Inked

by Karen Chance

  No chance to say a word, though. He turned and ran down the street. I let him go, and then became aware of others watching me, both Chinese and European. Curious stares. Some calculating. I was a new face, and fresh meat.

  I melted back into the dark lane we had emerged from. It was still and empty, unlike the road; and I needed a moment. I needed more than a moment.

  “Zee.” I breathed, sliding down the wall into a crouch. I tugged at my collar, and then stripped off my leather gloves. Armor glinted along my fingers and the wrist cuff had grown in size, embedded now in my lower forearm with quicksilver tendrils. I would be lost to this metal one day. If I lived that long.

  Small clawed hands touched my knees, long fingers edged in flesh sharp and hard as obsidian. Zee whispered, “Maxine.”

  “Playing games with my life,” I murmured, listening to bells clang, and distant shouts in Chinese. I heard the echoing report of guns, very distant; synchronized single-shot blasts that made me imagine an execution. I smelled shit, and realized it was coming from my hair.

  “You want truth,” Zee rasped. “Give you truth.”

  I gritted my teeth. “I suppose we’re in Shanghai. When?”

  “Four-and-four.” He glanced over his shoulder as Raw and Aaz melted from the shadows, chattering at him in their native tongue—which I did not, and never would, understand. Zee stiffened, and then relaxed. I tapped his hand.

  “We know,” he said quietly, still watching his brothers. “We know we are here.”

  We. The other Zee and his brothers—who were in their right place, and right time. I was probably creating some kind of planet-wrecking paradox by having them in the same place, together, but hell if I knew what to do about it. The boys had brought me here. I had to assume they knew what they were doing in between the teddy bear decapitations and soft porn.

  “I need clothes,” I said. “I stand out too much.”

  Raw disappeared into the shadows, and emerged less than a minute later with a bundle of cotton that, when shook out, appeared to be a dark brown dress, loose and flowing. Simple cut, with long sleeves, mother of pearl buttons up the front, and a round collar. The hem came down to just below my knees. He also gave me a new matching pair of lambskin gloves.

  I moved away from the road into a nearby doorway, dressing quickly. I tossed my jeans and turtleneck to Aaz for disposal, and then reluctantly put aside my cowboy boots for a pair of brown shoes that had a hard, flat, sensible heel. Raw slid my other shoes into a cloth satchel the color of mushy peas. Inside, I glimpsed knives, and tins of food.

  I felt like a stranger to myself. I stood for a moment, sweating and weary, and tilted my face to the sky. No stars. Just clouds, bruised with the faint reflected light of the city.

  China, I thought. I was in Shanghai. And it was World War Two.

  I found my grandmother less than thirty minutes later, flirting with a drunk Nazi.

  I had been floating until that moment, drifting in a daze through the soup of the hot night and suffering a dreamlike schizophrenia; lost in the shadowed kiss of a European-flavored city, only to be torn sideways into Asian byways: meandering lanes and alleys no wider than the span of my shoulders. I passed elderly Chinese women perched on low wooden stools, playing mahjong while bickering at naked, shrieking children who played in the stifling darkness among piles of trash that had been swept into rotten heaps wet with water trickling down the narrow gutters.

  Most ignored my presence, but some of the children chased me with their hands outstretched, begging for money, trying to sink their small hands into my bag. Open sores covered their arms and legs. I could count their ribs. I gave them the tins of food.

  Zee led me; in snatches, glimpses. Dek and Mal were silent in my hair. I did not see Raw and Aaz, but knew they were close. I was comforted by that, but it was a painful, uneasy consolation. I was lost in time. What I did here would ripple into the future. It was not my first journey into the past, but I had never been set loose, faced with the potential cost of being that butterfly flapping her wings—and causing a thunderstorm on the other side of the world.

  Ernie’s young face filled my mind. Save him, whispered a small voice, but I could no longer blame the letter on the back of that photo for such urgency. You have to make sure he doesn’t die in your arms. Not murdered. Not him.

  Not any of them.

  I heard music in the night. A lonely saxophone playing a heartbreaking version of “Over the Rainbow.” Zee glided through the shadows, little more than a glimpse of spiked hair and sharp joints. Dek licked the back of my ear. I patted his head as I stepped free of the residential alley and found myself staring at a party.

  Just a glimpse, beyond an open gate built into a thick stone wall that followed the curve of the road. Barbed wire fencing rose almost five feet higher than the wall itself, ending on the right-hand side at a distinctive fluted turret that was as out of place as the German signs framing the gate. Young Chinese children squatted on the sidewalk, playing what looked like rock, paper, scissors with a pair of Jewish kids, a boy and girl. Carts rumbled down the road between us, hand-pulled by gaunt Chinese men—who gave wide berth to a car parked alongside the street; a black Peerless, top down, revealing quilted leather seats that looked soft as a glove. I knew cars. This one was old-fashioned for 1944, but lovingly cared for. An Asian man sat behind the wheel, dozing.

  No one paid attention to me: lone woman lurking at the entrance of the alley. The streets were dark. No electricity to spare. No oil to waste in lamps.

  I heard glasses clinking, and smelled food. Yeast scents, and something meatier. Even a hint of coffee. My stomach growled. Zum Weissen Röss’l was the name of the place, according to the largest of the signs hanging above the gate—written, too, above the arched entrance of the elegant white building that was at the far end of the courtyard. Round tables and wicker chairs dotted the swept stone ground, and the saxophone’s mourning tones were pure and sweet. I could not see the musician.

  Business was good. Tables were full. I saw waitresses circulating in traditional Bavarian outfits—white frilly aprons, with white puffy sleeves and collars, overlaid with a dark button-up smock and full skirts—tucked and nipped to accommodate starved frames. Muted laughter spilled into the night, glasses clinking. A surreal sight, and nothing I would have expected to find in the middle of occupied war-torn territory.

  I glanced down at Zee, who was little more than a bulge in the shadows. Found him staring at the restaurant, utterly rapt. Breathless, even. I had never seen that look on his face, and it occurred to me, with some shame, that—sixty years in the past, or ten thousand—confronting a world that had been dead and gone was no easier on him and the boys than it was for me. Worse, perhaps. I had no memories of this place. I had nothing to latch my heart on to. Except for my grandmother. And, perhaps, young Ernie Bernstein.

  I looked back at the courtyard. And just like that, saw her.

  She was sauntering out of the white building, bearing a tray. Nothing but her arm was visible, and a loose arrangement of long black hair. I could not see her face. But I knew. I knew with absolute certainty that it was my grandmother.

  I almost crossed the road. Aaz grabbed my hand, holding me back. I did not fight him. I could not. I watched my grandmother serve a table full of Nazis.

  I had not noticed them until that moment, but in hindsight I could hardly believe I had been so blind. They were sitting in plain view of the open gate, red armbands glowing upon their brown uniforms, sharp black swastika lines standing in sharp relief against white spotlight circles. Blond men, drinking beer and spearing thick sausages on their forks. Two uniformed Asian soldiers sat with them, bayonets leaning against the table. Japanese, I thought. A night out for the men in charge.

  I held my breath as my grandmother leaned close, setting down mugs and taking away empty plates. Aaz tightened his grip on my wrist. But in the end, I did not need to worry. No one touched her body. Not that she looked as though she would
have minded. I felt like I was losing my mind.

  The first and second time I had ever met my grandmother, she had been a chain-smoking, hard-eyed, dangerous woman. Gritty, leathery, with a masculine edge to her clothing and walk. A mother, to boot. No funny business. Not this young thing with a sweet face and ready smile. Not this girl who wore black heels and a frilly white apron, and glanced at Nazis with a come-hither glint that was so startlingly sexy I wanted to look away in embarrassment.

  I stood there in the shadows, suffocating, suffering the heat again as if my skin would melt off my bones, or stuff my lungs with cotton. Looking at my grandmother was like checking out an inferno that I could not control. I was totally at a loss about how to make contact with her. Wondering if I should. Remembering that I already had, given the note addressed to me on the back of her photograph.

  Just as my grandmother straightened to walk back into the restaurant, her stride faltered, head tilting ever so slightly—as though listening to a whisper in her ear, or just silence. Perhaps the same silence emanating now from Dek and Mal, who had stopped purring and were so still I wanted to look over my shoulder to make certain no one had a gun aimed at my back.

  My grandmother turned slowly, a faint smile on her lips—though it was strained now, more clearly a mask. I did not move. I did not breathe. I was deep in shadows across the road—not close by any measure—but she found me instantly. She met my gaze.

  Her eyes widened, and she fumbled the tray in her hands. The Nazi she had just served patted her ass with a deep chuckle. She hardly seemed to notice. Just flashed me another look, and then walked quickly into the restaurant.

  I sagged against the wall, and waited.

  It took more than an hour. I watched people. Listened to a city that was sixty years in my past, embroiled in a war sixty years dead, and found myself thinking that life here, besides certain obvious differences, was not so removed from life in my own time. The toys might be different, and the clothes, and the setting, but people never changed. Fear and hate never changed, nor did love. Or courage.

  I saw all those things in the courtyard beyond the wall. Jews who sat at tables around the Nazis, forced to pretend there was nothing wrong. Men scooted their chairs so they blocked their wives from sight, and the laughter I had heard earlier grew quieter, and edgier, as the soldiers drank more deeply from their cups. Those who had been eating left quickly. Those who thought about eating stopped at the gate, took one glance inside, and kept going. Some of them tapped the playing children on their heads, and made sure they came along, as well.

  Until almost no one was left. Just the Nazis and Japanese. And my grandmother, who served them. No other waitress came near. The mysterious saxophone player was replaced by a violinist who began playing Strauss. My knees ached, and I settled into a crouch with the boys gathered close. Wondering where the Zee from 1944 might be lingering. Close, no doubt. Close enough to touch.

  When the Nazis left, they tossed paper money on the table—but one of the men slipped something else to my grandmother; an object small and dark, like a twig. Her only reaction was to thank him with a pretty smile, blushing when he chucked her under the chin.

  She stood politely to the side as they filed out, one after the other, into the street. The Peerless sputtered to life. I had almost forgotten it. The driver rolled ten feet forward to the gate, and then exited quickly to open doors. Within moments, they were gone.

  So was my grandmother, when I looked for her again.

  I was patient. Nothing better to do. All the time in the world. Raw pulled a cup of hot unsweetened tea from the shadows, and placed it in my hands, along with a warm sugar cookie that melted in my mouth. Tasted fresh from the oven. I almost asked where it was from.

  I sensed movement on my right. Watched as the Jewish boy and girl who had been playing earlier outside the gate reappeared, kicking a ball between them. The girl was blond and slender, no older than ten or eleven, while the boy was likely the same age, and dark as Ernie. Not siblings. Nor had they returned to the restaurant gate just for the hell of it, though they were pretending hard that wasn’t the case. It was late, I thought. Probably almost midnight.

  My grandmother left the restaurant at a brisk walk, dressed in a simple brown skirt and white blouse, short-sleeved and tucked in. Her heels clicked. No smile on her face. Nothing pleasant at all about the look in her eyes. She resembled, finally, the woman I remembered; but that did not comfort me as much as it should have.

  The kids peered around the gate. My grandmother faltered when she saw them, glancing briefly over their heads at me. A warning in her gaze. I knew how to take a hint. I stayed put, melting even deeper into the shadows.

  “Samuel,” she said to the boy, and then rested her hand very gently on the girl’s head. “Lizbet. Curfew will begin soon. You both should not be here.”

  I straightened. I knew those names.

  Samuel pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and held it out to my grandmother. She took it from him, and then caught his wrist as he pulled away. He began to protest—she muttered a sharp word that sounded distinctly German—and the boy stilled. She dragged him near, holding up his arm to stare at his inner wrist.

  I was too far away to see what she was looking at, but I recognized her anger. “This is recent.”

  The boy remained silent. Lizbet whispered, “It happened this afternoon. She said he was getting old enough to be a real man. Her man.”

  My grandmother made a small disgusted sound, and released Samuel. “You have to stop going to her.”

  “Nein,” he muttered sullenly, rubbing his wrist. “We need her connections. Our families need her.”

  “I can get you money, things to trade—”

  “You cannot keep our families safe, Fraulein,” interrupted Lizbet softly, and grabbed Samuel’s hand, tugging him away. “Her reach is too long.”

  My grandmother shook her head, swearing softly, and took several quick steps after them. She grabbed the girl’s hand and pushed something into it. I had a feeling it was the same object the Nazi had given her. Money, maybe. Something valuable, if the stunned look on Lizbet’s face was any indication. She swallowed hard, clutched the object to her chest, and gave my grandmother a fierce, grateful nod.

  The children ran. The woman watched them, clutching her skirts. And then, slowly, tilted her head to study me.

  She looked so young. Maybe eighteen was too old. It was hard to tell, but one thing was certain: the boys had abandoned her mother early, and left a teenager to fend for herself. No doubt my great-grandmother had been murdered in front of her daughter, just as my mother had been murdered in front of me. That was how it worked. Once you lost the protection of the boys, death always came knocking.

  My grandmother finally walked toward me. Red eyes glinted from her hair. My own Dek and Mal also uncoiled from around my neck. Her pace faltered when she saw them.

  And then she took a deep breath, and kept coming until she was so close I could smell the fried sausages on her body, and the beer, and the cigarette smoke.

  I smelled like somebody’s piss. Not that I cared, right then. My grandmother had died four years before my birth. Every time I met her it felt wrong and heartbreaking, and unspeakably profound.

  “What are you?” she finally whispered. I had no ready answer, even though I had spent the past hour trying to imagine what I would say.

  I was still holding my cup of tea. Zee pushed up against my leg, and the shadows rippled around us. Raw and Aaz appeared, but they were not alone. Another Raw, another Aaz, gathered close behind them. And Zee. Her Zee.

  The boys stared at their counterparts, gazes solemn, knowing. As though this had happened before. As though they knew it would happen again.

  Dread sparked. Time had become fluid in my hands. Perhaps there was a very good reason that Zee kept secrets from me. Because he did know things that I should not—because there was no safe warning for what had brought me here. Not without possibly changing som
e distant outcome that he knew would come to pass.

  Terrified me. Gnawed at my gut. Surely the future was not set in stone. There had to be more than fate. More than the bleak certainty that what I did now was leading to some inevitable destiny that I could not change.

  “I’m from the future,” I said, figuring my grandmother could handle the truth; not having anything better to tell her. “Far, distant future.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Bullshit.”

  Well, at least that was familiar. “You think the boys would just be standing here if I was lying?”

  Her lips tightened with displeasure—also familiar, and startling. I had seen that expression on my mother’s face. Made me wonder if it was something else I shared with them. Little bits and pieces of us, bleeding true in our veins from across decades and centuries.

  Blood never lies, Zee had said.

  But there was something else that bothered me. We’d had this conversation before. In my past, in her future. I had met my grandmother the first time I ever time-traveled. She had been in her thirties, and my mother had already been born. Fourteen years old.

  But that had been the first time for my grandmother, too. She had never met me before then, I was certain of it. No one could be that good of an actress, and my grandmother would not have bothered trying to hide the truth. All of us were poor liars—if such a thing could be inherited.

  Here we were, though. Standing side by side. Almost twins, except for the expressions in our eyes. I was glad that much was different. Something of me that was mine, and mine alone.

  But it made no sense that she would not remember this encounter later in her life. No sense at all.

  “Assuming you’re telling the truth—” she began, but my patience had finally worn too thin.

  I made a sharp gesture. “I’m here for Ernie. For Winifred, Samuel, and Lizbet. I’m here because you asked me to finish something, to save them, and now they’re almost all dead. In my time, dead.”