by Angel Lawson
She collapses on my chest. After a moment, I remember to breathe. She does, too, but I grab her ass before she can wiggle away. “Where are you going, Cherry?” I roll over, still deep inside her, still hard. “Library doesn’t close for another 45 minutes.”
*
She curls close, head on the pillow, face pressed into my neck. Her eyelashes flutter across my skin like feathers, and she surrenders to sleep with a sigh, taking me with her. I widen my mental aperture to align with her dream, and the darkness comes into focus.
I hear a rustle in the darkness, the whisper of wings.
Soft.
A chill makes me reach for my blanket with one hand and the warmth of the body beside me but my fingers only find air. The blanket is gone and I stand; my room is gone, too. I’m barefoot and alone in a metal-floored room with striped walls. We’ve been here before, my twin and I.
The floor is moving, as if my room had a swing of its own to perch on. I scrabble for purchase, toes scraping, catch my reflection, turn my head for another look. I’m not such a bad looking guy, sleek, and dark. One shiny eye winks back.
The rocking stops in front of a door and a giant fleshy hand reaches into my little room. I drive my beak at the intrusion, but it bats me away, grabs, and rips at my back. It hurts. I shit on the floor in protest, bite at the huge fat fingers that snap the door back in place.
Ansuz, the giant says, pressing my torn feather against a wooden door that sits high in the stones of a building. A single red drop of me runs from the quill onto the wood, and a scratch mark glows, up high, a long line, with two diagonals coming off it.
My symbol.
My name.
The door shimmers like a mirror, or melting ice, casting prisms behind it, pretty.
The world is dark now, but we’re moving toward a light, and I smell danger and see fire, a little bit of flame in a metal cage of its own.
Another giant is curled on the floor, smaller, a she, her head tucked into her skinny naked wing. I know her. She’s one of us, not my sister, one of the others, I ask her name, but she doesn’t know my language, either.
The man giant says something that I don’t understand. The big pink hand reaches in again. I go limp, but it doesn’t believe I’m dead. It hauls me out and stretches my wings with both hands. I scream.
Blackness slaps me across the face, and I wake.
I’m in a cave. I see flames and focus, sit up, hand on the cold stone wall for balance. The light is nothing more than a torch, ablaze on a sconce on the wall. I call out, “Hello?” but hear nothing but a trickle of water in return. My voice is deep, raspy. My wrists are heavy, and clank when I move.
My glasses are skewed on my nose. I fix them, rub my chin with my hand. I’ve got two days of stubble on my chin. How long was I asleep? How long have I been here?
I stand, but my arms and feet are bound to the wall.
A girl sits nearby. I should know her name but all I see is a glowing rune on her forehead like the mark of Cain, a sharp letter C drawn with two red slashes. The glare of it masks her face. Words march through my head, a story I need to tell my sister, written in the same runes. It’s an ancient tale.
If Faye were here she would know what they meant, but I don’t want her here, not in this place. I close my eyes, see her, want to touch her, feel how soft she is, touch the dimple in her knee above the lace-up boots. She’s smiling up at me, elfin eyes wide and dark as night itself, skin as pale as clouds, wrapped in a green leaf jacket, open to her waist, a flash of forbidden curves, and the necklace between is a silver fairy, herself with wings in perfect miniature, sable hair and kissing mouth, hands cupped under naked breasts, offering. One fingertip teases a nipple, and it rises, taut. My hands move against my will to slide the leather coat from the girl’s shoulders, but she’s too young and I won’t look, I won’t look—
I open my eyes, ashamed of my arousal. I don’t even want to think of her here.
There are five sets of shackles in the room, each with their own rune, pulsing in the stones above them.
The girl on the floor whispers, “Huginn.”
She holds out a marble, silvery with a blue thread running through the glass. I get lost in the shiny, in the spiral, clouding into darkness as we slide away from Julian, released by his deeper darkness, and then Memory slips away, and I’m left cold and alone.
I wake up again.
This time I’m back in the girls’ room, and morning has pushed past the window. Memory is no longer beside me, but standing by the wall, a broken pencil at her feet. She’s wearing only my t-shirt and her eyes are wild, darting everywhere. Sonja’s package is mashed in her hands.
“Memory?” I rub the sleep off my face. Half a dozen symbols have been sketched onto the wall.
“Julian isn’t in the hospital.” She blinks, eyelids still heavy. “He’s in the well.”
22.
Mission
“Are you okay?” Ethan is looking at me like he’s never seen me before. The bruises on his face have ripened dark under his skin. One cut is open, a trickle of blood drying at his temple.
“I had a dream.” I look around the room. Not too much damage, a few drawings on the wall. I inhale, sharp, clearing my head. “Faye didn’t come back.”
The boy on my bed sits up, then stands and steps close, catching my chin in his hands. He looks deep into my eyes, but his regard is clinical, and I look away when I realize he’s looking for drugs. He lets go, hand sliding down my shoulder and arm to catch my wrist. He takes the package from my hands as he nods to the wall. “What is all this?”
I turn to the scribbled mess, rubbing the heel of my hand on my t-shirt before I remember I’m wearing his. I brush at the graphite smear of the pencil lead. “I’m not sure. It’s from my dream. We were surrounded by these. They’re runes, like what Faye reads. This one is for Huginn. This one, Muninn. That one is perth. I can’t remember what Faye told me this one is.”
“You’re sure she didn’t come back?
Nothing on her side of the room has been touched. “Yeah.” I take a deep breath, but it doesn’t calm me. “And I don’t think Julian is in the hospital.”
“You said that.” He isn’t skeptical though. “You think he found the well?”
“I think he’s been there all along. I think Anders is lying.”
“The dream.” he asks. “It was Julian’s.”
“Did you see it?”
His face twists, but he nods, once. “I don’t remember much. I never saw him. But I saw those.” He points to the markings on the walls, then holds up Sonja’s present. “What’s up with this?”
“I must have picked it up in my sleep.” I run my hand over the address. “He’s not hurt, just pissed off.”
“You know this? And you know where he is?”
“It feels like a cave.” I press my hand to his face, fingertip pressing on his bottom lip. “Look.”
He closes his eyes, and I see the movement of his pupils behind his lids, like he’s dreaming. “It’s been built, though. Walls. And chains?” His face pales as he opens his eyes. “Fuck.”
I nod. “I bet he went looking in the chapel. Maybe he found a way in, and got stuck inside.”
“Or he was told to go there, and got locked in.” He pulls away from me, fishes out his socks and shoes from under the bed. “Pretty effective damage control for a plagiarism accusation.”
“I think it’s worse than that,” I whisper, as a memory clicks into context, a comparison, like Faye’s untouched stones on her desk. “Anders lied. About his hand.”
“The bookshelf accident?”
“Yeah. I was in his office. And all the books were in exactly the same place they were in the other day. You don’t have an injury accident with furniture and replace everything picture perfect, down to the dust.”
“I can’t see your brother going quietly, not with someone he suspected of academic misconduct or whatever plagiarism is called.”
“N
o, he wouldn’t. And now Faye’s gone too. We’ve got to go find them.”
“Okay. But there’s something I’ve got to do first.” He ties his running shoes. “And I need my camera. We won’t have much time. Once the admins see Jeremy’s face they’ll come looking for me. No way is he going to keep his mouth shut.” He stands. I lean in, kissing his mouth, quick and light. An image of a silver blade pops in my mind, and is gone just as quick. He smirks at me. “I’ll need my shirt.” I pull it off over my head, and hand it to him. He stares, mouth half open. “Jesus, Cherry.”
A fist pounds twice on the dorm room door in warning as a key slides into the lock. We both freeze.
*
“Memory? Are you in there?” Zoe asks as she opens the door. “Oops. Excuse me.” She pulls the door back shut, and calls through it, “Please put something on. I’m coming in.”
She hasn’t seen Ethan. I push him toward the closet, and grab a towel. “Be quiet,” I whisper, shutting the door on his battered face as I open the one to the hall, wrapping the towel around me.
“I was about to shower. Is there a problem?” I ask Zoe.
“Why aren’t you at your group?” She shoves past me into the room, and turns in a slow circle, obviously searching.
“I’m waiting for my brother,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m beginning to think I’m being lied to about this whole situation. If he isn’t back here this morning, I’m calling every hospital within driving distance, and then I’m calling the police.”
Her head snaps in my direction, and her eyes examine my face. She opens her mouth, closes it, and then sneers. “Don’t be so melodramatic.”
“Why are you checking up on me?”
“It’s my job to check up on you,” she says. “Dr. Anders noticed you didn’t show up for your group meeting. He sent me here to look for you.”
“So Dr. Anders is checking up on me, now, too?”
“He checks up on all the groups. He was worried about you. We all know Julian being in the hospital has to be hard on you.”
I want to believe her. I study her face, looking for signs that she knows more than she’s telling, but her expression shows only earnest concern. I sigh. “I didn’t sleep well last night. I had a nightmare.” I glance at the wall behind me, to the marks I don’t remember drawing.
She stares, eyes wide, at the wall behind me. “What did you do?”
“It’s just pencil. It will wash off.”
“You better hope so. What is all that?”
“Just some notes. It’s for our project. I work better like this. If it doesn’t come off my room deposit will cover the damages.” I watch her as she examines the drawings. She appears to be in no hurry to leave so I say, “I really should get that shower.”
“Have you seen Ethan?” she asks, turning to face me.
“No,” I make a face. “I just woke up. Where would I have seen him?”
She walks around the room, near the closet, but doesn’t open the door. “Dean Burnett was looking for him earlier. I just wanted to pass along the message. If you see him will you tell him?”
“Sure.”
“Alright. Have a nice day!” She smiles bright and leaves the room.
Still suspicious, I wait until she’s all the way down the hall before I close the door behind her. The second the exterior door slams closed, I relock the door to my room and run to the closet. Ethan is still pushed into back, smashing my shirts and dresses. I help him over the shoes and accessories.
“What was that all about?” he asks.
“No idea, but I think we better hurry. Looks like people are starting to look for you.”
“She didn’t ask about Faye,” Ethan says, glancing at my roommate’s desk, and then back to me.
“No, she didn’t.”
“Get dressed. I’ll meet you out front in fifteen minutes. By the fountain.”
“Make it ten,” I say, kissing him hard on the lips.
“Watch for me. If you hear sirens, it means they found me,” he says. I pull back but his hands are strong. His lips move on the corner of my jaw.
“How will I see you again?” I arch into his body again.
“Find Sonja’s mother. She’ll help us.” He kisses me, hard and fast and deep. Then he’s gone.
*
His lips carry an image of silver. Sharp and hard. The blade passes from his mind to mine like a whisper, and as he leaves the room, I try to shake the feeling that I’ll never see him again.
I check the time on my phone. If Ethan is caught, he’ll be kicked out. I’ve hung out with Jeremy long enough to know he’d squeal the second Dean Burnett pinched him. And the dagger? Another one of his treasures, I’m sure, but it looks like it could cause serious harm. I don’t know why it was in his mind. I don’t want to know.
No time for a shower. I shove at the hangers in my closet until I find my sturdiest jeans. Tight, but they move with me, and my gut tells me I’m going to need to run. I toss my sneakers back in favor of chunky heel boots; they’re solid, and make me as tall as most men. My black t-shirt with the cherries. Just because.
When I see my reflection in the mirror I cringe, thinking that Ethan saw me like this, even though he probably helped turn my hair into this mess. I shove what hangs in my face into a messy ponytail, and run to the restroom. I wash my face, brush my teeth, and check the time on my phone when I get back to the room.
Seven minutes left.
I stare at myself in the mirror. Pale skin, long nose, wide mouth. Worried eyes. The face of a young girl, in over her head and scared. So I line my eyes with black, thick on the upper lids, and flick a coat of mascara on my lashes. My only non-gloss lipstick is dark red, and I carefully trace my mouth, and then rub my lips together to warm it up. The face in the glass is still a girl, but she’s older, a young woman who has it put together, ready to face whatever comes her way.
Ethan called it battle armor. I like that.
I look out the window. He’s not outside by the fountain or under a nearby tree. It’s four minutes too soon. The runes on the wall get under my skin, and I find the soft lead pencil that’s rolled under my bed. The plaster catches at the graphite, black dust drifting down the wall as I outline five of the markings, the ones that glow in my dreams.
Under two, I sketch mirrored profiles, nose to nose exact, like the optical illusion of a vase, and then I add eyes, one with lashes, and one without. I glance out the window as I draw, but the quad is still empty. I turn to the next rune, the one that Faye called perth, and draw another face. My hands move fast: wide eyes peeking through dark bangs, a tiny heart shaped mouth. Over the rune shaped like an arrow I draw another portrait, a bare-headed boy with solemn brows. My phone says eleven minutes have gone by. Still no sign of him outside.
Sonja’s package stares at me, and I leaf through the pages of my dream, trying to understand what impulse made me reach for it in my sleep. I snatch it up, and run my thumbnail under the flap, where it looks like someone else has opened it. No need to guess who.
A heavy metal object slips from a loose paper wrapping and I pick both of them up, but the crows on the silver bracelet catch my attention. There are five, spaced between girlish charms and four pendants with runes and one broken link. They match my sketches on the wall, aside from the missing one.
The thief stole his own rune; probably not even aware of its meaning, and hid it away with the rest of his treasures. I wonder what he has of mine. I read the note that has fallen to the bed, and the breath is ripped out of my body.
“Oh, shit. Oh, no. No! Ethan, where are you?”
My mental sketchbook flips through images, to the last second I saw him, before he ducked out the door, icy eyes tearing away from mine, and then my vision shifts, like it does when we kiss, and I’m staring at Jeremy, his face mottled with bruises and anger, the doors leading out of the boy’s dorm behind him.
“No,” I yell. The image fades away as my shout echoes in my room.
Outside, past the quad, a police car, siren off but blue lights flashing, pulls into the visitors parking in front of the admin building. They had him. It was all up to me, now.
23.
Entreaty
I stand at the side door to the girl’s dormitory, watch the cops saunter into the administration office building. They’re taking their time, arms swinging as they walk, not halfcocked and ready to grab for the gun belt. They’re not looking for me yet, but I duck my head out of habit, as I scope out the digital lock to Memory’s dorm.
No way I can break in, and I’m late. She’s not waiting for me in the quad either. After I left her, I’d run back to my dorm, and it only takes me a minute to find what I need from my room. The silver letter opener, the charm, glass orbs, letters from my caseworker, my camera; they all go in my bag, the significance of them—their connection—slamming through my definition of what is real.
But I lose time looking for the book. It’s not in Julian’s bag, or under his bed, and I groan when I realize my roommate has filed it in the collection that covers every flat surface on his side of the room. I scan the spines, trying to remember what it looks like.
“C’mon, dude, where did you put it?” They’re in alphabetical order, and with some amusement that I don’t have time for, I notice that quite a few have library stickers. I’m not the only one who takes his trophies. I can’t remember the name of the author. John Olivann? Guardivander?
Cursing, I dig for my camera, hoping one of my candid shots of the girls might show the book, and my instincts are right, there’s a shot of Faye at lunch, and next to her is Julian, half cropped out of the frame, holding a green hardbound with yellowing pages.
Searching all the books with the same color, I finally find it, stash it in my bag and on another impulse, I reach for my camera again. I imagine the girl with the sharp tongue and soft mouth, and I look through the lens, and I see her looking back at me. She raises her hand to her mouth, draws it with red, and rubs her lips together, then flashes a fierce smile into the mirror.
