She picked it up, then looked around as if she had the tools to liberate it in her bedroom.
Marley, still in the chair, said, “You wouldn’t let it go when you passed out. Not until you started having dreams.”
“I don’t remember any dreams.” Branwyn put the Machine down and went to her dresser.
“Good,” Marley said fervently.
Branwyn gave her a sharp look, then remembered the poisonous black cocktail of emotions she'd felt as Severin held her, along with some other dreams she’d had lately. She looked away. “I was tired. The brain does funny things when you’re that tired. Don’t worry about it.” She stepped into some denim shorts and added, “Dreams like that don't mean anything unless you let them.”
“Tarn sent me dreams when he wanted to manipulate me,” Marley pointed out gently.
Branwyn laughed without any humor. “Nobody is sending me these dreams except my own subconscious.”
“How do you know?”
Branwyn concentrated on her zipper. She really didn't want to talk about this. Talking about it felt like giving the dreams power, making the attraction real. But Marley sounded more troubled than she had since Branwyn had first walked into Underlight. “Fine. Three reasons. First, this isn't the first time I've had embarrassing dreams about somebody I didn't even like. My sleeping mind is stupid, what can I say? Second, when he wants to manipulate me, he just shows up and pokes me with a sharp stick. He's not exactly subtle. And third, Corbin said that having my charm slots filled would specifically prevent things like how Tarn got into your dreams. It was just a dream. Okay? Are we done?”
Marley was silent for a moment and Branwyn looked for a clean shirt in the interim. Finally, she said, “What happened, Branwyn?”
Once her head emerged from the paint-splattered t-shirt, Branwyn said, “The guy I went to see is AT’s dad. She was there. He’s an asshole. I tried to get her out. It went poorly.”
Marley looked startled. “AT? I thought… no,” she shook her head. “I hoped. I was stupid.” Her expression changed as she processed what Branwyn hadn’t bothered to spell out. She looked grim and dark-eyed in a way Branwyn had only seen once before, when she’d used her nephil power to push pain into Tarn. “So how does Severin figure in?”
Branwyn shrugged, quick and tight. “He wants me to help in some game he’s playing with Tarn. I couldn’t do that locked up in Hunter’s basement.”
Marley’s eyes went to the black mark now mostly covered by Branwyn’s shirt. “You owe him now?”
Branwyn snorted. “I owe him, but maybe not in the way he’s hoping. I didn’t exactly agree to a bargain.” And then, because she didn’t want to continue that line of conversation, she said, “Did I dream that you were having some kind of meeting with Corbin and Simon when I got home?”
Marley gave Branwyn a look that said I know what you're doing, but said, “We were talking about you. I knew something bad had happened to you and Corbin said you’d lost the beacon charm he gave you.”
“Oh, that was days ago. I exchanged it for a different kind of beacon.”
“Not a very useful one,” Marley said sharply.
“Well, no. But it did get me a step closer to saving Penny.” Branwyn furrowed her brow, trying to remember the thought she’d had on that topic. It had come in the midst of basement rooms and tormenting kaiju, but in the wake of AT’s warnings, there’d been something… “Speaking of Penny, I have work to do.” Something in the air changed and Branwyn glanced at Marley. “Thank you, by the way. I’m sorry I worried you.”
“We would have come for you,” said Marley fiercely. “He wouldn’t have kept you.”
Branwyn summoned up cheer she didn’t feel. “I know.” Cradling the Machine part again, she left the room and tried to leave introspection behind as well.
*
***“Sexy bastard!”***
Views: 67,019
Thought this guy was hot but damn!
A man with spiky red and black hair, dressed in a blue t-shirt that clings to his muscular torso, walks down a street. He passes by a sidewalk cafe and pauses. The camera zooms in and focuses. The man is looking at a woman and a small child eating dessert. He smiles at them, and reaches out to tousle the child’s hair. Both of the diners stare at him in surprise. He reaches out and takes the spoon out of the child’s hand and licks it. The camera shakes a little. Then the man reaches out and takes the plate and the mother’s fork and starts walking down the street again while eating the dessert. The mother and child stare after him in silence.
*
It was late in the morning, the autumn sunlight bright and unfriendly. Once upon a time, Branwyn would have been at work at the garage by now. She wondered if she still had a job. Every day, almost without fail, it was the smell of metal and paint and coffee and counter cleaner, the yawns and yells of the mechanics that had anchored her days. It wasn’t her dream job. It was just earning a living doing something that she liked. What she was doing now was more important. It was a pity there wasn’t a paycheck in it, though.
But Marley was making enough for both of them now, and Branwyn had paid the bills for months while Marley was unemployed. This was fair. This was working on the future.
She turned the stereo up loud enough to rattle the windows and drove first to her studio, where she stayed just long enough to break the acrylic casing. Then, with the Machine in a bag so it wouldn’t distract her, she went to the house.
Thankfully, since it was a weekday morning, the house was utterly empty. Branwyn spared a moment for a childish burst of gratitude that her grandmother, the ultimate authority in the family, was away on a sabbatical. If she was home, not only would she be there, she’d have questions for Branwyn that would revert her back to a little girl trying to squirm her way out of trouble again. Holly was her mother, but Tara was her mother’s mother, and even when her great-grandmother had been alive, Tara had ruled like a queen. When she got back, there was going to be trouble. Branwyn imagined it and realized she was imagining being a little girl again, hoping for her grandmother to fix everything—
She burst into Tarn’s court as if she could leave her thoughts behind that way. The hall was dark after the brightness of the morning, and she stood still where she arrived, squeezing her eyes shut, unwilling to advance until she could see what she had gotten into. Tarn’s entry hall wasn’t always the same.
Before her vision had adjusted to the dim light, hands closed on her arms. “Branwyn!”
She instinctively flinched away, even though her arm no longer hurt, and Tarn’s grip loosened, sliding up her arms to rest on her shoulders, then cup her face. “Branwyn. You’re safe. The souls of my servants returned to me—” Abruptly he let go of her, giving her space.
“Aw, you worried?” Branwyn flashed a grin. “I was fine.”
“I was… concerned.” His voice had cooled. Branwyn’s vision cleared up enough that she could finally make him out. He looked… tousled. His hair was wilder than usual, and his clothing lacked the usual careful crispness. “And you recovered the Machine.”
Branwyn tilted her head, wondering at the shift in his manner. Then she remembered the mark beside her collarbone. Obviously he recognized it.
She rejected out of hand explaining it. She hadn’t wanted it there. She hadn’t asked for help. And she wasn’t going to let Severin use his unwanted act of kindness as leverage over her. It was a non-issue, as far as she was concerned, except as a cosmetic concern. And if Tarn couldn’t figure that out, that was his problem.
“Yep. I’m ready to get to work, too. I’ve got a good feeling this time. This little bit of Heavenly trash is eager to do some good.”
Tarn sighed. “Of course.” But he didn’t move out of her way.
She gave him an amused look. “No backing down, bub. I open the door, you step right out and save Penny. Right?”
“And then? After that?” he asked.
“What, are you worried? I thought you wanted this
.”
He eyed her. “You don’t care what happens after you get what you want?”
“Should I?” She put on her most cheerful voice. “You don’t have any… dubious plans, do you, Tarn?”
“No,” he said flatly. “But I am not the only one who will be affected. Perhaps you have noticed: I have many, many cousins.”
“Oh, I’ve noticed.” She thought first of the Queen of Stone and then the Lady Rime, and all the videos she'd seen lately of strange people and happenings. “Some of them get out more than you, too.”
Tarn spread his hands. “I’ve observed,” he said simply, but there was a greyness in his voice that frightened Branwyn.
That spike of fear drained the last traces of cheer from Branwyn. “Don’t do this. Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind. You want this. Underlight needs this. You said you were committed. You’re just worried about Severin picking on you while you’re distracted. Don’t be.”
“Branwyn—”
“Tell me!” she commanded. “Say it!”
“I want this,” he said in a low voice, and the yearning under the words seemed to make the room tremble.
Her own voice shaky, she said, “Don’t worry about other people’s choices. I’ve seen enough of you to realize that you’re all individuals. And what has been done to you is terrible.” As quickly as it left, her manic cheer returned. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have options. “Besides, this isn’t the only lock. I was there when the first one broke, you know. There’s three. You admitted that yourself.”
Tarn looked away, a complex expression shifting across his face. As the silence dragged out, Branwyn wondered if she wasn’t supposed to talk about the door, or parrot his own words back to him. Perhaps she’d broken some kind of unspoken rule.
Oh well.
“Now. I’m going to get to work, if you don’t mind.” She made as if to move past him.
Still looking away, he waved a hand absently. “Carry on. The Machine key is in your studio.”
“Practice your soul-charming or whatever. Pack for the beach,” she said encouragingly, then frowned, reminded again of AT’s opinions on the changeling procedure. “See you later.”
The detour to her studio to get the key took no time at all. Once in front of the great door, she took the unfinished key from its suede bag and ran her fingers over it. The sense of the Machine sank into her again. It seemed to fill her up, this partial thing. It had tendrils into her, oh yes. She wondered if it was possible to work a bit of Heaven without being changed in turn.
Carefully, she put it aside and picked up the toothed wheel Machine fragment that Hunter had claimed. The emotional signature traveled up her fingers and into her spine. It was eager, as she’d noticed before. It yearned to be of use. It had a crisp attentiveness compared to the rod’s ancient harshness that made Branwyn wonder if they were from different ages. Or maybe just different full Machines. Nobody seemed to know very much about those, after all.
She spent some time with the two emotional signatures, analyzing the hooks of light stretching from the Machines to herself and thinking about how to align them. They’d become a new single thing. An alloy, she hoped. Something strong enough. But working with these Machines wasn’t like blending copper and tin. They had personalities instead of just qualities. And merging personalities seemed like it would require a skill she wasn’t sure she had. She wished she had something she could practice on, but all she had was the models she’d constructed in her head.
After some consideration, she couldn’t see how it could work. They didn’t fit together the way she thought they had to. They needed to mesh, and instead they just clanked. She might be able to jury-rig something, but she didn’t think she could build something that lasted.
She had to try. She picked up the Machines, one in each hand.
They weren’t the same. They’d changed. Not substantially, but the sharp, clearly defined personalities she’d sensed before had softened. They were softening further, as she held them in her hands. Her breath came fast, wondering. The spirit tendrils they’d reached inside her chest throbbed. She didn’t feel as if they were taking anything from her, but at the same time, she was giving them something. The difference was slight but significant.
You are the forge. The knowledge traveled through the tendrils, and Branwyn felt dizzy and tired.
“Of course,” she muttered. She brought the two Machines together. As they touched, their substance softened just like their personalities had.
She fell into the fugue of twisting and shaping the metals. Even through the haze of creative effort, something nagged at her. The pieces were mobile, willing to serve. But—
But—
Her face hurt from her scowl. A sound impinged on her consciousness and she looked up. Tarn stood in the corner, watching her. His expression was reserved, but he was not calm; he shifted his weight and he didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. When she caught his eye, he started forward. “Did it work?”
Branwyn goggled at him, wondering how he could think that. Then she followed his gaze, looking at what she held in her hand. The toothed wheel had locked itself at one end of the rod. They’d merged into a single piece, singing with one voice a song of structure and excitement. The key itself shimmered like it was coated with wet satin paint and a soft blue glow radiated from it. It was beautiful.
It was also a failure.
Carefully, she rose to her feet, clenching her fingers over the flawed Machine.
“It did work,” breathed Tarn.
“No. No, it didn’t. Why would you think that?”
He frowned at her. “You merged them.”
She offered it to him. “Try it, then.” When he hesitated, she wanted to throw it at him. Instead, she turned away and walked stiffly over to the great door. She put the key into the hole, smooth end first. It was the only way it would fit; the toothed wheel was too large. It made an excellent grip. But while the grip would magnify the power of the turner enormously, the key itself still couldn’t get leverage on the hidden tumblers of the mystical lock.
In the same stiff, controlled way, she withdrew the key. “Doesn’t work. Doesn’t work.” She thought of Severin’s mark on her, and wondered if the Queen of Stone was laughing as she looked on this failure of effort. This waste of energy. Oh, the Queen had gotten her money’s worth. But Branwyn hadn’t.
“Take it,” she said again to Tarn. “Take it and go away. Find yourself a locksmith or something.” She knelt down and put the key on the floor in front of her. “Leave me alone.”
Tarn’s breath came rapidly. “What does it need?”
“What does it need? It needs more. More than one life. More than I have.” She thought again of Penny.
Tarn knelt across from her, the key between them. He took her by the shoulders and shook her gently. “What does it need?”
The words hurt like salt in a wound. “It needs another Machine fragment.”
He just nodded. Of course he just nodded. He’d known. How could he not? He’d had centuries to understand the lock. Maybe it couldn’t be opened. Maybe this was nothing more than entertainment.
She knuckled her eyes and jerked away from him. He stood up again. “I’d hoped…” and the world shuddered around them. Only the great door seemed unmoving. Tarn ducked his head, muttered something about threes.. Then he raised his head again. “Will you stop now?”
Branwyn glared up at him. “Is it possible to make a complete key?”
He stared at her for a long moment, and she held his gaze until finally he said, “Yes. It is possible.”
“You’re sure?”
“There was a time when I wasn’t. But now… it is vulnerable. If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t be permitted to access it, to study it as you have. It demands the third part, though. Threes are powerful, especially here.”
She pressed her hands against her head. She wanted to scream. She’d come so far. If she backed down now, she’d lose everyt
hing. “I can’t stop. Even if it takes seven. I hear seven is powerful in fairy tales, too.”
He said, “Acquiring another fragment may be… challenging.”
“Challenging? Because everything else has been a walk in the park. Please go away. Go find another one, go dance, go take a damned bath. Just leave me alone.” She didn’t look up at him. She looked at the key, shimmering quietly on the floor. So eager. So useless. Like her. They both had to do this in order to justify everything that had gone before. No matter the cost.
After a long moment, she heard Tarn’s footsteps receding. Once she was sure he was gone, she buried her head in her hands and let the tears she’d been holding back spill over.
-twenty-
Too soon, Branwyn heard Tarn returning. She tried to drag her heart out of the black pit it had fallen into, but Tarn’s hand fell on her shoulder before she managed to lift her head from her knees.
“Branwyn,” he said in an unfamiliar tone. “Wake. You are needed.”
Urgency. That was a note of urgency in his voice. She raised her head and glared at him. “I know. You don’t need to pester me.”
There was something odd in his eyes. “Your mother is crying.”
“What?” Branwyn shot to her feet. “Why? How do you know?”
He made an impatient gesture. “We are neighbors. Your mother is crying and your sister has sent your brother to find a way into my realm. They bid you come home.”
“Right,” said Branwyn, and scrubbed at her face again. Tarn gestured and a steaming washbasin and a towel appeared on a low marble pillar. “Right,” said Branwyn again and went to wash her face properly. “What’s she crying about?”
Tarn didn’t answer, watching her with a face like a stone. Branwyn shook her head. “Be that way. I’ll be back.” She went back through the gallery and opened the door out, stepping into her front hall.
Howl rose from his seat on the stairs, a grim expression on his face. “Come on.” He led her upstairs to her mother’s room and took up a station just outside, as if standing guard. Or as if he was afraid to go inside.
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