Except the Queen

by Jane Yolen

  Sitting at the table, Marti was fussing over a teapot. Dry toast waited on a blue plate, next to a jar of dark honey. Lily slept in her usual spot under the table near Sparrow’s chair.

  “Just in time,” Marti said, grabbing a mug from the counter behind her and placing it before Sparrow.

  Sparrow filled her cup, squeezed out a liberal spoonful of honey, and started stirring it.

  “Take,” Marti ordered, handing Sparrow a couple of aspirin.

  Sparrow obeyed, even though she knew it wasn’t necessary. In an hour her body would be restored, healed of whatever damage she had inflicted on it the night before. She had learned that about herself when she was twelve. In one of his drunken rages, her father had stabbed a knife into her thigh, as though he thought he could pin her to the motel bed. She’d screamed and he’d reared back, horrified at the sudden rush of bright blood that spilled over her thigh and the cheap bedspread. Panicked, she’d pulled the knife free and—ignoring his hoarse cries—fled into the woods behind the motel. She’d wandered for hours through dense pines, until collapsing at last in a bank of ferns. Curling into a knot of pain, she’d pressed one hand against the pulsing wound in her thigh.

  In her fitful sleep she’d heard them come, stepping quietly through the ferns: three deer—a buck and two doe. They lay down around her, the sheltering warmth of their bodies lulling her into a deep, irenic sleep. In the morning, only the tear in the fabric of her jeans and the pucker of a new scar remained.

  “So are you doing all right?” Marti asked.

  Sparrow blinked, aware that she had been silently stirring her tea much too long. Taking a sip, she smiled. “Yeah. I’m okay, really. Just got caught up in Saturday-night blues, I guess.” She broke off a piece of the toast and handed it to Lily, who had awoken and was now sitting with her head on Sparrow’s knee.

  “You know a bunch of us are going to a late lunch at The Twisted Fork, around two. Why don’t you join us?” Marti offered. “It’s good to get out once in a while, you know. You’ve been living like a nun in this house.”

  Sparrow ducked her head and freed a cigarette from her pack. She put it between her lips and pulled a small tin ashtray closer to her. She was going to light it until she noticed the frown of disapproval on Marti’s face. She put it down with a sigh and saw the clock, telling her she was late.

  “Yeah, maybe I have, lately,” Sparrow admitted. “I’ll try and make it. And thanks for the tea too,” she said in a rush. “I better hurry and get going.” Sparrow reached under the table for her sneakers and put them on with a rough jerk. Lily stood up, her tail thumping in expectation of a walk. Sparrow grabbed the leash and clicked it onto Lily’s collar. “I promise, I’ll stop by after work,” she added as Marti, teacup in hand, headed for her bedroom.

  “Later, then,” Marti called, with a wave of her hand.

  Sparrow and Lily bounded down the stairs to the front door, Lily growling in the back of her throat when she passed the door to the downstairs apartment. “Assholes,” Sparrow muttered. Had she threatened to call the cops on them last night? At least they were as drunk as I was, she thought. And maybe they wouldn’t remember who had spoiled their fun. Their payback was always nasty.

  Outside, smoking a cigarette and waiting for Lily to hurry up and pee, Sparrow kicked the plastic skull half buried in the dirt and made a note to herself to finally dig the creepy thing out when she had the time. But right now if she and the dog didn’t hurry, Sparrow was going to be late for work.

  “Come on Lily, yer done!” she shouted and jerked the dog back up the stairs. Pausing on the landing, Sparrow remembered seeing a woman standing outside her door late in the night. Had she imagined it? The face looked lost, childlike and old at the same time. Sparrow shook her head. It was a face out of her dreams, one from a lineup of foster parents perhaps, laced with half a bottle of tequila. Forget it, she told herself.

  * * *

  AN HOUR LATER SPARROW UNLOCKED the door to The Constant Reader Bookshop, and was greeted by the jangle of tattle bells hanging on the door. She inhaled the musty aroma of book dust, and turned the sign on the door from CLOSED to OPEN. It was Sunday, and she knew there would be few customers in the small shop, which suited her just fine. Throughout the morning she worked alone, straightening shelves, and boxing up books for return on Monday. The first customer, an elderly gentleman named Frank who came every Sunday to read the papers, didn’t show up until midmorning, just as Sparrow was opening the new boxes of books and entering them into the computer. Sparrow smiled at the old man and left the counter to make sure the tea urns were filled with water. Frank liked his tea good and hot.

  Sparrow worked through lunch and then, catching sight of the time on the store clock, made the decision to join Marti and her friends. Why not, she thought. Just this once. It had been a long time since she’d gone out. Sparrow called gently to the old man who was half dozing behind his paper in one of the store’s big overstuffed chairs.

  “Hey, Frank, I’m closing up early today.”

  “Yeah? Got something special to do?” Frank asked, carefully folding his paper and tucking it under his arm. He patted down a wayward strand of white hair over his pink scalp.

  “Late lunch with some folks.” Sparrow decided that maybe Marti was right. It was time to go out for once.

  “Good. Pretty girl like you shouldn’t hang around with old geezers like me.” Frank touched his hair again as if flirting with her.

  “Hey, I’m all yours next Sunday,” Sparrow said, and laughed.

  * * *

  WHEN SPARROW ARRIVED, MARTI AND her friends were already sitting down at a table outside in the small patio. Sparrow recognized the square-chinned, dark-haired man next to Marti as her boyfriend Mitch, who was working on his degree in art. They made an attractive couple, she thought, fair and dark together. Three other women crowded together on one side of the table, dressed like parakeets in bright blues, yellows and greens. They were chatting loudly, breaking out in spontaneous laughter and hitting each other on the shoulders. They were Marti’s friends, that was clear from the way she leaned her body into the semicircle of laughing women. Opposite Marti was another woman. A friend of Mitch’s? She was dressed in dark clothing, a book bag stuffed with sketch books, and wearing a bored expression as she observed Marti’s chattering girlfriends. Her hair was shades of black and purple, her heavy lipstick startling on her pale face.

  “You made it,” Marti called out as Sparrow approached shyly. “Take a seat,” and she gestured to a free chair next to the dark-haired woman.

  Sparrow sat down, nodding to the woman as she glanced at Sparrow. Black-lined eyes followed the contours of Sparrow’s face and then her body. Sparrow waited, uneasy under the silent scrutiny. Unexpectedly, the woman smiled at her, and reached out a hand to grab Sparrow by the wrist.

  “You’ve got great skin,” she said, stroking Sparrow’s forearm. “It’s so translucent. And pale. A perfect canvas.”

  “Thanks . . . I think,” Sparrow said with a laugh. Unused to strangers touching her, she pulled her arm free of the woman’s grasp to reach for a glass of water the waiter had brought her.

  “Don’t mind Jenna. She’s got a thing for skin. Go on,” Mitch urged, “show Sparrow.”

  Jenna took off her black sweater, revealing not only the sleeveless T-shirt underneath, but her arms covered in sleeves of finely drawn tattoos. “I met this guy, Hawk, and he’s an amazing ink artist. The best I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t resist getting the work done. He said I had perfect skin. Just like yours,” she added with a smile.

  “It’s beautiful.” Sparrow was transfixed by the intensity of the vivid artwork. Fanciful creatures, some with horns and fangs, wings and claws, furred and scaled, were entwined among scrolls of etched vines and leaves of fox grapes, mistletoe, nightshade. The vibrant colors pulsed, and when Jenna flexed her arm reaching for her glass, Sparrow gasped, for it seemed as if a wolfish-looking creature opened wide his mouth to attack her. />
  “I am having more work done,” Jenna said and Sparrow thought her eyes glittered feverishly, like lust or hunger. “You could come and watch if you like? Really it’s very cool. And the place has a good vibe, almost like a temple.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Marti said and Mitch frowned at her. Sparrow wondered if the couple was as matched as she thought they were. Clearly their friends had nothing in common.

  “No, it’s not,” Jenna said archly. “Tattoo can be very sacred, you know. Not like bullshit you see frat boys getting. Hawk’s tattoos have a way of making you feel reborn. It’s a very spiritual experience.”

  Marti rolled her eyes and her parakeet girlfriends turned their heads, trying to hide their obvious amusement.

  Leaning back in her chair, Sparrow listened as they argued the merits of tattooing, spiritual rebirth, and—later—who owed what on the bill. She was glad enough to be out in the sun, eating a salad, and sitting on the edge of someone else’s conversations. It was enough to keep her engaged, but not involved. Just the way she liked it. Sooner or later, when people got to know her, they always asked about her past, her family—two subjects Sparrow didn’t want to share.

  As they stood to leave, Jenna turned to Sparrow and took her by the wrist again. “Come with me to Hawk’s place,” she urged. “You can check it out for yourself. And I’ll bet you anything you wind up getting one of his tattoos.”

  Thinking of Lily waiting at home, Sparrow wanted to say no, but hesitated, feeling the heat of Jenna’s hand on her wrist.

  “Really,” Jenna said. “It’s awesome.”

  Something tugged at Sparrow, pulled her into Jenna’s voice, into the intensity of Jenna’s dark eyes. She found herself changing her mind, suddenly wanting to please Jenna. She would go, meet this Hawk, and see his work.

  “Okay,” she said. “Just for a little while. Then I got to get back.”

  “Cool.” Jenna smiled warmly and linked her arm with Sparrow’s. Sparrow felt the subtle tug again in her chest, and when Jenna began walking swiftly up the block, Sparrow didn’t hesitate to follow.

  14

  Hawk

  The girl beneath my needle moans and I brush my lips over her mouth, my perfumed exhalation returning her to a deep and empty sleep from which she will find no rest, only pain and sorrow. She has returned to me for a second time . . . as I knew she must. For each tattoo marks her as my chattel, my offering of blood, and binds her to me as a willing servant. Her head rolls to one side, sweat-slick hair drifting like a shadow over her cheeks. From lips red and curved as Puck’s bow, she sighs. Smiling, I stroke her flesh, tease the nipples to hardness and when she sighs in pleasure, I clutch her breast, squeeze it hard.

  “I shall prick you,” I hum softly. “I shall stab you with a pin.” And the girl groans, tries in her sleep to avoid the stinging tap, tap, tap of the needle but I hold her firm and she must take it, and give to me what I want. “I shall hold the basin, to let the blood flow in,” I sing to her as I sing to all of them. When the little rivers of blood have collected into a crimson pool in the hollow of her throat, I apply a small glass pipe and draw the blood, releasing it to a silver reliquary I wear around my neck. Blood to pay the tithes. Blood to make the clans strong again.

  I hear someone behind the curtain and my jaw tightens. None may disturb me at my work.

  “Excuse me, Hawk, there’s someone here to see you,” whispers the woman I let run my shop. She is huge and ugly, unafraid of anything, except me.

  “Who disturbs me?” I ask.

  “A girl named Jenna. Says she has something for you.”

  Jenna, I think, recalling the arabesques of leaves that hide the snares I have laid over her body. She serves me, hungry for more, which I will gift her if she brings me others like herself with pure skin, smooth as canvas.

  I kiss the girl on my table and she falls into a deeper sleep, unaware that she is weeping. Standing at the doorway to the waiting room, I glance over Jenna’s head and see the girl sitting, palms pressed together, shoved between her knees. She looks awkward, as though she might bolt at any minute.

  But her skin gleams, white like a sliver of moonlight in the softly lit room. Her chins lifts, her head turning slightly to the side to gaze at a painting on the wall and I can see the arch of her neck. It is slender, graceful like the swan, though the girl is unaware of its beauty. And I can feel the design twitch at my fingertips, the mark that I will leave on that perfect neck.

  15

  Sparrow’s Tattoo

  “Let me make you beautiful,” he said and Sparrow blushed. Hawk was handsome, smooth pale skin and white blond hair pulled back in a ponytail that was bound with a silver clasp. His voice was low, melodious, and seductive. “A small one here on that gorgeous neck of yours.” He placed his fingers against her skin, and her pulse had quickened.

  “Will it hurt?”

  “I won’t let it,” he answered smoothly, helping her lie down on the table.

  Sparrow was surprised at how quickly she’d arrived at this moment: alone in Hawk’s studio, stretched out on his table. She’d merely meant to visit, or just watch as Jenna had a new piece to her own tattoo touched up with more color. But Hawk had come into the room, and a short time later, he was kissing Jenna good-bye and leading Sparrow into his studio.

  “Something pretty,” Jenna had called out to her before closing the door.

  She and Hawk had talked about her skin, Hawk had stroked her arm, and Sparrow found herself agreeing to a small tattoo. She wasn’t sure she was the “pretty” tattoo kind but she didn’t tell him that. There had to be trust. He’d said that. She trusted him.

  He sat next to her and leaned down close to her face.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said and as she inhaled the sweetness of his breath, she felt herself become relaxed and sleepy. Almost like being hypnotized. Or drugged. She felt his hand warm on her throat, stretching the skin where he would begin the design. She stared up at the smooth arch of his brows, the almond-shaped eyes of malachite green, and waited for him to begin.

  He was beautiful, but he lied.

  It had hurt a lot, stinging like hundreds of wasps injecting fiery venom into her neck. Yet, each time Sparrow gasped, clenching her fists against the pain, his eyes met hers, and the pain subsided in his cool forest gaze. Had she slept? She wasn’t sure, but something dark skittered like an insect across her vision. She felt it enter her blood, felt her veins contract. Her heart pounded violently and she groaned, trying to waken. But each time she surfaced, Hawk was there, murmuring into her face, stroking her cheek. When he was finished, he oiled the tattoo with a thin layer of Vaseline and taped a bandage over it. As he sat her up on the table, she felt the fear subside.

  “Can I see it?”

  “Later,” he said. “When the swelling goes down and it’s not so raw. I promise you it’s just what you wanted.”

  His green eyes sparkled beneath the cool lights. He touched her shoulder, slid his hand down her arm and held her wrist for a moment.

  By the time Sparrow was on the street walking home, she could hardly recall the pain of the needle, only the longing sensation of wanting to return to Hawk’s side. She clasped her hand over the bandage to keep it secret, needing to hold on to the intimacy of the event.

  * * *

  MARTI WAS OUT WHEN SPARROW arrived home and she was grateful that she didn’t have to explain just yet about the tattoo. She took Lily on an urgently needed walk around the block and then fed her.

  Sparrow thought about eating something herself, but nothing in the fridge seemed appetizing. Instead, she grabbed a handful of crackers, washing them down with a glass of milk that hinted of turning sour. She poured the remains of the milk down the sink, suddenly tired, as if she’d been awake for a month.

  Twilight had settled into darkness, and though it was still early in the evening, Sparrow undressed, climbing into bed with a book. Though she was exhausted, she couldn’t sleep, but instead read feverishly
and without pleasure, turning the pages of her book rapidly. She thought she could still taste the sour milk, her mouth flooded with a bitter gall despite smoking cigarette after cigarette to rid it of the unpleasant taste. As she turned a page, she burned her leg with a careless flick of hot ash. Rushing to the bathroom for water to cool her skin, she banged her head along the bedroom doorjamb. In the bathroom she administered cold compresses to her leg, then checked her temple in the mirror and saw the reddish bruise welling up. She tossed back two aspirins in hopes they would soothe the headache that was sure to follow and returned to her bed.

  Late that night, the moon a dagger in her window, Sparrow sat up on the edge of her bed and shivered violently, her arms clutched tightly around her shoulders. She was weeping uncontrollably, stifling her sobs so as not to disturb Marti and Mitch who had come home late and were sleeping in the next room. She had awoken from a string of nightmares, each one more brutal than the last. They’d never been this bad before—the searing flashes of beasts chasing her, fangs tearing at her throat, her breasts, while she ran and fell and ran again with infinite slowness, blood everywhere, slick and stinking. She moaned, and clamped a hand over her neck where pain, real pain, throbbed and itched like a burn.

  Her legs trembled as she walked to her dresser and fished out a small mirror from the top drawer. Standing in a rectangle of blue moonlight shining in her window, she held the mirror up and removed the bandage taped to her neck. She burst into fresh tears seeing the circular knot of a gnarled sprig inked into the skin, still glistening with oil.

  She lay back down on the bed, trembling, dazed. And a new string of howling nightmares began, one following another on its heels, giving her scarcely a moment to wake between them. She managed to rouse herself finally, and sitting up in the bed, her eyes full of the vision of blood and terror, she was plunged by memory into the life she had left behind with her father: the constant beatings, the rages, the verbal abuse, and then finally, the attempted rape in the motel.