by K. M. Szpara
“Calvin, come back!” I hear Lilian call out, but I don’t stop and she doesn’t run after me. Probably finishing her face mask or whatever, and that’s fine.
I need to find Lark. Part of me expected to bump into him watching Jeopardy through our neighbor’s window, but I look both ways and only see an expanse of orange doors and a concrete walkway. A dozen rooms to my right, a woman leans over the railing, a cloud of smoke hovering around her head. To my left, a soaking wet kid walks up the steps, holding an inner tube around his waist. Behind him, his parents laugh and say, “I told you it would be cold!”
Maybe Lark went back out to the car to get his weapons. Maybe Lil was right, I feel myself think. The words barely graze the surface of my mind. No. I decided to trust him. His magic is real. He’s real.
I accidentally brush the inner tube as I walk past the kid who thought a pool in October would be a good idea. The plastic seam grazes my elbow, and I shiver, wiping the cold wet spot off my arm.
I check the parking lot as I make my way down to the ground floor. Two salt-and-pepper bears split around me, carrying laundry baskets and arguing over whether it’s worth separating whites and colors. One is proclaiming that mixing everything saves time and water, when they stop. Not like the conversation ended or their gruff voices faded into a hotel room, but like their voices were snuffed out.
I turn on my heel, forgetting the car. I forget everything else, when I see what they see. On the other side of the pool, Lark pushes yellowing lounge chairs aside before removing a small vial from his harness. He opens it and pours a thick liquid in a circle on the concrete. When he brings one of his hands to his lips, my heart races with anticipation. I don’t know what’s coming, but I know it’s magic.
Lark speaks a hushed word against his palm, then points at the circle. Flames flicker up from the cement around him—not golden and raging like a bonfire, but blue and tame, like a gas stove turned on low.
I push past the two bears and walk with quiet purpose around the edge of the pool, with no fucking clue what I’m going to say when I get to the other side. The sound of squeaky hinges and muttered conversation rises around me like a mantra—my skin prickles. I don’t believe in God, but something about this motel patio feels sacred. Otherworldly.
Everyone is watching Lark, but he’s not watching anyone. His lips move quietly and quickly, like hummingbird wings—almost a blur. I feel my phone buzz in my pocket and slide it half out to glimpse a panicked text from Lilian: What are you doing??? Get him inside everyone’s staring
I don’t answer. When I look up at the balcony, she’s standing in her robe, motioning unsubtly for me to bring Lark back upstairs. Maybe I should. Only a few yards away now, I watch as he sits inside the circle and unties the bandana from his arm, peeling the sticky fabric from his bloodstained skin. My ears pop.
My phone buzzes incessantly against my thigh. I don’t try to ignore it, really. The sensation becomes a part of it all: the whispers and stares, the disorienting pressure as I step slowly closer.
“It’s that guy from the news.”
Two housekeepers abandon their cart to watch.
“What’d he pour on the cement?”
The night manager leans half out of the lobby.
“Should we call someone?”
Lark’s eyes meet mine like tractor beams. Wide pupils nearly black out his blue-gray irises. His lips continue moving, a soft faint chant spilling forth. I suck in a breath. My phone unleashes a stream of vibrations. My mouth hangs open for what feels like an eternity as I struggle for the right words—words that will earn his trust and, maybe, an invitation to participate.
“Do you need help?” The words tumble out. Not the elegance I intended, but exactly what I meant.
Lark’s lips still, but the air is thick with whispers—his or everyone else’s. He considers me. Glances down at his arm. At the bloody handkerchief. “Yes.”
“Am I—” Please say yes. Please say yes. “—allowed to help? Would you be breaking any rules?”
He huffs a laugh deep in his chest. “I’m breaking the most important one by sitting here and speaking to you. By wearing your clothes and getting into your car. I’m tainted.”
It doesn’t sound like the end of a sentence, and I have no clue what to say, so I wait. Listen to a door swing shut in the distance. Feet slapping down steps. What if they’ve already called 911? We should be running. I should drag him out of the circle and lock him in the back seat of the car. We should go, but …
His skin looks clammy and pallid. His left arm trembles as it rests against his leg. “But that doesn’t matter now. Come on. Come inside the circle.” He holds out his uninjured arm. “It won’t hurt you.”
Taking Lark’s hand feels like touching a plasma globe. A low, warm hum like electricity vibrates across my palm. I follow as he leads me to sit across from him.
“Whatever’s in your pocket—”
“That’s my phone. Sorry.” My skin cools the instant I let go and dig around my pocket. Thirty-nine texts from Lilian telling me to get him out of there. The last one reads: I’m serious!!
I look over my shoulder at the balcony where Lilian stands, gesturing toward a woman in khakis, a button-down shirt, and striped tie, then stuff my phone back into my pants. I meet Lark’s eyes. This close, they look even darker. They’re electric—supernatural, as if he’s transformed into a god or demon. “Lark—”
He doesn’t have to shush me to silence me; I feel the impulse as if he’s sent it through my nerves. My mouth dries, suddenly sticky. Lark takes my other hand and our fingers slide together, hot and slick, as if they’re fitting back into place. Blood gathers at the edge of his exposed wound, forms a fat drop, and slides slowly down his bicep and the inside of his elbow, coming to rest above his wrist. The overwhelming urge to wipe it away comes from within me, not from him, so I know I can ignore it.
I hear the footsteps of the manager as she comes up alongside us, feel the heat of the circle that surrounds us. If my heart’s beating, I can’t tell. My whole body feels like it’s pulsing—with adrenaline, with fear. This has to be what magic feels like.
The manager clears her throat. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I’m going to have to ask you to extinguish—”
A sudden breeze cools the air. I glance at the ground and see only a damp circle on the concrete where the flame used to be.
“Oh, um. I suppose that’s all.” She turns but immediately spins on her heel. “I don’t suppose you’re the one on the news. Who escaped from that cult, the—”
“The Fellowship is not a cult,” Lark says. “And I didn’t escape; we were torn apart.”
“Right, I’m so sorry.” She clasps her hands so hard that her brown knuckles turn pale. “Do you need me to call a doctor?” She looks at the long stripe of blood on Lark’s arm.
“No, but thank you. I can heal myself, if you would kindly allow my friend and me some space and quiet.” From anyone else, the words would sound passive-aggressive, but it’s clear Lark is choosing them carefully. Genuinely.
“Okay.” The two housekeepers sidle up beside her and whisper something in another language. The manager responds to them, then says to us, “We don’t call the cops here, but please be safe and don’t light any more fires, or I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“Reasonable,” Lark says. A hint of smile shows in the dark. “Thank you.”
The three of them leave, still whispering and glancing at us. I watch them enter the lobby, but linger against the glass. Watching. Everyone is watching, but no one is moving. No cops are coming.
Another drop of blood glides between the light hairs on Lark’s arm. Concern lines his face. “I used too much of my power today.”
I don’t know how to respond, so I listen.
“I’ll need to deal with that soon, but not tonight. Tonight, I need to heal.” He closes his eyes while he sighs, deeply. “And rest.”
Whispers rise around us again, as his lips beg
in to move. The sounds come faster than his lips—as if there are others here with us, chanting. I feel like I should close my eyes, but I can’t. I want to see. I watch as he heals the angry line left by the bullet. Every time I blink his wound is smaller and yet I can’t exactly see it shrink. Like stop motion, the cut is there, less there, faded, and then gone. A red smudge stains the spot where the bullet grazed him. Only the two blood trails down his arm give evidence there was a hole in his body.
Lark squeezes my hand and sways. When he opens his eyes, it’s as if he’s been roused from sleep too early. “I did it,” he says, voice breathy and singular, the whispers gone. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, unsure what I’ve done to help. All I did was sit here. I couldn’t even speak up when the manager came over. “Do you need—” Lark wavers as he stands, and I quickly duck under his arm, so he can rest his weight on me. “—help? Lark, are you sure you don’t need a doctor?”
He shakes his head. “Your doctors can’t help me. I’m just low on magic. We can deal with it tomorrow.”
We. Earlier it was I.
“Okay. Let’s get you to bed.” I become aware, as we make our way back to the stairs, how many people were watching us. Not a hundred, by any means, but dozens. Enough that any one of them could’ve turned Lark—and us—in, but they didn’t. They part for us, still holding laundry baskets and suitcases and smoldering cigarettes. Looking into their eyes as we pass, I see bewilderment. A teenager stares, unmoving except for her thumbs flying over her phone. I try not to think about what she’s typing, as Lilian meets us at the bottom of the steps. She secures her robe and helps me carry Lark up to our room.
We sit him on the edge of the bed, and I bolt the door behind us. Lilian draws the curtains closed. We look at each other and then at the exhausted, beautiful man sitting on the edge of the bed. I imagine how it would feel to press my lips against his temple. Along the messy crown of blonde hair on his head.
Lilian goes to the bathroom and returns with a wet face cloth—thin and white until she takes his left arm and wipes the blood away. Together, we unlace his boots and pull them free from his feet.
“I can do it,” he says. “Thank you, though.” Lark disappears into the bathroom.
“What the hell did you two do down there?” Lilian asks, still watching the bathroom door, in case he comes back out.
“No clue. I didn’t mean to join; it just sort of…”
“Did he heal himself? Did you see it?”
“Yes and no.” I scrape my nails along the insides of my palms, remembering the current that passed between us. “It didn’t happen while I watched. It just sort of … happened.”
“Okay.” Lilian nods as if she’s working through the math in her head. As if there’s a scientific explanation for all this. I’ve seen it. I know there’s not.
Lark emerges all at once, carrying his clothes in one hand. Well, not all his clothes. I try real hard not to stare at the bulge in his boxer briefs. My boxer briefs, technically.
The silver chain still hangs from his neck, and now I can see the small key that dangles from the end. I don’t ask what it’s for, but I’m dying to know. Watching him walk toward me is like watching a character walk out of a fantasy novel. I want to know everything about him. Want to learn his secrets. To absorb his magic.
Lark hangs his harness in the closet and rolls up his dirty laundry, packing it away. Then, he climbs into bed, pulls the covers up to his neck, and closes his eyes. Seconds pass but I’d swear he was unconscious already. The thin ratty blanket drapes his body as he breathes slowly and methodically.
When he doesn’t move, Lilian and I take opposite sides of the other bed, sliding under the white sheets and rearranging the under-stuffed pillows until we’re buried, back to back, beneath the covers. I’m closest to the nightstand, so I reach out and click off the lamp. The room is silent.
As fast as Lark fell asleep, I lie awake in the dark. Beside me, Lilian begins to snore quietly. The soundtrack as my eyes adjust and I watch Lark. In our motel room, there’s nothing remarkable about him. By now, hundreds of strands of yellow hair stick out from his braids. Shadows fall under his eyes. And yet, I can’t forget the electricity of his touch or his whispers filling the air. I fall asleep with them echoing in my dreams.
16
KANE / CONFIDENTIAL
None of the other Anointed were present in Ritual House. I was the first to turn twenty, Nova had explained. My powers were maturing in ways the others’ had not yet. But when I arrived alone, I knew something was wrong.
Inside, it was dark and warm. Sweat blossomed on my shirt where my leather harness pressed against it. “You can remove that,” Nova said.
I did without thinking—as if her words were magic that willed my fingers to move. I heard my feet scuff on wood; I hadn’t noticed when I entered that the carpets that usually covered the floor had been removed. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light of the room, I made out the sigil drawn on the floorboards. Moonlight illuminated circles and lines painted stark white on the old wood.
Was all this for me? I looked around desperately, as if Lark or Maeve or Zadie might come running up the steps shouting, “Sorry I’m late!” But no one else came. It was only me and Nova.
She stood at a table littered with glass bottles and ceramic pots. Creams and oils and herbs. Ingredients. We were going to work a ritual. I could handle that. My magic did feel stronger the older I got. And she was right, without my cock to distract me, I was left only with my studies, my training.
“Remove your clothes,” she said, not looking up.
Again, I did as told, folding my clothes and setting them on a chair against the wall. I wasn’t ashamed to be naked. Our chastity cages and vows meant sex was never on the table. When we bared our flesh, it was for magic or discipline or ritual, not pleasure.
Nova looked up only to see if I was ready, then nodded at the sigil on the floor. “Lie down, limbs over the markings.”
I studied the lines and curves, determined where my arms and legs should go, and fit myself into place like a puzzle piece. The position was strange, but not uncomfortable. Nova continued her work while I stared at the ceiling, eventually closing my eyes. The floorboards creaked and shifted under my body as she walked around the house.
Cool metal pressed my wrist against the rough floor, and I opened my eyes at the terrifying whir of a drill. Nova hovered over me, her long hair dangling around her determined face and tickling my chest as she drilled the other side of a metal half-cuff into the wood.
“Hold still,” she said, not that I was moving. I was too stunned to even think about moving. What would she need to do to me that she didn’t trust me to manage without restraint? I hadn’t disobeyed her since my powers manifested, no matter how much it hurt.
She bolted down my wrists and ankles. The pressure forced my limbs into unnatural angles. A splinter poked against my ass as I shifted, and I heard Nova sigh.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you, Kane.” Nova approached me with a bottle filled to the top with a dark liquid. Not our usual grayish strength potion. She sat beside me and cradled my head in her hand, tilting me to an angle where I could latch onto the spout and drink. “Your magic is more powerful than it’s ever been, and I can’t have you casting any spells by accident. You could hurt me, or another Anointed, or yourself, and you’re far too important for that.”
The drink tasted foul. Herbacious and bitter. I struggled to breathe, but she urged the bottle between my lips. Chug, I told myself. Just get this down. It spilled down the sides of my mouth as she squeezed the sides of the bottle. I coughed at the end, as she set my head gently back down onto the floor. Gasped as I watched her walk back to her workstation.
Warmth stirred inside me. I found myself squirming, my hips bucking, and the cage around my cock growing tight as I hardened against its metal bars. “What’s happening to me?”
She didn’t answer.
I tr
ied to ask again, but the words wouldn’t come.
Nova set a bucket beside my head and withdrew a thick wad of wet cloth. I heard the liquid splash back into the bucket as she wrung it out and felt her hands open my jaw wide. She crammed the wet, stinking cloth into my mouth, and I gagged, the taste sharp and medicinal.
“This will protect us,” she said, winding another long strip of damp fabric over my mouth and behind my head, tying it off and sealing the wad inside. I tried to hold my breath, but couldn’t last long, the putrid scent directly below my nose, the liquid dripping down my throat as my jaw worked hard to close.
Nova began to chant, her words lost on me as I tried not to gag. To breathe normally. My arms warmed under her touch as she rubbed them with oil, then my legs. Then, with gloved fingers, she unlocked my chastity cage and set it aside. Took my growing cock into her hand and stroked me rhythmically. Not like I would’ve touched myself. Nothing like someone trying to bring pleasure.
As she drove me toward orgasm, I felt something cool press against the tip of my cock. Light glinted off glass and I realized Nova was preparing a vial for—I came, hard. It had been so long and she’d wrested my body from my control.
Her hands sought utility, driving me to orgasm over and over. Whatever I’d drunk swirled hot in my belly, muddled my thoughts, and strengthened my erection—even when I tried to resist. When I couldn’t get hard again, she drizzled more of the foul-smelling liquid onto the cloth that stoppered my mouth. It burned the back of my throat as I moaned, as pleasure swelled again in my groin and I thrust my hips up, again, seeking contact.
I don’t know how much time passed. How many times I came or when I adjusted to the stink of my gag. Once, I closed my eyes and awoke to the pressure of her gloved hand, orgasm jolting my body from one dream state into another.
