by K. M. Szpara
They don’t respond for several minutes. I try the knob again in case it was simply stuck and I’m a moron—I’m not. It still won’t open.
Deryn
Where’d he go?
Calvin
I don’t know. I’m stuck in a cabin in the Ozarks. The door won’t open. I’m guessing Lark locked it behind him, but I’m not sure how.
More waiting. I sigh. Tap my foot. Why isn’t the competent outsider handling the phone?
Deryn
Miller and I are coming to get you. She says to send her your location.
Do I want them coming here? The people chasing Lark? The woman who shot at us? So much has changed since then, in so little time. It feels like an age. Fuck it, I’ll never get this door open on its own and—I jiggle the window locks—unless I want to physically break out, I’ll need help.
Calvin
Okay, I’ll send you my location. Get here as fast as you can. I think Lark went to kill a monster on his own.
It feels bizarre for me to worry about him, the epic hero I’ve fallen in with, but I do. Even if monsters aren’t real—and I’m not even sure he believes in them anymore—the FBI is. And they’re definitely going after him, with force. If Deryn cares even a little about their brother, they won’t want that to happen.
I copy my location from the maps app and paste it into my message with Deryn. A few minutes later, they respond with theirs. They aren’t too far away. Maybe two hours, depending on traffic? Not that I know the area. I kindle the fire on the hearth and move my damp clothes closer.
Why did Lark leave me? He trusted me, and I gave up everything for him, even when others told me not to. I thought we were in this together. I hate that this hurts. Hate that I don’t know whether Lark is okay. He’s powerful, but he’s not immortal, and I can’t think of anything I could do to help him.
I look from Deryn’s messages to my subscriber count. I haven’t been on social media much since I ran into Lark in that alley. How could I? I literally haven’t had time. My screen time report for this week is going to be great. But I have 25,000 followers on Twitter and another 58,000 on Instagram. I have people. They could help. Will they?
I draft a tweet. Stare at it for ten minutes, tweaking the wording before I hit Send. Then I open a new Instagram story and look into the camera. Sixty-two percent battery and I look terrible. For a moment, I consider using a filter, but … I want this to look real. People need to know I’m laying myself bare to them. I sit on the couch, curl up in the corner, and hold my finger down to record.
“Hi, friends.” I put on my best smile. “I know I haven’t been around as much as usual the past couple of days, but some wild, unexpected stuff has been going on…”
I tell them about meeting Lark. Tell them how much he’s been through—intimate details exempted—and how important his quest is to him. It takes twelve stories to tell everything—will anyone even watch all of these? God, I hope so. “What I need—what Lark needs—is your support. I’ve never asked for anything like this before, but he’s a good person who’s risking himself to help all of us. It’s important that if you see him, you don’t call the tip line or the cops or anything. He won’t hurt anyone, but they might hurt him, and…” I say it before I can stop myself. “I care about him. More than I should care for someone I only met a few days ago. Sorry, I didn’t mean to—well…” Tears burn at the corner of my eyes. I dab at them with the sleeves of my sweatshirt. “I guess that’s all. Thanks.”
I release the record button and tap Next, then Share, without rewatching or overthinking. Send it out. It’s all I can do.
Or can I do more?
A thought grabs me and refuses to let go, no matter how ridiculous it feels. What if it wasn’t all a lie? What if Nova only concocted some of her teachings to control the Fellowship? The idea that some people are Anointed and others are not. That magic comes from pain, and that chastity and discipline maintain it. Kane doesn’t believe, but I’ve seen Lark’s spells work—I know I didn’t imagine all of it, so the magic must come from somewhere. Maybe it’s not just the Anointed who can access it. Maybe I can too.
I’m glad I’m alone. If Lilian could see me gathering emergency candles and twigs from the pile of kindling, she would never let me live it down. The shame of this moment might keep me up at night for years to come, but what if it works?
I arrange my supplies in a circle, with no particular logic behind their positions except that I like the way they look. Then I grab the long lighter off the mantel and sit in the middle of the circle. Light the four candles I set at the compass points thanks to my phone’s GPS. Take my phone out of its case, close all my apps except Twitter and Instagram, and lay it flat on the floor in front of me.
What does Lark say when he whispers a spell? I’ve never been able to hear. Maybe he just asks nicely. I don’t know any other, more magical-sounding languages like Ancient Greek or Latin, so I use the only one I have.
I hold my palm to my lips and whisper: “Please, let everyone who sees and hears my messages take them to heart. Give them empathy, so they can see Lark for who he is.” I almost say, “Amen,” even though I’m not religious. Instead, I say, “Thank you,” because it seems only right. I’m new here.
I press my palm—still warm with my own breath—against my phone. The screen lights up automatically at my touch, but I take it as a sign. I have to. I have to believe that magic is real. I make myself believe, with everything in me, that Lark will succeed.
My ears pop and my vision blurs. Light-headedness nearly topples me as I stand, it hits me so hard. I blow out the candles and stumble toward the bed, eating an expired granola bar on the way. My last thought before I pass out is of Lark.
* * *
Three hours and nine percent battery life pass before Deryn and Miller arrive. They knock—I’m not sure which one—and call for me. I wouldn’t recognize either of their voices, and certainly not muffled by a cabin door.
“I’m in here! I still can’t get out.”
“I’m going to break down the door.” That has to be Miller. Isn’t that what Feds do? Bust people’s doors down? “Stand back.”
I get clear and wait.
A kick slams against the solid wood, but the door doesn’t budge. Three more follow with no change.
“Okay, I’m going to try something else. There’s a fireplace inside, right? I see the chimney.”
“Yeah.”
“Go crouch down beside it.”
“Why?” I shout back.
“Because I’m going to shoot the lock off.”
That’s enough to get me moving. “Going!”
“I’m going to count down from five,” she says. “Five, four, three”—I flatten myself against the fireplace and clamp my hands over my ears—“two, one!”
Bang, bang, bang!
I wait for the sound to clear the air. It buzzes still in my ears. “Are you finished? Can I move?”
“Yes,” Miller says.
“Did it work?” Another voice. Deryn, I assume.
The handle jiggles but the door doesn’t open.
“And you tried the windows?” Miller asks.
“Yeah, but you’re welcome to make a second go at them,” I say.
She does. Even shoots at the glass. It doesn’t break. In fact, I think I hear the bullet ricochet. No one screams in pain, so I assume they’re both fine.
“Fuck,” Miller says, returning to the front door. “Calvin, I don’t…” She trails off. If they’re speaking, I can’t make it out.
“Don’t what?” I shout through the door. “Miller?”
The two of them talk in hushed tones, speaking over one another. “I can’t,” one of them says loudly. “It’s stupid; I shouldn’t even have brought it up.”
“It’s not…” the voice quiets to a murmur.
“Deryn!” I knock on the door, trying to get their attention.
Outside, someone’s crying.
They move closer, t
heir voices becoming clearer. Now, I am sure it’s Deryn who says, “I’ll go through the motions with you, at least. We can try it together.”
“Calvin, stand back,” Miller says, her voice wobbly. “We’ve got one last trick up our sleeves.”
At this point, I doubt anything will work. If only I hadn’t eaten so many granola bars. If I get stuck here, I’m going to wish I had some food. “Okay.” I stand beside the fireplace, its flame long extinguished. “Ready!”
I wait. Watch the door, then the windows. I don’t hear any kicks or bangs. No shouts. Nothing before the knob turns and the door swings easily open. I stare at the two of them, mouth hanging wide. Deryn pushes the door as far open as it’ll go, examining it. Miller stares at the spot where the handle was, now only air. Tears glisten on her cheeks.
“How the hell did you do that?” I ask.
“I didn’t think I had it in me.” She shakes her head.
“Neither did I,” says Deryn.
Would one of them tell me what’s going on? “Had what?”
“Magic,” Miller says, explaining her childhood and escape from the Fellowship. Anger and exhaustion are embedded in her face by the time she finishes. Strands of greasy brown hair hang in her eyes.
“And you?” I ask Deryn.
They stare at their own hands with disbelief. “I—I was just being supportive, but…” Then, they stuff their hands into their sweatshirt pocket and look at Miller. This is clearly sensitive between them. “Who knows. It might have just been stuck. We got the door open, one or both of us, and that’s enough for now.” They brush the topic aside.
I don’t tell them about my social media experiment—I feel guilty even calling it a spell after what the two of them just did to the door. “Okay, well, let’s get going. I’m sure Lark isn’t waiting for us.”
“Right,” Miller says. “I have to make this right. She hurt all those kids because of me—and I left them. I won’t leave them again. Let’s go save Lark.”
27
LARK / NOW
At first, I walk. I carry Spellslinger, a handful of potions, and two knives. Their metal has long been imbued with my own blood—toxic to monsters. My body feels light, though. I miss the weight of my bow and arrows, of two heavy swords strapped to my back.
When I reach a highway entrance, I jog. A car honks at me, but I ignore it, picking up speed. I glimpse at the palm of my hand, where the tracking spell was. I guide myself now, trusting the instincts I’ve honed over nearly twenty-five years.
I can’t run as fast as a car, but they inspire me, hurtling toward their destinations and I toward mine. Sweat permeates the shirt I took from Calvin—a green long-sleeved thing with four buff turtles, walking unnaturally on two legs like people. I don’t think all outsiders dress like this; Calvin is weird. When we met, he was dressed like a different being. An elf.
I smile to myself, remembering the feeling of rain sliding down my face as he kissed me. Calvin is definitely weird, and I like that—so much that I traded my shirt for his. It feels like he’s here with me, and I like that too. If that makes me corrupt, well, I’ll find out soon.
A big green sign across the highway announces a rest stop, with a Burger King, Starbucks, and—Kentucky Fried Chicken. I can already smell the grease, and I haven’t eaten all day. Anticipation sours in my gut as I realize I don’t have any money. I’d never steal from Calvin, who’s done nothing but help me. I’ll have to take the food. My quest is important. The outsiders will understand eventually.
I slow as I enter the parking lot, packed with cars. Outsider family units, the children running around or screaming. Teens and adults alike focused on their phones.
They look up when I pass. I find myself wishing I had a phone to bury my face in—something to look at that isn’t forward. I’m conscious of how focused I might seem, of how my appearance would scare outsiders. As one stumbles back out of my way, they drop their phone right on the concrete in front of me. They don’t move, pinned in place. I pick it up—it fell practically underfoot—and offer it back to them.
“Thanks,” they say, more breath than words.
Pull yourself together, Lark. It doesn’t matter what these outsiders think. They’ve lived under the influence of the monster you’re tracking for decades. They’ve been corrupted. You’re here to free them.
I straighten my neck and shoulders as I reach the door to the rest stop. A large uniformed outsider steps in front of me. “I’m sorry, sir.”
I clench my jaw, remembering how outsiders presumptively gender one another. “Sir” is an honorific. Breathe.
“I can’t let you inside with…” They gesture at the knives hanging from my hips. “That many weapons.”
I cross my arms. “How many weapons can I bring inside?”
“Well.” They scratch the layer of dark stubble on their neck. “None.”
My face slackens. “None?”
“You can leave them in your car; you just can’t take them inside.” They shuffle awkwardly in their shoes, as if they’re too big, and I realize that even though they’re wearing a uniform, they don’t look like a FOE. Their eyes are golden brown, their skin firm and unmoving.
My body itches to draw a knife. This is what I expected when I fantasized about my quest: fighting off uniformed outsiders attempting to enforce corrupt rules. But the housekeepers at the Motel 9 wore uniforms and they were kind. No one called the outsider authorities or tried to hurt me. None of them were FOEs.
My fingers twitch. I’m running out of time to decide. If I draw, I could have my knife on this guard before they realized. I probably wouldn’t even need to harm them. They look like they’ve never engaged in real combat in their life.
“Excuse me.” An outsider in an oversized yellow sweater slowly approaches my space.
I keep my arms crossed. It’s the only way to keep myself from attacking. “Yes?”
“Hey there,” they say. “I’m Gina. I don’t mean to intrude, but you can put your things in my car, if you want. I’ve got a truck, so there’s plenty of room.”
I look between Gina and the guard. Consider the two paths that lay before me: fighting an outsider or accepting one’s help.
“I’ll even buy you a burger.” They look between me and the guard, unbothered. “What do you say?”
I release every instinct pushing me to fight. Send the tension right down through my feet into the ground. “Okay. Thank you,” I add, before following Gina to their truck.
It has eight tires and its body raises at least a foot above each of them. I have to climb it like a tree in order to put my things in the back. Gina covers and locks the truck bed with my knives inside. At least I’m not totally defenseless. Spellslinger looks like a carved branch to outsiders, and they don’t know enough about my potions to forbid them. Besides, I saw Lilian’s bag. Femme outsiders carry around enough vials to support themselves for months in the wild.
“You ever had a burger before?” Gina asks as we stride right past the guard. Do they know who I am? I remember the announcement I overheard on the radio. The outsiders know I’m in the area.
“Only a couple of times, and not since I was a child,” I say, eyeing the sign for Kentucky Fried Chicken. The protein I grew up with in its most glorious incarnation.
Gina notices. “Oh, you want chicken? That’s cool too.” They head over without making me choose, for which I feel oddly grateful. Calvin, though I never gave him enough credit, was my guide through the outsider world. He and Lilian knew how to get a motel room, and where to buy food at a window while remaining in the car.
After Gina explains the options, I select a three-piece chicken and biscuit with mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, and a large drink. “If you’re going to be doing a lot of walking, there’s this red one called Gatorade that has vitamins and electrolytes in it, but I think it tastes like salt.”
“What are you getting?” I ask.
“A Coke.” I watch them fill their cup with ic
e, followed by a brown fizzy liquid. It looks unappetizing. “Loaded with caffeine. If you’re trying to stay awake, that’ll do it.”
I choose the red drink. I remember caffeine from the list of things I was never allowed to drink. Then, I remember not putting my chastity cage back on this morning. Either it’ll matter or it won’t.
Gina and I sit at a table in the middle of the room, doing our best to ignore the people staring at me. I try to focus on my food. On how much damn flavor I’ve missed out on all these years, eating boiled chicken and drinking Nova’s potions. The food on the outside is much better. I even find myself watching Gina drink their Coke. It’s got to be good; almost everyone in here has the same cup.
“I have a confession,” they say, chomping on a biscuit. “I know who you are.”
I swallow a glob of macaroni and cheese. “I suspected as much.”
“Yeah, well, you’re all over the news. They were talking about you on NPR before I pulled in, saying how you were armed and dangerous.” They bite their nail, an unpainted nub with nothing on Lilian’s. “I was nervous when I saw those knives. And yeah, you’re armed, but dangerous? Hope you don’t mind me saying, you looked … in need of a friend.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I did. Need a friend.” I smile.
Gina leans forward. “I guarantee I’m not the only one here who knows who you are and what you’re going to do. I heard your crew aren’t keen on law enforcement, and I don’t blame you. But don’t be afraid to ask us regular folks for help, you hear?”
When I say that I won’t, I know that I mean it.
Gina refills my Gatorade and buys me a bag with peanuts, raisins, and chocolates inside. Even though my stomach feels like it’s going to burst, I find myself salivating at the colorful chocolate discs. I tuck the treat into one of my harness pockets as we head back to her truck.
“You want a ride, sweetie? Wherever you’re headed, I can drop you closer.” They hand me my knives.
“No, thank you.” I slide them into their sheaths and straighten the straps of my harness. “A friend helped me as far as he could. The rest’s up to me now.”
