by K. M. Szpara
If he’s as low on magic as he says, he won’t want a light touch. I see a single-tail whip that sends a ripple of memory through my whole body. I know the first sting and the twentieth. What it feels like when you can no longer count—when you begin genuinely struggling to avoid the pain, rather than leaning coyly into it. When your cries turn into crying. When your skin splits open.
“The cat,” he says, voice small and strained.
For a moment, I don’t know what he’s talking about until—I remember the cat o’ nine tails. Pick up the sturdy leather handle and brush my thumb over one of the metal barbs. This is what he wants, pain. I’ve never handled one of these before, not with barbs. I feel sick. I’m going to do this. My saliva tastes like bile.
“Please.”
I swallow it down and tuck the cat into my back pocket.
Lark offers me his wrists, but I push them gently aside. On the other side of the tree, I find a strong limb only a few feet overhead. That’ll do. I tie his wrists together, making sure the rope is tight and safely arranged, then loop the rest of the rope up and over the tree limb. There’s more than enough length to finish off, no knots required.
I walk around Lark and the tree, checking my work. “Are you comfortable?” I ask.
“Comfort’s not the point,” he replies.
It is for me. He won’t appreciate it later if I cause nerve damage. Can he heal that like he healed his bullet wound? When I try to remember the healing, the image blurs as if my brain is censoring the memory. The same way I can only remember the webbing on Lark’s upper body—there moments ago, visible at the right angle.
I blink and lines crack across his skin like faults in the earth.
I blink again and they smooth over.
He’s right in front of me. A real person, who is telling me what he needs. I run my hand down the length of his braid, over each bump and strand, before tossing it over the front of his shoulder.
Lark turns his head but is unable to see me. “Hurt me, already.”
He doesn’t have to ask twice.
I retrieve the cat from my back pocket, pull its tails lightly through my fingers, and strike.
The scourge is light in my hand. Its leather handle soft and supple, nothing like the marks its claws leave in Lark’s back. I strike again, trying to focus—to remember where to avoid and where to aim, how to hurt someone the right way—but my vision fisheyes. Lark’s muscles tense where I hit him, bones push against his skin as he squirms. I strike, and strike, and strike again. At no point does he moan. All the masochists I’ve played with have gasped and whimpered and mewed. They gave feedback, checked in. Lark is silent, until he screams.
My grip falters at the ripping sound. Do Anointed have safewords? He didn’t give me one. How hard do I go? How long? I should’ve asked, but he’s been so clear and I am no longer certain.
“More,” he whispers into the stillness. Nothing moves in the clearing. Not the leaves, the air, not the birds or critters.
“Lark—”
“More, please, more,” he cries. He’s begging me. I find new expanses of skin to break. More tanned flesh to uproot. Nine tiny hooks, nine fresh marks. I strike him until my hand is shaking and sweat drips into my eyes. Until the sobs release their grip on Lark’s body, and he sags silently against the rope.
I drop the cat and stare at the mess I’ve made of his back. At the blood dripping down his legs and the pattern that reemerges on his back—did I do that? Sprawling lines I can’t quite focus on, that blur in and out. Nausea and light-headedness envelop me. My ears ring—I can’t hear. I lose sight of his back through the fog of my glasses. What have I done?
This was what he wanted. Lark can do magic. He can heal himself. I didn’t do anything he hasn’t experienced a hundred times.
Oh my god, has he experienced this a hundred times?
I stumble toward his bag and fish out a knife. With the last of my strength, I slide through the rope that holds Lark. It’s a bad idea—he can’t possibly support himself. But I can’t either. I lower myself to the ground, so I don’t hurt myself when I fall. Like water swirling down the drain, I waver then pass out.
* * *
A blurry shape towers over me, loud whisper rushes past like the wind. Am I in bed? Everything is green. I’m in a forest that may or may not really be in Kentucky. The moss is soft. My joints are stiff.
I brace my arm against the ground and a reassuring voice says, “No, no. Let me.” He’s warm when he takes my hand and helps me to my knees. When his face is close, I see blue eyes and strands of blonde liberated from a single chunky braid. Lark looks nothing like I left him: broken and bleeding. He’s dressed and packed the canvas bag—as if the rope and cat were never there. As if I never wielded them against his bare flesh.
The forest blurs behind him. I’m woozy from passing out or—
“Your glasses.”
Oh.
I close my eyes while he slides them onto my face, their arms catching my hair at unusual angles as they settle behind my ears. When I can see again, all I see is his face—free from tears, from blood, from bruises.
The sight of his raw back flashes before me, and I squeeze my eyes shut, as if I can wring the memory out. When I blink, he’s still there. Unmarked. Dressed. The canvas bag slung over his shoulder.
My body fights me as I stand, but I manage, unsure how Lark did. “Are you okay?” I don’t want to say the wrong thing. He’s acting as if all this is normal for me—has assumed I’m fine because, I realize, I haven’t told him otherwise.
“My magic is recharged,” he says. “That’s enough for now.”
“But your…” I gesture at his back, as we walk back the way we came, and the memory of wielding the cat echoes in my muscles. “Your skin was—I should really take a look at—”
“I’m fine.” A thing people usually say when they’re not. “I performed a healing spell. Usually Kane and I would care for each other afterwards, but…” We both know the end of his sentence.
Communicate. “I would’ve cared for you.” When Lark doesn’t respond, I push myself to continue. To be honest. “I actually could’ve used some care as well.”
Lark stops and stares at me, brow furrowed with confusion. “You? Did you hurt yourself?”
“Not like I hurt you, but I’ve never done that before. It’s a lot to process.” I leave it there, hoping he’ll bite. Unlike Lark, I don’t feel recharged. I feel drained.
“Oh. I—” It’s as if the rest of his thoughts fly away. “You’re right. I should’ve checked in with you.” He adjusts the bag on his back; a smile lights his face. “How fruitful can my quest be if my companions are unwell?”
He holds out his hand to me. When I take it, he continues walking and I follow by his side. We don’t discuss it further—I get the feeling the chance to exchange care has passed. But we acknowledged it, and for now that’s enough.
Lark glances at a black mark that stains his palm like an old tattoo. “I know the way now,” he says, showing me the mark. Its lines and curves intersect like crop circles. “Tracking spell.”
When we get back to the car, Lilian’s video chatting with her co-hosts and charging her phone. I knock on the window and beckon her to get out of the car as Lark gets in. She eyes traffic before hopping out and meeting me behind the hatch. The roadside feels like a different planet, where human beings drive cars and listen to pop music and video chat, rather than strike flesh until it bleeds, in an ethereal wood.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“Yeah—no,” I say before I can try to sugarcoat what just happened. “Please don’t tell Lark I’m telling you—I’m still processing.”
Lilian’s forehead creases, leaving a thin line in her foundation. “What did you guys do? I assumed more naked stuff.”
“He asked me to hurt him.” I’m blunt because I need to be. Because Lark didn’t make space for me to talk about it and I need to. “Like, with a whip.”
&nb
sp; “A whip?”
“Yeah, a fucking cat o’ nine tails with real metal barbs. I’ve never even held one before…”
“Holy shit, Cal, you’re shaking.” And she’s right, I feel as weak as Lark looked before I hurt him.
I run my hands through my hair, leaving cold sweat in their path. “That’s how he powers his magic, I guess? I fainted. Couldn’t handle the blood—there was so much blood and he was screaming and—” I swallow bile, feel my mouth thick with saliva.
“What the fuck?” I can hear the question marks continue even after Lilian pulls my hoodie tight around my body and brings me close. “That’s not okay, Calvin. It’s not. We should talk to him.”
“No!” My eyes widen, head shakes so fast it feels like it might come off. “We can’t. We had a nice little conversation afterwards where—”
“A ‘nice little conversation’?” She sounds unimpressed. It sounds unimpressive now. Only a few minutes ago, it felt like progress. “What about medical care and physical comfort and verbal—”
“I know.” I cut her off, shaking my head. Feeling weak for not having asserted myself. Lying to myself as if holding hands and smiling was enough. I’m going to sound pathetic, but I have no choice. I close my eyes as the words spill out. “Lil, I need this to be real.”
She lets out a deep breath and glances through the windshield at Lark. “I know.” She finds my hand with hers and squeezes. The feeling is warm and familiar. Comforting. “One of us has to be the dreamer, and it’s always been you. Just make sure you’re also taking care of yourself, Daddy Greenleaf.”
My laugh is involuntary and welcome.
She nods. Rocks on her heel. “Let’s get you something to eat; I’ll drive. We could all use a stop that doesn’t involve magic. We’re in Kentucky. Didn’t they invent fried chicken?”
I feel the color return to my cheeks as I huff a laugh. “I don’t think that’s exactly how it happened.”
We walk back to opposite sides of the front. “Oh yeah?” She opens the driver’s door. “What’s your source.”
“I cosplayed slutty Colonel Sanders at SDCC once.”
As the smiles spread across our faces, Lark clears his throat. “Do you mind if we get going?” His expression is calm. Determined. He unfolds a yellowing paper map. “We’ve got a monster to hunt.”
19
DERYN / NOW
I watch the server take orders and deliver them to a kitchen while another brings wrapped meals on a strange red tray. Back home, not even the Anointed ate like this. Kane stares at the first page of the menu, its pages covered in a hard, clear plastic. Miller barely glances at it as she stares at her phone. Has she eaten here before? She taps at the screen, sliding her finger over it, not unlike the way I’ve seen the Anointed inscribe sigils. I’m four pages deep into the menu when our server asks what we want for breakfast, pulling long, paper-wrapped tubes from their apron and placing them beside plastic cups of water.
I get something called French toast, because I read about France once in a book, before Nova got rid of most of them. I like thinking there are outsiders so far away that they eat totally different breakfasts. Eggs or oats: that’s how it was for twenty-eight years. This morning, I’m going to eat two thick pieces of bread, toasted and dipped in eggs, then fried and drizzled with a maple syrup.
Kane gets eggs. Miller, oats. Neither of them speaks while we wait.
“So.” I dress my coffee with cream from little plastic cups and sugar from paper packets, piling the trash beside my plate. Wild that outsiders create so much only to throw it away. “Any updates today? Still heading west?”
Kane shoots me a sideways glance, his eyes falling on my cup. The Anointed don’t drink caffeine. Or didn’t. Maybe I went too hard on Kane last night. He does know more about Lark than me, as much as I hate it. They practiced magic together, whether it’s real or not. But, most of all, Miller needs him. I can’t let them ally against me, decide I’m useless.
Our server returns before either of them can answer. They easily balance multiple steaming plates, setting them before each of us in turn.
“Thank you,” Kane says. “Um.” He looks at Miller, as if asking permission. “Can I get a cup of coffee?”
“Sure, sweetie.” Our server smiles, turning on their heel in a set of white sneakers. They bring the carafe and more cream cups, pouring dark brown liquid into his mug.
I can’t believe he’s going to drink that. So many things I previously thought impossible are happening right before me. Nova overthrown. Kane wearing his hair loose. Lark rejecting him.
Miller slides her phone across the table, drawing my attention. “Want to be the navigator?” Her hand is steady, eyes focused on mine. For a moment, I feel the way I used to as a child, when Nova told me I would someday cross the fence and save the world.
“Yeah, sure.” I take the phone, acting casual. Miller isn’t Nova. I’m not Anointed. The world doesn’t need saving. Judging by my French toast, it’s been doing pretty well without us.
She slides in beside me and shows me how to use it while we eat—how to use the maps and search the internet, read her messages and missed calls while she’s driving. She even tells me the password. Kane looks over every couple of minutes, but doesn’t say anything, slowly sipping his coffee. He grimaces every time, like he’s forcing it down.
“Got a read on Lark?” Miller asks him, accepting a refill of her own small mug. She drinks it black. The thought makes my tongue curl.
Kane clasps his hands. He shouldn’t. He should be whispering some magic bullshit into his palms and tracking Lark, or whatever it is Miller asked him to do yesterday. Mindspeech. I watch her watching him. Watch him staring back, hands folded firmly together. When he closes his eyes and sighs, I know he isn’t doing a damn thing. “Still heading west.” Kane opens his eyes then begins prying a rectangle of cold butter out of a foil packet with his knife.
Miller nods. I can’t tell if she believes him, or why she’s even asking in the first place. Kane’s been talking with her for months, she said. Surely, she’s the one who convinced him that magic and monsters aren’t real. Now that we’re sitting still, it strikes me: What does Miller want us to testify about? The outsider government must have better things to do with their time than tell people they’ve been living a lie. They’re not altruists.
I open the maps app and pinch the screen like Miller taught me. Our location grows and pops with detail. It’s wild being able to see everything around us, to see in an instant how far we’ve come, and how long it would take to drive to the ocean on the other side. The ocean. I only know the word from faded zoo signs. I wonder if we’re near the polar bears.
“Before we continue west,” I say, trying not to betray my skepticism. “Can I ask…”
Miller raises an eyebrow in wait.
“Why?”
“Why,” she says, deadpan, as if she does not understand.
“Yeah, why are we doing all this? Not,” I add quickly, “that I’m not happy to help, but you didn’t exactly tell me much back at the hotel. Why did you free us from the Fellowship? It can’t be against outsider law to believe something that’s not true. You arrested Nova. I didn’t like her, but what did she do to deserve imprisonment?”
Kane drags his cold block of butter across his toast so hard that it tears. Last night he ripped his shirt off to show me his scars, but today he’ll barely look at me.
“Nova, as you call her, has been charged with multiple counts of abduction, assault, battery, and child abuse.”
“Hurting people,” I say, because those are outsider words, not ours. I’ve heard them, but they seem to have a deeper meaning for Miller.
She doesn’t look at Kane’s body, but I do. Are those scars Nova’s fault? She never hurt me when I was Anointed, and I’ve never seen her be anything but gentle. Strict, but kind. They couldn’t be.
“Yes. She’s also facing extensive charges of fraud and truancy. Her lies deprived you of choi
ces and opportunities.” Miller leans forward over her half-eaten oats, elbows on the table. Her shirt is wrinkled. Loosely buttoned. “There are laws requiring children to be enrolled in school, from ages five to eighteen. At first, she submitted homeschooling requests, but as more of you were born within the fence, she stopped. We had no records of your existence, and she didn’t want us to. She wanted total control over your lives.”
My fingers tense around her phone. Records are how outsiders put down roots. How FOEs keep tabs on them, and how monsters plant their influence. But monsters aren’t real—and shouldn’t Miller look like a FOE? Her eyes are brown, not black pits; her skin is pale and clear, not shifting. If we have records, though—once we have records—there’s no going back. We become outsiders. They won’t forget about us or let us go home, even without Nova.
She kept us out of school. Taught us lies.
“We’re still investigating the extent of her control over members of the Fellowship. Many of the adults have reported children taken from them, despite their protests. Others accused her of neglect. The Anointed…” She glances at Kane, but he’s still fussing with his toast. Either he doesn’t want to hear this, or he’s heard it all before.
“You started your investigation when Kane escaped—months before his quarter century.” I open the internet and search for “Fellowship of the Anointed.” It’s not hard; I’m a quick learner, and the device is tempting. So many possibilities in my hand, access to any kind of information I want. Maybe, when this is over, I’ll go to school.
“Well.” She sighs. “I suppose there’s no point in keeping this from you.”
At that, Kane looks up, then over. His knife stalls, and suddenly it looks like a weapon in his hand.
“Nova’s legal name is Leah Miller.”
Kane relaxes. What did he think she was going to reveal?
I set the phone down in front of my plate as results populate the tiny screen. Photos of us being taken from Druid Hill. Of Lark beside a pool with two outsiders. It’s hard not to look at the phone, to make myself care what Miller has to say.
