of light; she sees only a strengthening of the glow that escapes Colin’s coat, and blue reflected on Shauna’s slack and wondering face. Colin only holds on for a moment. When he pulls his hand back, the woman lets him go; Shauna’s cheeks are wet with tears.

  Santiago takes two steps forward, but Colin waves him back. “It’s all right. A good night for healing, I guess.”

  Shauna’s voice is rough. “Thank you. And I’m sorry. You still can’t pass.”

  “Chrissake, lady, what are you going to do?” Colin shakes his head. “We’re not going to break anything. We’re not going to fight you. We just need to stop Privya. You really want her to kill, what? Thousands? A hundred thousand? More? What’s it going to help?”

  Santiago and Jihan stand alert, waiting. Verity can feel the snake wrapped around her wrist. Its tongue whispers against the back of her hand.

  “It’s us or them.”

  Colin sighs, spreading his hands. “Yeah, maybe. But they don’t know that. They aren’t hurting us on purpose. Haven’t you been listening to that crowd? Are you just sitting here, hearing them laugh, knowing how many of them are about to die?”

  Shauna has tears running down her face; she makes no effort to wipe the moisture away. The orange in her veins dims as Colin hesitates.

  “That’s your life I just gave you. Don’t burn through it just so someone els
e can take a run at genocide.”

  Shauna flinches in another flare of sullen orange; she shakes her head. Closing her eyes, she draws in a long breath, then glances again at Jihan. “She can’t go down with you.”

  “Well, I’d stop her if I could, but she only does half of what I ask on a good day. Look, she’ll carve you in half. That’s not a threat, I promise. I’ve been terrified of her for the better part of a decade. I’m terrified for you.” Colin spreads his hands, palms out, fingers outstretched. “I can tell you we’ve got Verity with us, and Vee’s not going to help anyone. Jihan included.”

  Shauna looks to Verity, who only shakes her head.

  “Who’s Privya got with her?” Colin continues. “That little girl of Alan’s? Can’t speak? She doesn’t know what the fuck’s going on. Is that what we’ve come to—using children? Look, you’re right. You’ve all been right. Whatever door we might open, it’s not worth the risk. But mass murder isn’t the answer, either.”

  Shauna stands, loose-limbed, and stares at Colin. Verity stays still. She thinks she sees Santiago and Jihan shift; she thinks Ouroboros slips toward the cuff of her sleeve, but the sounds of the crowd are growing edgier, and the surge threatens to swamp her in mustard impatience.

  A flashlight cuts the shadows at the far corner of the wall, and two security guards come into view. The beam shines directly in Verity’s face before someone shouts, “Hey!”

  Verity is never sure whether Jihan cuts the lights or whether it’s Santiago’s illusions that slither to drop darkness down. Either way, the curtained hall goes pitch black, save for the lingering impression of muted orange and a kindly white-sapphire gleam. Ouroboros erupts from her sleeve, latching onto her wrist with its tail. She feels a shift, and then they are between.

  Shauna doesn’t stop them.

  The crowd is abruptly silenced.