by Karen Chance
His voice was thick with shame. I wondered exactly what he had seen when spying on Jean, and quite honestly did not want to know. He was a twelve-year-old boy, though. I could take a wild guess.
“So you saw…her tattoos,” I said carefully. “Anything else?”
Ernie’s cheeks flushed bright red. “No. And I didn’t say anything, not even when she asked.” He rubbed his wrist. “If she asks again, I don’t think I’ll be able to hold back.”
“You act like that mark gives her power over you.”
“It does,” he said simply.
I released him. He rubbed his arms, and pushed past me into the building. Head down, shoulders hunched. He never saw Jean standing in the shadows, watching him.
She waited until the floorboards creaked on the second-story landing, and then stepped outside to join me. Her hair was a mess, and there were circles under her eyes.
“How much did you hear?” I asked.
“Enough to know that I need to push some cotton into the keyhole of my door.”
“Forget that. The Black Cat knows about our bloodline. She knows you’re close. Which means she’s not human…or very well informed.”
Jean stared thoughtfully at her feet. Two tiny heads poked free of her hair, blinking lazily at me. Dek and Mal, who had been utterly still until that moment, returned the favor.
I said, “Were you already aware of this?”
“No,” said Jean, but slowly, as if she was not entirely certain of her answer. “I had been feeling something, though. At the back of my head. Just…instinct.”
“The boys never mentioned anything?”
“I never asked.” She finally met my gaze. “My hands were full. I didn’t want to know.”
I stared, waiting to feel appalled, angry—but all that hit me was a sense of deep, abiding sorrow. My grandmother was being truthful when she said that her hands were full. Overwhelmed, not sure what to do, whom to help, how far to extend herself. Fighting to survive—mentally, emotionally—in the same way that people here were trying to keep their bodies alive.
“How long has it been since your mother died?” I asked abruptly.
Jean stiffened. “What—”
“It’s been five years for me,” I interrupted. “Close to six. She was murdered on my birthday, shot to death in front of me. Right here.” I touched my head. “Worst day of my life.”
Jean backed away, and then stopped. “It’s been seven years for me.”
I don’t know what I had been expecting to hear, but seven years was not it. Seemed like a lifetime. “You must have been a baby.”
“Eleven.” Jean’s voice was strained, her eyes dark and empty in the shadows. “We were in the countryside, helping refugees. My mother had traded one war zone for another. I guess it was the times. But Zee…the boys…they didn’t want us there. They thought it was too dangerous for me, with only my mother for protection during the day. I think…I think that’s why they left her when they did. She wouldn’t listen. She didn’t…give them a choice. It was me or her.”
They made the right choice, I almost said, thinking about my mother—who had done everything in her power to keep me out of harm’s way. Taking me into a war zone would have been unthinkable to her.
I found Jean giving me a sharp look—as though she had read my mind and wanted to defend her mother—but the moment passed, and all the fight inside her seemed to shrivel up into a cold small shell. Jean rubbed her arms. “It was difficult. I was completely alone. No other foreigners for a thousand miles, and my Chinese wasn’t good. There were so many times when I got into trouble.” She stopped for a moment, her gaze turning inward, and then, very quietly said, “Men would try to hurt me, but the boys…The boys would make my skin burn, like fire.”
Red eyes glinted from the shadows. Jean hugged herself—and then laughed quietly, bitterly. “For a long time, all I worried about was me. Some things don’t change.”
“You did fine,” I said quietly.
Jean gave me an unpleasant smile. “Maybe. But I think it’s time to do better.”
WE changed clothes. Zee and the boys delivered the wardrobe. Jean was elegant in loose slacks, with a long-sleeved silk blouse tucked in and buttoned to the neck. A touch of red lipstick and several dabs of eye shadow made her look like a movie star. I, on the other hand, wore workman trousers, patched and stained with paint; and a loose white men’s cotton shirt. No makeup. Just some dirt smeared lightly against my jaw. The boys also brought me horn-rimmed eyeglasses, the lenses nonprescriptive, but so thick the world was little more than a blur in front of me. I plaited my hair into two braids and tugged a canvas houndstooth billy cap over my head.
Jean frowned. “Someone should lock you up in the library you escaped from.”
“I was going for hot and sexy,” I replied dryly, “but I guess that’ll do.”
She grunted, and passed me a blue card, a folded sheaf of papers, and a round tin pin. “Put that on and never take it off. It identifies you as a Jew. The papers are from a woman who died here a month ago, but they’ll do in case you’re stopped. The blue card is the most important, though. It’s a monthlong work pass. You’ll need it to cross the bridge into the city.”
“And our similarities?” I pointed at my face, and then hers.
Jean hesitated. “People see what they want. I doubt anyone will look too closely, but once we get close to the bridge, we’ll split up and enter the checkpoint separately.”
“How will your neighbors react to my presence?”
“Most people here are more concerned with how bad their diarrhea is going to get, or with finding food, work. Are you fluent in any languages but English?”
“Just Spanish. I doubt that’s going to be helpful here.”
“So don’t talk. And if the Japs ask you anything, pretend to have a German or Polish accent. Any accent. Act like you have trouble speaking English. Whatever happens, you’re no longer American, or British, or any citizen of an Allied country. You’re a stateless refugee like everyone else in this ghetto.”
“I see some flaws in this plan.”
“There is no plan. Just you, appearing in my life, when you shouldn’t be here at all.” Jean smoothed down her blouse, and I reached up to my shoulders where Dek and Mal were coiled, humming a Bryan Adams tune. I thought it might be “The Only Thing That Looks Good On Me Is You,” and scratched under their chins.
Jean’s frown deepened. “They sing for you?”
“Yours don’t?”
She reached up to pat the little hyena heads poking free of her glossy black hair. “They mutter a lot to themselves.”
They were still muttering—and mine were still singing—when the sun came up and their bodies dissolved into smoke. Jean and I watched each other as it happened, both of us silent, her expression as grave and uncomfortable as mine surely was. Given the peculiarities of the boys, and how they transferred themselves from mother to daughter, it stood to reason that no two Hunters of my bloodline had ever been in the same place at once, and certainly had never transitioned from night to day together. I felt naked.
I could not see her tattoos beneath her clothes, but mine were a new weight against my skin, rippling and electric; an organic, indestructible shell. Dreaming, breathing. I no longer felt the heat, except in my lungs and on my face. The boys absorbed my sweat. I flexed my hands, still encased in soft leather. I had not shown my grandmother the armor. Something in me was afraid to.
We left the apartment. No weapons. Too dangerous, Jean had said, in case we were stopped and searched. No sign of Ernie on the second-floor landing, either, and it was quiet behind the white curtain. I wanted to poke my head in and ask after the boy—tell him to stay home today—but when I drew near, Jean grabbed my arm and pulled me away.
“He would have already left by now,” she murmured.
Temperatures had risen with the sun. It was muggy outside, so humid that a haze filled the air, as hard to breathe as soup. I sucked
as much into my lungs as I could, and it still was not enough. No one else seemed to have trouble. The street was already active; folks getting their day started before the heat became unbearable. I saw no zombies. Instead, boys clutching books raced down the street, some kicking balls to each other—nearly hitting an elderly Chinese man practicing qigong on the sidewalk alongside a European woman of a similar silvered age. A duet of violins played from an open window, music nearly lost beneath the chatter of Mandarin and German—voices buzzing around a shed where a slender Chinese man boiled nothing but water in giant cauldrons, ladling it into tin kettles and thermoses held by women and children. Money changed hands, and laughter sparked the air.
Buildings grew from each other like the trunks of bound trees—an organic growth, spurred by human pressure—bits and pieces added on, brick and scrap-yard patches that jutted into the sidewalk, replete with grass and delicate vines growing from tin roofs. Cook fires burned in the street. I saw a gaunt, brown-haired woman vomiting against a wall, the young fellow with her staring at her puke as though he was more sorry about the wasted food than her illness. Ahead of us, an older Chinese man pulling a cart stopped to ring a bell, and then stooped with a groan to pick up a wooden bucket that was shaped like a pumpkin—one of many that had been left at the side of the road. He emptied its contents into an enclosed stone container built into his cart. A terrible stench burned my nostrils. I made a small sound. Jean raised her brow. “Mr. Li handles the honey pot waste. He resells it to farmers for fertilizer.”
She waved at him and he smiled—though he gave me a disconcertingly sharp once-over. And then leveled that same piercing look at Jean. If she noticed—and I thought she must have—she showed nothing. Simply continued walking at a brisk pace that made my leg muscles burn. Few greeted her. Caution, perhaps, or disdain; or simply because they did not give a damn. But not, I thought, because she was unknown.
We split up at the checkpoint. A bored young Japanese soldier waved through Jews with little more than a glance at the passes, though I half-expected him to pull me aside. Instead, I watched him slap a baton against the shoulders of a Chinese man—and order a strip search, right there on the bridge in front of everyone.
The man did not fight or protest. He stood very still as his clothes were torn away and thrown into the river. When a baton prodded the crease of his buttocks, he did not flinch. Nor did he make one sound when that same baton smashed against his lower back, driving him to his knees.
The soldiers laughed, though one of them looked away, his smile forced. The checkpoint guard said a sharp word to the Chinese man, planting a boot on his back to hold him down when he tried to rise. I did not need to speak Japanese or Mandarin to know what he was ordering, and was unsurprised when the man on the ground began crawling across the bridge. I held my breath, hoping he would make it without a bullet in his ass. I finally understood, in that moment, the predicament my grandmother was in. She probably saw this, and worse, every day. Unable to lift a hand. Just as I was unable—unwilling—to step in. I had a job to do here. Like my grandmother had said, there was a bigger picture.
He made it, though. I was waved through several minutes later. Jean had gone ahead of me, and I saw her deep in the crowds of rickshaw pullers and hawkers. The naked Chinese man stood nearby, carefully not looking at her. Just as carefully not seeming to touch her as she passed near him to approach me. But I saw their hands brush, and he turned instantly to walk in the opposite direction; quickly, one hand pressed against the small of his back, but utterly shameless about his nudity.
“I assume he’ll be able to buy new clothes?” I asked her quietly. “You gave him something to trade.”
“Well, that would be a waste,” she said. “I paid him for something else.”
8
JEAN hailed a pedicab, and ordered the driver, in rough Mandarin, to take us to the former French Concession—a destination I learned about only after she translated. I had been there before, in the twenty-first century—quite unexpectedly, under terrible circumstances.
The appearance of the neighborhood was as I remembered, though I had to remind myself that I was from the future—and that it was mere luck and preservation that had left the French Concession, in my time, mostly intact after sixty years. Very little seemed different. There were still those quiet streets lined with old trees, and those glimpses of rooftops and windows visible over the glass-embedded tops of high walls. The air tasted cooler, cleaner. Not so many people out and about, and there were fine cars parked at the side of the road. Japanese soldiers patrolled in pairs, eyeing us suspiciously as we passed. But no one told us to stop.
We were let out at a leafy cobblestone intersection in front of a simple black gate that looked the same as every other that we had passed. But Jean stood for a long moment, staring at it as though the iron might burn her. “Are you certain you insist?”
“Tell me why I shouldn’t,” I said. “You have a reason.”
“I’m no longer certain it’s a sufficient one.” Jean shot me a piercing look. “I do good here, whether you believe that or not. I help people. I may have to leave after this, and I don’t…I don’t know where I’ll go. I don’t belong anywhere.”
I dared to graze her arm with the tips of my fingers. “If there’s another way to remove those children from her control—”
“Even this might not be enough. The fact that she knows our bloodline exists…” Jean stopped, and studied the gate again, thoughtfully. “Ernie, Winifried…all of them. It sounds as though they lived long, full lives, regardless of what happened to them in this time and place. They died old. You and I both know that’s a gift, even if it was cut short before their time.”
It was a gift, yes, but a bitter one. I said nothing, though. Simply waited for Jean to make up her mind. I was not going to push this final step down her throat. Even if I had almost everything else.
I did not wait long. She raised her gloved fist and knocked hard on the dull iron gate. It opened so quickly, hardly before her hand was away, that I wondered whether we had been watched from the other side.
I hoped not. It was Ernie who faced us. Even Jean seemed startled to see him. He was dressed in new clothes—a starched, white short-sleeve shirt and black slacks. A uniform, maybe. It looked too large on his frame, the tattoo on his skin oversized for such bony wrists. A little tin pin was attached to his shirt above his heart. His expression was grave, which made him look like the old man he would become, instead of a little kid.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, giving me a piercing look as though I was somehow to blame. Which I was.
“I seem to have developed a nagging concern for your well-being,” Jean replied. “You and the others. I’ve come to break your contracts.”
“You can’t. You’ll only make it worse.”
Jean laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Come on. Maybe you’ll thank me for this one day.”
Ernie backed away from the gate, one hand tapping spasmodically against his skinny thigh. Looking at us with desperate despair, as though his ragged heart was breaking in his eyes. He resembled a wild animal more than a child, or some kid raised by wolves and then tossed into human clothes—out of place, lost, and very alone.
But he was not alone. Behind him, standing in regular intervals throughout a carefully landscaped garden, were thick-necked white men—watching us, armed with rifles. All of them wore soldier uniforms, lightweight summer issue. They did not seem surprised to see us, or even alarmed, but their dead, flat gazes were profoundly cold. They reminded me of attack dogs—quiet, restrained, ready for that right, deadly moment. I wondered if they had tattoos on their wrists, as well.
I focused on Ernie. “Sometimes you have to believe in people, kid. Before you forget how.”
He began to shake his head, but froze when Jean brushed her knuckles against his cheek. “If I asked you to walk through this gate and go home, would you?”
“I can’t,” he whispered, rubbing
his wrist.
“Okay.” Jean breathed. “Then listen. You and I never talked about the things you’ve had to do here. I’m sorry for that. I knew it was bad, and I never did a thing. But that’s going to change. So chin up, short stuff. Your job is to stay out of the way.”
Ernie looked so stricken. “She knows you’re coming. That’s why she had me come here to…welcome you.”
I pushed past the boy, watching the guards—smiling so coldly at them that several stirred, hands tightening on their guns. “I know I’m ready to say hello.”
Jean rolled her eyes. Ernie looked at me like I was crazy. But I winked at him, and his mouth twitched with a tentative, wary smile that warmed me to the bone.
He turned and led us down a gently curving path shadowed with palms and thick decorative grasses. The air smelled rich, with a mint undertone that clung to my nostrils. The guards watched us, but did not follow. No need. There were a lot of them, and they stood in regular intervals within the garden and against the walls. I heard several speaking softly in Russian.
“Pogroms drove the Russian Jews into Shanghai, but revolution forced the rest,” Jean told me under her breath, as though reading my mind. “Soldiers, mostly. The Japs recruited some for their police force, but the rest hired out as construction workers, or muscle.”
French doors stood open in front of us, tucked beneath a stone arch built below a series of balconies and large windows. Rose vines clung to immense trellises. I heard a woman’s throaty laughter. Ernie ducked his head, and led the way inside—but not before Zee twitched between my breasts. All the boys, stirring—and not just on me. Jean touched her stomach as though she was being kicked, and glanced at me warily.
It was crowded inside. Unexpectedly so. The chaos did not at first make sense. I saw old-fashioned movie cameras, and tall lights; men scribbling on notepads; a mix of Chinese and white women dressed in loose robes and heavy makeup, lounging in velvet armchairs while others dabbed sweat from their brow. I heard muffled shouts and gasps, and then brief silence; and I glimpsed beyond the milling crowd one long, naked tattooed leg.
