by A. C. Wise
Talons slash. Penny jerks her head to the side, rocking her body so the harpy lifts just enough to allow Penny to get her leg up and draw her other blade. The harpy snaps her wings wide again, using them for balance. Penny strikes; the blade skitters off patterned armor.
The knife is knocked from Penny’s hand. Pain shoots from Penny’s wrist to her elbow. Even if she could reach the blade, she doubts she could get her fingers to close. As she tries to shake off the tingling sensation, the harpy catches Penny’s arm, slamming it back against the floor. Before the shock even registers, the harpy rears back, burying her talons in Penny’s shoulder.
Penny howls.
The harpy squeezes, making the blood flow faster, grinning. She leans in and lets out an avian shriek, a sound of triumph, disconcerting from human lips. There’s nothing human about the bird woman’s eyes; they’re golden, like a hawk’s, dilated so wide the black reaches almost to the edges.
Penny wants to fall into those eyes, hypnotized prey. Her thoughts skitter, slipping like the blade off the harpy’s armor. No knife. No gun. The world threatens to go black, rocking with the sound of explosions, the smell of charred flesh, the sound of a child wailing over a twisted body, burned beyond recognition. The scent is in Penny’s mouth, in her nose, clogging her throat.
She needs to get up, get away, get air. Her fingers scrabble, talons of their own, ready to claw the memory of scent out of her skin. Instead, they catch on one of the pins from her teased-up hair. They close. They strike. She jams the pin into the endless gold-rimmed blackness. And she can breathe.
The harpy’s scream is a horrifying mix of human and avian. She paws, blind, trying to pull the pin free, smearing blood on her face and hands. Penny bucks and the harpy slides off her, trying to crawl away from the pain. The feathers of her folded wings tear gouges in the carpet. The bird woman sobs, a deep, sick noise in her chest and her throat. An animal sound.
And the animal in Penny answers. The human in her answers, too. It is equal parts mercy and cold, calculated opportunity as she retrieves her fallen blade and plunges it into the space between two of the harpy’s vertebrae, just at the base of her skull.
Cradling her numb and bloodied arm, Penny uses the toe of one chunky, copper boot to roll the harpy’s limp body over. The creature’s eyes are more blood now than black and gold. Shaking with adrenaline, laced with exhaustion, Penny kicks the harpy’s body through the open door and watches it fall, leaving shed feathers and smears of blood behind.
Life isn’t a Zippy Terwilliger story.
“HOW’S JOSHUA DOING?” PENNY ASKS.
Penny and Mindy sit across from each other at a trestle table tucked beneath the shade of a tree in the White House rose garden. The scent of a dozen varieties of roses makes a gentle perfume, attracting the hum of bees.
“A few scrapes and bruises. None the worse for wear. My sister-in-law is a wreck, terrified to let him out of her sight. I think I may be off the Christmas card list this year.” Mindy offers a wry, tight smile.
One of the White House staff arrives with a tea tray and sets it down between them.
“Tea and scones.” Penny smiles. “You remembered.”
“Of course.” Mindy lifts a scone, picking at it, but Penny never sees her take a bite.
Her own stomach feels too tight for food. She looks away. At a discreet distance, two security goons stand at the ready. With a start, Penny recognizes Ruston, angry gashes marring his face. Penny’s shoulder twinges in sympathy. Her puncture wounds, Ruston’s soon-to-be-scars—the marks the harpies left on them will never fully heal.
“I’m shutting down the Area 51 project,” Mindy says, drawing Penny’s attention back. “I’ll hold a press conference. The voters deserve to know what kind of president they elected.”
“You’re risking the office.”
“Probably.” Mindy shrugs.
Penny doesn’t know what to say. Everything Mindy worked for… But it’s not her place to try to convince her friend otherwise when she’s made up her mind. Instead, she reaches for the bag at her feet and hands it to Mindy.
“What this?”
“Just open it.”
Mindy pulls out a hardcover book, looking at it for a moment before smiling.
“It’s the anniversary edition,” Penny says. “The first five volumes, bound together, including the one with Zippy in the haunted maze. I know that one was always your favorite.”
Penny watches Mindy admire the luridly painted cover showing Zippy in her plane soaring through an achingly blue sky while below her swamp creatures and werewolves reach after her and howl their frustration.
“I thought maybe you could read them to Joshua sometime. Well, when he’s a bit older.”
“Thank you,” Mindy says, still looking at the cover, her expression wistful. “I think he’d like that.”
The shadow beneath Mindy’s skin is closer to the surface now. The decisions she’s made are like a bruise, one that will never fade. Penny can’t imagine being in her friend’s shoes. She can barely imagine being in her own shoes some days, the things she’s done in the name of freedom and saving the world. All she can do is take it one day at a time.
After a moment, Mindy rises and tucks the book under her arm. “The free world doesn’t run itself, no matter how hard I wish.”
Mindy’s smile is lopsided. Penny stands, and for a moment, they’re awkward, president and citizen. Then Mindy pulls her into a hug, and just for a moment Penny feels some of the tension melt away. Some, but not all.
“Feel free to stick around and finish your tea. No one will kick you out, I promise.”
After a moment, Penny resumes her seat. She isn’t in the mood for tea and scones, but she’s not ready to leave either. Just for now, she wants to pretend this is all there is to the world—no wars to fight, no terrible decisions to make.
A figure crosses the lawn, and Penny tenses. The tension doesn’t go away completely when she recognizes Jonathan. The young aide’s expression is sheepish, nervous even, and Penny forces her own features to soften, gesturing to the chair across from her.
“I don’t want to bother you,” Jonathan says. He meets her eyes, but it doesn’t last long. “I just wanted to say again what an honor it was to meet you.”
Despite herself, Penny grins. She rises and holds out her hand. Jonathan stares for a moment, stunned, before accepting it. She can’t quite resist squeezing hard enough to feel the shifting of his bones, but to his credit, Jonathan doesn’t grimace.
“Not so bad, working together.” Penny studies him for a moment before letting go. “Ask your boss for my contact information. I’ll give you a tour of our headquarters sometime, and introduce you to Bunny.”
The blush coloring Jonathan from his throat to the tips of his ears makes it all worthwhile. He stammers gratitude. After the third “thank you,” Penny leaves him, smiling to herself as she crosses the lawn. She’s reluctant to leave the peace of the rose garden, but ready to head back to the Glitter Squadron and home. The free world won’t save itself, after all, no matter how much she wishes.
Combine first three ingredients in a cocktail shaker and blend well. Pour over crushed ice in a high ball glass. Using a spoon, gently pour the Grand Marnier to create a layered look. Garnish with orange peel if desired.
Well, that was a bust. I spend all this time designing Penny the perfect drink, and she won’t even try it. She’s constantly chewing on that peach gum like a wad of cud, but God forbid she give this a try. She said it’s “too girly” and I said, “Honey, exactly what is it you think you’ve got between your legs? Just because you pack a big gun doesn’t mean you have the hardware to match.” Honestly, she and CeCe both need to lighten up when it comes to their booze—Little Miss I-don’t-touch-anything-mixed and Little Miss-Mister bourbon-straight-up and Jack-no-ice. Boring! It’s like they both think they’ve got something to prove to the world, you know? News flash, honeys, the equipment you’re born with has nothing to
do with how strong or weak you are. It hasn’t nothing to do with anything about you. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Besides, some people would kill for what you’ve got.
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, wood-smoke 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 Velvet 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 t
akes 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.
