Logical. Transactional, as this has been from the beginning. And yet Heilui finds herself smiling. “No, you’re right. And if you were gone, I’d miss you. I’ll have to talk my family around, but my mothers at least I think I can convince.”
“I will do my best to be the daughter-in-law they can tolerate. They will be my family, my mothers.”
Heilui laughs, surprising herself, the sound of a scale tipping in her heart. “So they would. I never asked you properly before, did I, so—Kerttu, will you be my wife?”
Kerttu gathers Heilui in her arms and kisses her brow, soft and warm. “Yes. Let’s try to make this work together.”
At their feet, the frost of Kerttu’s country thaws: a pool clear as the first water of spring, blue-green and sharp with salt.
OUT IN THE world of mortal flesh and unbearable history, on the island surrounded by storm and sea, the occidental bride never dons black again.
JAZZ, WHISKEY, AND cigarettes, each smoother than the last; this is CeCe’s kind of night, and the Midnight Café is her kind of club.
Tonight her velvet suit matches the smoke in the room, her grey coattails as sharp as soft fabric can be. Her shoes and walking stick gleam sleek black in what little light is offered. Everything here is dim except the conversation, sparkling even at a hush. Bottles line the mirror behind the bar and as long as you’re flush, you never need to see the bottom of a glass.
On stage, a set ends in a murmur of horns. Without turning, CeCe slides another bill across the bar to keep the amber flowing. Tonight, she’s celebrating—the Glitter Squadron saved the world again. Though she’d never admit it where Bunny or Sapphire could hear her, it feels good to be a part of something valuable.
Her tobacco is imported. Turkish. Each cigarette black with a filter that would glow underneath UV lighting. CeCe exhales rings of smoke toward the ceiling, and then the lights dim further, leaving a single spot pinning the stage.
There’s a sharp whistle followed by a low patter of stomping and applause. CeCe straightens. The last element of a perfect evening steps onto the polished floorboards of the stage.
Madeline. She doesn’t stride but rather slinks to the microphone. She grips it with both gloved hands and appraises the audience with a knowing smile. A brush mutters across the snare, joined a moment later by the mourn of a saxophone. The drums step in full, heartbeat strong, a white-hot shock of noise bringing the crowd alive with wolf whistles and catcalls as Madeline parts her gorgeous crimson lips and rasps in a breath as effective as dragging her nails lightly up each and every spine in the room.
As much as CeCe wants to live in the moment, there’s a match striking a small flare of regret that stinks of sulfur. She should be up there on stage with Madeline. Except nobody wants her crooning anymore; they want Madeline’s bluesy, sultry heat. And deep down CeCe knows she was never half the singer Madeline is, even in her heyday as the Velvet Devil of the Midnight Café.
Besides, CeCe has the Glitter Squadron now. She has saving the world. She comes and goes as she pleases. The team needs her more than she needs them, and that’s the way she likes it.
CeCe gives over all her attention to the performance. She watches Madeline’s throat, the way it works beneath the pool of shadows untouched by the spotlight. Lips next, then the glitter of her eyes, brighter than diamonds, and last the spill of auburn hair over shoulders smooth as marble.
All eyes in the room are on Madeline, attention magnetically pulled toward the stage. But of all the gazes drinking her in, the one Madeline meets in return is CeCe’s.
CeCe raises her glass—a heavy-bottomed rocks glass minus the ice, poured with two smooth fingers of Bushmills Sixteen-Year-Old Single Malt—a salute, and Madeline smiles at her before turning back to the others, the audience captive as her voice opens wide. CeCe holds onto her smile, watching Madeline sing, and watching the crowd watch her. Do they think they know her? Madeline is more than a perfect face. She’s wit and laughter, speaks at least three languages, and climbs sheer rock walls on vacation just for fun. The last time Madeline dragged her along, one of the only times, CeCe watched in amazement from below as Madeline reached the top, taking only a moment to catch her breath before singing first in French, then Italian.
CeCe can say she’s met some very unique souls, but none claim her like Madeline. CeCe had a family once, but domesticity didn’t work for her. She found the Glitter Squadron, and it fit, but there was still some raggedness to the edges of her life. But then she discovered Madeline…. Her past, her present, her future—it all aligned. If anyone asks, CeCe will say she’s still working it out, but in truth, she has it figured. She’s the satellite orbiting the Glitter Squadron, the velvet antidote to all their lamé. She’s the lone wolf to their pack. She owes all that understanding, finding her place in the world, to Madeline.
The song ends. Lights glint from the beads covering Madeline’s dress as she takes her bow, before making her way to the back of the room. CeCe is waiting, and catches Madeline’s waist, stealing a kiss before releasing her to the chilled glass of Chardonnay waiting on the bar.
“Great set tonight, doll.” CeCe opens her monogrammed cigarette case, offering one to Madeline. She keeps the case evenly stocked—her own Turkish cigarettes on one side, and the Virginia Slims Madeline prefers on the other.
“You really think so?” Madeline’s cheeks are flushed.
CeCe lights Madeline’s cigarette with a silver lighter that matches the case, before lighting her own. “You killed it. You always do.”
There’s a hint of rosewater—which CeCe thinks of as Madeline’s scent—as Madeline leans back. There’s something else though, woodsmoke and, oddly, cinnamon. A rim of crimson stains Madeline’s cigarette filter as she blows a thin stream of blue toward the ceiling. She leaves another perfect imprint on the glass. The color makes CeCe hungry.
“I was thinking maybe you could come with me this weekend.” Madeline speaks without looking at CeCe. “Stolen Chimney. Utah. They say Moroni fashioned the rocks as a warning.”
There’s a strange rigidity to Madeline’s posture, one CeCe finds herself echoing. It’s irrational, but she’s searching Madeline’s words for a trap. Is she hoping to be taken up on her offer or turned down?
The moment she had it all figured out, while Madeline was singing, slips through her fingers. CeCe is lost again. There are days where Madeline feels like a puzzle CeCe’s meant to solve, but doesn’t have all the pieces. The best she can do is flash a smile, play it cool.
“No can do, doll. Top-secret business afoot.” Even casual mentions of the Glitter Squadron bother Madeline.
This time is no exception. She flinches, then picks a fleck of ash from her lip, distracted. “Okay.”
CeCe thinks she hears relief in Madeline’s tone, even though her shoulders remain tight. Madeline starts as CeCe brushes fingers over her arm, but immediately softens the reaction with an apologetic smile. Madeline swirls her wine glass—restless and uneasy.
“Is everything okay?” CeCe is afraid of the answer.
Madeline gives her a brief, frightened glance. “Just tired.”
It’s pure lie, another trap, another hole in the puzzle. CeCe sips her drink, swallowing the amber smoke of her whiskey to chase away the doubt. She touches her lips briefly to the curve of Madeline’s neck, simple and uncomplicated. Madeline gratifies her with a delicious shiver.
“What do you say we get out of here?” CeCe keeps her hand on the small of Madeline’s back, expecting her to lean into the touch.
Madeline surprises her by pulling away. There’s a hard edge to the brightness in her eyes, not quite anger, but closer to fear. “Is that all I am to you? Someone to warm your bed?”
The words, unexpected, rock CeCe back in her seat. “Doll, slow down. Where is this coming from?”
A minute ago, everything was tense, but cool, and now the world is falling out from under her. CeCe struggles to catch up while not letting any of it show. She’s the Vel
vet Underground Drag King, after all. She has a reputation to maintain. Clark Gable telling Scarlett he doesn’t give a damn, that’s her.
Except she does give a damn. Even though she’s never said it aloud, CeCe is ninety-nine percent certain she’s in love with Madeline. And she’s never been in love before. Women were creatures that came and went before Madeline; they were there or they weren’t and it didn’t matter. Confusion, touched with fear, makes CeCe’s pulse jump. Her first instinct is to withdraw. Deep down she knows that this is what caring gets you, relying on other people instead of doing your own thing. It gets your heart broke.
Madeline reaches for another cigarette. Instead of waiting for CeCe to light it, she plucks the lighter from CeCe’s fingers. It takes her three tries to get the flint to spark. “At New Year’s, we talked about Paris,” Madeline says. “It’s April now.”
“You want to go to Paris? We’ll go to Paris. We’ll go tonight.” There’s an edge to CeCe’s voice, rising to match Madeline’s tone.
“Paris isn’t the point.” Madeline drops her just-lit cigarette into CeCe’s glass. “I’ve never even met your friends. You’re ashamed of me.”
“Come on now.” CeCe tries for lightness, struggling to keep her voice even. “Any woman would be proud to have you on her arm.”
“I don’t want any woman. I want you, and I want to know you’re with me, and not just because of this.” Madeline gestures to her body.
“Babe…” CeCe reaches for Madeline’s hand, but it’s jerked away.
“No. Everyone looks at me, but they don’t see me. Maybe…” She hesitates, standing, gathering her purse and rummaging inside. Her voice drops, so low it’s now a confessional whisper. “Maybe there isn’t anything else to me.”
“Maddy, that isn’t—”
The clatter of Madeline’s keys hitting the floor interrupt CeCe’s words. Flustered, Madeline stoops to retrieve them. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes too bright. “I can’t do this anymore,” Madeline says.
CeCe reaches frantically for the right words but Madeline has already whirled precariously on needle-thin heels, heading for the door.
CECE BRINGS THE épée up to her mask, saluting the end of the match. Butch sketches a quick bow across from her before removing his mask. Even though he doesn’t run with the Glitter Squadron anymore— he’s a small-business owner but, as he’s quick to tell anyone who asks, not the respectable kind—they still meet up to practice every now and then, keep their skills sharp.
“I’ve got to run, but same time next month?” Butch asks.
CeCe nods, pulling off her mask and gloves, and running fingers through her sweat-damp hair. “Same time next month.”
She tries to hide the note of disappointment in her voice. She was hoping Butch would suggest a drink, or even another match. Despite the burn in her muscles, CeCe could go again. She considers looking for another partner, but even another round of parry, riposte, lunge, and feint would only be a delaying tactic. Eventually she will have to go back to her apartment, where she will inevitably think about Madeline and their fight.
To hell with it, CeCe thinks. She’s not going to spend her nights slinking around; she’s going to face the music. At home, she showers and dresses in her finest. Wine-red velvet tonight, sharp as blood. When every line of her pocket square is precise and crisp and her shoes are buffed to a high shine, CeCe heads back to the Midnight Café. She’s no whipped dog to run scared with her tail tucked between her legs after one little fight.
She slides into her usual seat at the bar, cool as ever, consciously keeping her leg from jiggling or her fingers from drumming on the bar. She doesn’t smoke her cigarettes any faster than usual, or gulp her drink, and she definitely does not look at the vintage art-deco pocket watch with its glittering silver fob chain.
The Elysian Quartet’s set ends, and CeCe straightens, convincing herself the sudden speed in her pulse is only her imagination. Madeline always follows the Elysian Quartet, but CeCe doesn’t recognize the blonde who takes the stage.
CeCe catches the bartender’s eye. “What’s with the new girl?”
The bartender shrugs, but CeCe notes the way his gaze moves toward the door beside the stage. CeCe leaves a twenty on the bar and the rest of her drink untouched.
Her suit picks up bloody highlights from the exit light as she ignores the Employees Only sign and pushes through the stage door. A narrow corridor leads to the dressing rooms. CeCe knocks on Madeline’s door, presses her ear to the wood, but only silence answers.
What if Madeline’s gone for good? What if CeCe has fucked up irrevocably by failing to follow some arcane rule she doesn’t understand? Maybe Madeline wants to settle down, start a family. CeCe’s never considered herself a family man; it’s not her scene, but she could convince herself to be domesticated. For Madeline. But what if it’s something worse? The thought nags at the back of her mind—the distraction, the tension, the sudden anger. It’s not like Madeline. So what if this isn’t about her, or them at all?
CeCe shoulders the door, and to her surprise, it gives. The dressing room smells like rosewater and cinnamon. The scent is an imprint, as if Madeline was just here, but the room is decidedly empty. The new scent, the one that doesn’t belong to Madeline, but which CeCe smelled on her the night she stormed out, is there too, increasing her unease.
The lights circling the mirror over Madeline’s vanity are on, but the rest of the room is dark. Tubes of lipstick, compacts, and jars of cold cream—nothing seems out of place. A photograph tucked into the mirror’s frame catches her eye.
CeCe swallows around a lump in her throat. Her and Maddy, cheek to cheek, smiling for the camera on New Year’s Eve. CeCe tucks the photograph into her wine-red pocket. Madeline is her girl. Come hell or high water, CeCe will figure out where she lost her and how to win her back.
Something else catches her eye, crammed into the trash can under Madeline’s vanity. A long-stemmed rose, the stem snapped, petals bruised as though Madeline tried to grind it out like a cigarette. Another suitor? An unwelcome one?
CeCe’s thoughts whirl. She’s so distracted, she nearly collides with a woman who appears out of nowhere as CeCe steps back into the hall. CeCe blinks. For a moment, she’s looking into a mirror. Except the colors are flipped, everything just slightly askew.
Where CeCe is all velvet, the other woman’s suit is midnight silk. Her creases are knife-crisp, the blackness interrupted only by the bloody slash of her tie. CeCe’s hair is blonde-ash; the woman’s slicked-back do is as black as her suit, one lock worked into a jagged, lightning-strike curl over her right eye.
“Excuse me.” The woman smirks, shouldering past CeCe. “I’ve got a show to do.”
The woman walks with a faint limp, as though compensating with reality for the affectation of CeCe’s crystal-topped cane. The shape of her from behind is wrong, her shoulders too bulky. Or maybe it’s just a trick of the light.
The red exit sign casts the woman’s shadow behind her. Wrong. The door slams; CeCe jumps, pulse echoing with the slam. The scent of cinnamon lingers in the air. Wrong. She needs to find Madeline.
CECE RECOGNIZES SHE’S in a dream, but she can’t wake up. The dream doesn’t behave the way a dream should, either. Everything is too sharp, too linear. It’s a sliver forced into her mind, and she can’t dig it out.
She follows the hall behind the stage at the Midnight Cafe, and pushes open Madeline’s dressing-room door. The geography of the dream-room is all wrong. It’s bigger than CeCe’s apartment; the racks of costumes frame a heart-shaped bed. Madeline pours from the bed, boneless in ecstasy, hair spilling like russet ink, eyes closed and lips parted. The woman with the lightning-strike curl and sharp-angled black suit raises her head from between Madeline’s legs. “Mine,” she says. “Mine.”
CeCe jerks awake, her heart pounding. There’s a weight on her chest, crushing her. She isn’t alone.
Thrashing and scrambling at the covers, she stands and nearly falls. I
t’s a moment before she can convince herself the shadows aren’t leaking toward her, the world isn’t about to end.
“Shit.” She runs a hand through her hair; goosebumps rise on her skin.
She forces herself to breathe, to examine the dream, the strange angles of it. It doesn’t fade the way dreams usually do. If anything it sharpens, and that in itself kicks something loose in CeCe’s mind. Fragments of half-remembered mythology, related by an ex-girlfriend who fancied herself a medieval scholar. Incubus. Succubus. She can’t remember which is which, but aren’t they both demons that prey on people in dreams?
Ridiculous. CeCe shakes her head. It was just a dream, her subconscious trying to tell her to man up or she’ll lose Madeline for good. She glances at the clock, decides fuck it, and calls Madeline anyway.
CeCe loses count of the rings before hanging up. It’s two a.m. Where would Madeline be if not at home? CeCe pours herself a drink before crawling back into bed, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. The room is cold, even though the windows are closed.
Her heart wants to crack in two, the image from the dream re-asserting itself, overwriting what she knows to be reality. She loves Madeline, and Madeline loves her. Except… Except.
CeCe slams the glass down hard. This isn’t her. It’s like the dream, a sliver beneath her skin. But she’s stronger than this.
She sucks in a breath, snapping the world back into focus. The chill retreats from the room. Think rationally. When everything else is eliminated whatever remains, however impossible, must be the truth.
This is what CeCe knows: She loves Madeline. And because she’s never been this certain about anything else in her life, she refuses to believe Madeline would simply give up on her and walk away. There’s something else afoot—a demon, worming its way into her dreams, cocky, announcing her presence and intent. The question is, now that CeCe knows it’s out there, gunning for her, gunning for her girl, what is she going to do about it?
Heiresses of Russ 2016: The Year's Best Lesbian Speculative Fiction Page 8
