by K. M. Szpara
Meadowlark purses his lips. “So far outsiders have only shown me disrespect. I anticipated rejection—you have no magic to resist the monsters.”
Oh my god, he just said “monsters” and meant it. Is my mouth hanging open? Look cool!
“But I had no idea how that rejection would manifest.” He glances over my shoulder at the growing line. “I do need help. If one of these FOEs catches me, they’ll lock me in a hotel room and try to force me to testify against Nova. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to resist corruption in those circumstances.” His eyes fall to the ground. When he looks up, tears glimmer along his lashes. “I, uh, already lost someone.” He blinks until his eyes are clear and bright again. “But I’m going to save him—I’m going to save you all.”
I let his words linger. Let the chill of inspiration and power run its course through my body. Then I remember. “After you escape your foes.”
“Hm? Oh. Yes.” He shrugs. “I admit, I’m not used to fighting alone, so the FOEs present a challenge.”
“Okay, well, I’ll help you.”
Meadowlark opens his mouth, pauses, and closes it. Crosses his arms over the gray sweatshirt. He’s right. It does look stupid on him. “Thank you.”
I have a feeling he’s never spoken those words to an “outsider” before, so I don’t belittle them. “You’re welcome.” He doesn’t return my smile, but my hopes weren’t high—he’s already given a lot. I can’t even believe we’re still interacting.
I shrug off my mantle. “Do you mind if I…” touch you. I’d ask anyone first, but it feels especially important with Lark, like he’s a precious artifact and I’m a less-shitty Indiana Jones. “You stand out in these clothes, but if I dress you in my costume, you’ll blend in. Your foes won’t be able to tell you apart from people like me in the crowd.”
Meadowlark looks down the alleyway, at those who stream past. “You may,” he says.
Meadowlark naturally accommodates my motions, accepting the hand-sewn garment as I drape it over his shoulders. The mantle falls into place like I made it for him. I expect the crown will look the same. I extract it from my wig, careful not to snag any hairs, then fit it on him. The braids that circle his head fight me as I try to affix it.
I reach for their ends. “If I can just take these—”
Meadowlark wrenches my arms away in a practiced motion. He holds my wrists, grip firm, staring wide-eyed at me as if he’s reevaluating his decision to accept my help.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean to offend you. We can leave your hair up. I’ll make the crown fit.”
Slowly, he releases me. Straightens up to his full height. Holds his head high as if to remind me that I’m beneath him. He’s Anointed and I’m an outsider. I don’t want to be.
I treat his braided crown with reverence as I fix the elvish crown around it. Stand back and admire my work. Admire him. I’ve never wanted to get to know someone more. “Looks good.” My voice cracks and I clear my throat. “Just cover as much of yourself with the mantle as you can, and no one’ll look twice at you.”
Meadowlark reaches delicately up toward the crown and runs his fingers over the branches, lets the fake leaves flip through his fingers. His eyelashes flutter and, for a moment, it’s like he’s somewhere else. With a deep breath he says, “Okay. Get me out of here.”
We pass easily through the crowd. Everyone’s going somewhere—no one sticking around long enough to notice that Meadowlark and an elf went separately into the alley, and two elves emerged. When we stop at the corner crosswalk, he grabs my upper arm. Not hard, not desperate. Like a child who is afraid to lose their mother in a crowd. I don’t look at him when we cross, allowing his fear some privacy.
Meadowlark pauses on the threshold of my hotel. Looks at the automatic doors. Right. He escaped from a hotel. I really hope it was a different one.
“It’s okay.” I press my free hand over his for a moment, to remind him that I’ve got him, then take a step forward. He follows. Slowly, we slip through the crowd toward a packed elevator that closes right before we make it to the front. This, however, is where Meadowlark draws the line.
“Where’d they go?” he asks, peering around the sides.
“Up. It’s an elevator. It moves between floors, so you don’t have to take the stairs. It’s safe. They’re tested by the city regularly.”
He watches with glazed eyes as the next batch of people cram into the small space which we, notably, are not getting into. Again. “Which floor are you on?”
“Eleven.”
“We’ll take the stairs.”
“What?”
But he’s off before I can stop him. The stairs. I did not get a hotel room so I could climb eleven stories. God knows my fifth-floor apartment is enough. I make it up six flights before I need to rest, flushed and breathing hard as I lean against the concrete wall. This costume is heavy and, unlike Meadowlark, I’m not Anointed.
I wonder if he’ll show me magic.
“Come on.” He nods at the next set of stairs and we continue.
I want to die by the time we reach the eleventh floor. Meadowlark matches my speed as we walk down the hallway, fiddling with the crown, inspecting the mantle, reading the numbers on doors. I’m walking too slowly for him, but my body is not built for endurance. It’s built for slutty Pikachu costumes.
I unlock the room and he follows me inside. A moment later, I hear the door open and shut again. Meadowlark tests it twice, then tentatively joins me. His eyes dart into the bathroom, across the beds, over the mess of cables and microphones Lilian left sprawled across the floor in her quest to, well, to find him.
Lilian! I slap my pocket to make sure my phone’s inside. I should tell her. Across the room, Meadowlark slides the mantle off his shoulders, extracts the crown from his braided hair. A few strands pull loose, but he tucks them in after setting his disguise down on the desk.
“Is this where you live?”
“No, just where I’m staying for the convention.”
“What is a convention? You keep talking about it.”
Right, I never explained. “It’s where a bunch of nerds get together and…” I shrug. “Hang out? Celebrate the stories they love. Talk about books and movies. Television, video games.” He probably doesn’t know what those are—not video games, at least. But he doesn’t ask me to explain, and I don’t want to accidentally corrupt him or whatever. The way he hangs back, eyeing everyone he encounters as if they’re going to fight him, it’s obvious no one on this side of the fence has taken him seriously.
An old, familiar annoyance burns through me. Heaven forbid we believe people when they tell us who they are and what they want. My fingers glide down the front of my coat. “You don’t have to tell me what you’re doing—I know I’m not part of your Fellowship. But if you need someone to talk to, I’ll listen. I’ll believe you.”
He reaches for the crown again, fingering one of the red plastic leaves. “I’m on a quest.” His narrowed eyes dare me to challenge him. The silence he leaves in his wake is an invitation I don’t accept.
“I need to kill a monster—as many as possible, really.” Meadowlark crosses his arms and stands straight. “You’re not going to tell me that’s fake?”
“No,” I say, with as much seriousness as I can muster. I mean it, but I don’t know what words or movements will set him off. He was raised in isolation. Druid Hill might as well be Mars.
“That’s … all right, okay.” He stumbles for words, unprepared to be unopposed. “I need to go home so I can gather supplies: books, maps, potions…” Again, he trails off, waiting for my objection.
I refuse to show doubt. “And you’re going to carry all that with you?”
“I suppose.”
“Alone?” My brain automatically fills in It’s dangerous to go—but I bury the reference. He won’t get it, and this is serious to him—if I truly believe him, it should be serious for me as well. I want it to be.
Me
adowlark doesn’t answer.
“I can help—keep helping,” I add to reinforce that he can trust me. I could’ve turned him in or called the tip line. I haven’t even called Lilian yet; I’m dying to.
He stiffens, every muscle tense—“An outsider, help on my quest?”—then snaps. “Why are you doing this? Do you want magic? I’m not going to show you a party trick.”
I’m suddenly aware of how hot I am, in this coat and wig, in this hotel room. Aware that I do want him to show me a trick. I want some kind of proof, even though I shouldn’t. Even though I would tell off anyone who asked for it.
But this is real magic we’re talking about. Imagine …
“I wouldn’t ask you to.” I try to mean it, hope I do.
“Oh. Well.” Meadowlark crosses his arms as if they’re giving him trouble. Toes the floor with his boot. He looks as flustered as I feel. Even though I have no idea what his life was really like growing up beyond speculation, or what he’s capable of, I can tell he’s lost. “What, then?” he asks, voice reaching for authority. “How can you help me?”
9
CALVIN / NOW
I don’t know what to offer him. I can hear my family telling me I should’ve majored in something useful, gotten a real job—but what the hell would I have offered him as an attorney? Legal advice? Granted, he might need that if he’s caught, but I’m not going to let that happen.
I feel the familiar, invisible tug of my phone, my fingers sliding toward my pocket. I want to text Lilian—she’s always been my voice of reason or inspiration when parents and professors have let me down. But she’s not here. I am. What do I have to offer Meadowlark? Most of my weapons are made from Styrofoam or wood, and my magic is limited to a sewing machine.
Think, Calvin. He wants potions and books and maps and—I close my hand around the bump in my pocket. Over my phone. My keys. That’s it. I don’t have to be good with weapons and magic because he already is. But he probably can’t drive and definitely doesn’t know anything about the world outside Druid Hill.
“A car. I have a car and a phone.” I slide my hand into my pocket slowly, so he doesn’t think I’m pulling a weapon on him. So he doesn’t pull a weapon on me. I hold the device up between us, tap the screen to turn it on. “This thing does a heck of a lot more than call people.”
Lark eyes it suspiciously. “Like what?”
“You said you needed maps.” I open the app. “I don’t know how old yours are, but this has maps that are current to the minute, and we can search anywhere in the world.” It hits me when I say it that I don’t know where he’s going. “Do you have an idea where—for your quest—like a general area…”
“Not yet. I’ll have to use magic to track the specific monster…” Meadowlark’s voice tapers off. “By all indications, outsider, you have been kind, have demonstrated that I can rely on you. But before we continue, I do need to tell you…”
I hold my breath. Tense every muscle in my body.
“You’ve lived under the influence of monsters your whole life. Because of that, I’ll never be able to fully trust you—not until I slay them and free you. That is my life’s purpose. To save you and everyone else. But if the part of you that is monstrous does anything to hinder me—to threaten my greater quest—I will stop you with force.”
His words stab between my ribs. All I can do is nod because I know he means it. No matter how badly I want this to be real, it already is real for Meadowlark. I’m only a side character in his quest. And I’ve read enough books to know they don’t always make it.
“If you understand that, we can continue,” he says.
“Yeah—yes,” I manage. “Understood.”
“Okay. Then, here’s what you need to know.” The story pours out of Meadowlark like a burst dam. He tells me about Kane, his partner who betrayed them. How he’s been corrupted, and only Meadowlark can save him. He describes the SWAT team storming their home and tells me about the FOEs—Forces of Evil—holding his friends to testify against Nova, their leader. Though he doesn’t say it, I can tell he’s scared—for himself and the rest of the Fellowship—that they’ll have to integrate themselves into the outside world. Lose everything they grew up with. I want to say I couldn’t possibly know the feeling, but I sort of do. Being forced to drop out of college and live on your friend’s couch isn’t the same as the Fellowship being forced from Druid Hill, but starting a new life is scary.
“I need to shower,” I say when he finally goes quiet. Not the smoothest transition, but I need some privacy or I’m going to explode. Need to text Lilian, check the panels and events I’m scheduled for—will they blacklist me if I bail?—check my bank account and every other app that has money sitting in it, available for withdrawal. Meadowlark probably doesn’t even know what a credit card is.
“Need to freshen up and change,” I say. “Will you be okay to wait out here?”
He assesses the room as if he can see things I can’t—and, who knows, maybe he can. I hope so. “Yes.”
“I’ve got some clean clothes somewhere in my suitcase. You should probably change if people are looking for you.”
“Agent Miller,” he says. “The FOE looking for me is named Agent Miller. She works with your FBI.”
“Okay.” It takes me a minute to remember that FBI is an acronym I know and not something made up by a cult.
Oh my god, what am I doing? Stop. The first step to believing Lark is to trash everything I learned about the Fellowship as an outsider. To not treat them like a cult. They’re a Fellowship.
I make the mental adjustment. “Got it.” I also get that anyone whose name begins with capital A “Agent” isn’t someone I want on my tail. Maybe this is the worst idea. This isn’t an RPG where I can kill the people pursuing me without moral or legal consequence—what if Meadowlark thinks he can do that, though? And I’m with him. “Okay, I might be a while, so…” I gesture in the general area of my bed while I rummage through my suitcase for a change of clothes. “Feel free to relax. Watch some TV. Red button.”
He catches the remote when I toss it. Watches me pick up a pile of clothes and walk into the bathroom. I click the lock then hold my breath as I stand still. Waiting. He’s got to move. I’m realizing, as I listen, that I’ve assumed he won’t rob me and run. On the other side of the bathroom door, I hear slow footsteps over carpet. No running. No frantic rifling through drawers and pockets. Only the slow, careful silence of someone deliberating. He’s not going to rob me. I think I’m all he’s got.
I turn the shower on. Steam billows out around me and fogs the mirror, makes the surface of my phone slippery as I start texting, but I need the white noise to separate me from Meadowlark. Pretend I’m in this hotel room alone and that a guy who is either an Elven-king, or totally brainwashed, isn’t picking through my underwear.
Calvin
You are never going to believe who’s in our hotel room
I set my phone down on the counter and take out my contacts, glancing at the screen so much, I shove my right contact up under my eyelid with a “dammit.”
Lilian
If you need some privacy for a few hours to fuck an aragorn cosplayer I support you
There’s no use in teasing her.
Calvin
That guy from the news
Calvin
From the fellowship
Calvin
Meadowlark
Lilian
You’re shitting me right??
Calvin
Nope
Lilian
Omg
Calvin
And I kind of?? Offered to drive him?? On his quest???
Lilian
Omg???
Calvin
Am I making a terrible mistake Lilian help
Lilian
OMG!!!
Calvin
THATS NOT HELPING
I set my phone down, ignoring it while I remove my prosthetic ear tips and begin to work the wig from my own hair. Even
in the humid bathroom, my head feels cool as I pull the stocking cap free. Run my hands through my sweaty hair. When I glance at my phone, Lilian’s still typing.
The shower feels like a pocket universe, where no one is waiting in my hotel room, where I’m not expecting a text from my best friend chiding me for how impulsive I’m being. I scrub the makeup from my face, the grease from my hair, and the grime from my body. I try not to glance at my phone until I’m as dry as I can get in this sauna of a bathroom.
When I touch the screen, I see one text, sent fifteen minutes ago.
Lilian
I’m coming over
Shit.
I struggle to pull clothes onto my damp body, barely remembering deodorant, wondering if Meadowlark even knows about deodorant. Because we are not sharing a car if he doesn’t. Okay, who am I kidding, I wouldn’t ditch him over deodorant, and, besides, he doesn’t smell bad. Not that I sniffed him, but I didn’t notice. Now, I have the urge to, though, ugh.
I run a hand through my hair and put my glasses on as I emerge, steam billowing out behind me, like I’m walking away from an explosion. Meadowlark sits cross-legged in the middle of my bed with the television remote limp in his hands as he watches the news. Same channel Lilian and I had on earlier.
“And what would you say to Lark if he was listening?” A journalist holds her microphone out to an East Asian guy with long braided black hair. Scars shine on his arms—from cuts and burns and who knows what else. He’s the one who left. Who betrayed the Fellowship. Who betrayed Meadowlark.
“I’d tell him how much I miss him, and to please come back. That we need the strength he brings to our community. And that I lo—”
The television goes black. Meadowlark looks at me and startles. His eyes widen, body flinches back. He scans me like he’s the TSA. “What happened to your hair?”
Oh. He didn’t know. Oh no. Please don’t think I lied. “That was a wig.”
“A what?”
“A wig. It’s fake hair you put over your own if you want to look different.”
“And your eyes,” he says, “are a different color.”
