All of Us with Wings

by Michelle Ruiz Keil

  The baby junkies on the bed whimpered like dogs. The demon children ignored them.

  Justine backed into a corner and made herself invisible, an ability she’d developed as a defense mechanism and honed into a weapon. In the corner, you never knew what you might hear. Tonight for example, she’d been able to piece months of accumulated low-level gossip into a narrative believable enough to ignite this big juicy drama. She should become a spy. Or an assassin.

  The brown demon hovered over Xochi, hands on her chest. Little perv. In the space of time it took Justine to blink, it decked and straddled Leviticus, hands wrapped around his pretty neck. Kylen went to pull the thing off, but couldn’t touch it—no matter how he struggled, his hands stopped inches from the creature’s hide. So much for Mr. Wizard. Apparently, his witchy woo-woo shit meant nothing in the face of an actual magical force field.

  “Wait,” Kylen said to the green demon. “It’s not what you think. Tell him! Please!”

  Kylen was foolish or wasted if he thought begging would work in a situation like this. Justine always laughed at the part in The Exorcist when the priests did their “power of Christ compels you” routine. She giggled. This was all so absurd. Kylen was practically in tears, the wimp.

  The fish tank above her sloshed a warning. Water dripped down her neck. She looked up and the little green demon held her eyes. Do not mock, it said. The heroin suddenly kicked in hard, like she’d done a second shot. The high pushed into her body, hitting bottom, surging back up. Justine was dizzy, and hell yes, scared.

  Instead of a floaty, sensual bathtub high, Justine was in dark, cold water.

  Chemicals exploded into her bloodstream, panic drugs her own body was making in a frantic attempt to stay alive. She waited for her shitty life to pass before her eyes.

  Nothing came. She floated in a bath of nothingness. How long had it been? She tried to struggle and couldn’t. She wanted to cry, but her body was gone. She was shrinking, down and down and down, melting in the water. Then BAM! She was back, the bath turned acid, every cell exploding with pain.

  The green monster’s face loomed in front of her. Its voice invaded her head.

  Change your ways, Fire Hair. Before you are truly lost.

  Justine opened her mouth to cuss the creeper out or scream bloody murder—she didn’t know which—but the green demon had resumed her place next to Xochi like the near-death Sunday school lesson had never even happened.

  Straightedge moralistic little bitch, Justine thought, but she scooted as far back as possible into her corner, shaking. She kept her eye on the green one. Her, she thought. Of course the female was the scary one.

  The green demon held out its hands, and Kylen took them.

  Justine crossed her fingers that she was a head-spinning puker. Something foul and gooey would serve Kylen right. But no. The dark one let go of Leviticus, bowing its head to Ky.

  “Will he remember this?” Kylen asked, looking down at Leviticus.

  He will not, the green monster answered, and hell if the sound didn’t happen right inside Justine’s head again, like mind reading or telepathy. The green demon touched Leviticus and Xochi in turn. Then the two little monsters actually held hands, like kids on a field trip forced to take a buddy. Together, they moved toward Justine. She bared her teeth and hissed, but they passed by her corner without a glance.

  She peeked around the dresser to see what was happening. She blinked once, twice, three times—and the devil children were gone. No more than five minutes had passed and the world had shifted back to normal, with Ky banging on the bathroom door for Duncan and drummer boy talking to the jailbait triplets on the bed.

  Xochi was still passed out on the sofa. Leviticus knelt in front of her. He took her head in his hands and pressed his forehead to hers. He adjusted her clothes and pulled her up. She swayed, he caught her, picked her up and carried her out of there princess style, like they were in some TV movie.

  And that was that. No more demons. No more drama. Duncan probably needed stitches, but fuck him. He could take a cab.

  Justine sighed.

  Monsters were real. And love stories.

  She’d need to think about that, but not tonight.

  She got up, glass crunching under her feet, still shaking.

  Duncan kept cash in a compartment in his desk. She took a modest stack—no more than she’d need for a taxi, a hotel room, room service and a manicure. She’d stay away a night or two and come back after this mess was cleaned up.

  41

  Definitely Clean

  Leviticus handed Xochi a helmet and his leather jacket. “Can you get on the bike?”

  He’s mad at me, Xochi thought. Wasn’t she mad at him, too? She climbed onto the back of the motorcycle, surprised she could manage it.

  He gunned the engine. “Hold on.”

  It was all he said until they got to Eris Gardens. Inside, she headed for the attic stairs, but he stopped her. “You can’t go up there with Pallas. You’re too wasted.”

  His tone was neutral, but his words made a small rip in Xochi’s soft pink cloud.

  He rolled up his sleeves and moved around the kitchen. Xochi unzipped his leather jacket but didn’t take it off. It smelled so good.

  The kettle was making a comfortable sound, like a kid blowing bubbles in milk with a straw. The kitchen was so cozy. Xochi lay her head on the table.

  “What’s up, Edie Sedgwick?”

  The Andy Warhol girl? But wait, didn’t she overdose? “That’s not a nice thing to call me right now.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  Leviticus reminded her of Pallas when he was prickly. Like father, like daughter—and she’d let both of them down.

  “I know you’re mad,” she said.

  He didn’t look at her when he answered. “I was, but what’s the point? You can’t talk to heroin.”

  Heroin. Justine hadn’t called it by name. Xochi hadn’t asked. She’d known, of course, but it was easier to pretend she didn’t. Naming things made them real.

  Leviticus put the coffee down in front of her. “Drink it.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. They weren’t supposed to smoke inside, but he lit one off the stove.

  “Just say it,” Xochi said. “Whatever it is.” She wanted one of his cigarettes, but the way he looked, there was no way she was about to ask. “I think I need water. I drank a lot, too.”

  Leviticus emitted a low growl and got up, fishing around in a high cupboard. He took out a large plastic Batman Slurpee cup.

  “Xochi—” His voice caught. He wasn’t just mad. He’d been scared. “That guy Duncan? He’s dangerous. Forget hedonism—those guys make Rabbit Hole look like choir boys. And did you see those girls on the bed? They’re not much older than Pallas.”

  Neither am I, Xochi thought. Not really. But with the sickness and caretaking and dying and burying, the funeral and the wake, the breakup with Collier, the broken aftermath of her and Evan, leaving home, Eris Gardens—the last year could count as ten.

  “I’m sorry.” It was all she could think to say.

  “Did they use a clean needle?”

  “I don’t know.” Xochi felt sick. She pushed the water away.

  “A new one has two caps, a skinny orange one over the needle part and a clear cap by the plunger. Can you try to remember?”

  Xochi thought back. At some point, she’d closed her eyes. But they were open at first. She pictured the syringe in Justine’s hand. There had been an orange cap. Maybe the clear one, too. “I think it had both,” Xochi said.

  Leviticus bowed his head and exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for a long while. His eyes were dark and sad when he looked back up. “All I know is I never want to see you like that again. Those people are not your friends.”

  “I know,” Xochi said. “I’m not stupid.”


  “Then I have to ask. Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Xochi said. “I was just scared, I guess.”

  “Of what?”

  The memory was like a movie starring some other girl. Xochi watched herself straddling Leviticus on the sofa, mouth hard on his, his hand down her pants. “It was that,” she said.

  He shook his head, confused.

  Of course—he couldn’t read her mind. “When we fooled around. Sorry to sound so high school, but I don’t know what it’s called. When you do it to a guy, it’s a hand job.”

  Xochi knew there was a version of her who would be mortified by this conversation, but it was hard to remember why. If you can’t talk about it, don’t do it. That was what Loretta had always said about sex. Maybe it was a good rule for drugs, too.

  “Okay.” Leviticus put his feet up on the chair beside her like he’d done the first night at the bar. “Go on.”

  “I felt stupid. Like some dumb groupie.” He started to deny it, but she stopped him. “Not that night. Afterward. Then Justine—”

  Xochi paused, trying to fit Justine into the puzzle. Justine, the strip club, Gina. Justine, Eris Gardens, Leviticus. Justine’s mouth, the photo of Leviticus at the warehouse, the note he’d left with his guitar.

  “Your note didn’t help,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was so . . . final. And like, I don’t know. Eloquent, I guess.” It was ironic how ineloquent she was searching for the word. “Like you’ve done this before. Justine told me a bunch of stuff about you and her and Io. It made the note seem even worse.”

  Leviticus groaned. “I wrote that thing ten times and couldn’t get it right.”

  “It’s not just us,” Xochi said. She thought of telling him about Gina, but didn’t. “No matter what I do, it’s not working.”

  “What’s not?” His voice was so soothing. She wished he’d keep talking. But he wanted her to talk. How could she explain?

  “I don’t know. Me. The way I am.”

  They were silent. The clock ticked on the stove. A wind chime trilled in the yard.

  “Come with me,” Leviticus said, getting up from his chair.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Just come on.”

  42

  Running to Stand Still

  The white noise of the filling bathtub threw Leviticus a line to calm. Xochi sat on the chair he kept for visitors—usually Ky, who liked to bug him when he was reading in the tub. She struggled with the zipper on her boots, then finally gave up and let him do it. Looking up at her, he noted the smudged lipstick, the bite marks at her neck. It had been a long time since he was jealous. It was just like he remembered, an old friend you never really liked.

  “I’ll be in my room, right next door. The towel on the rack is clean.”

  “Don’t go,” Xochi said, of worry in her voice.

  “I’ll be right outside. I’ll check on you in a minute.”

  Alone in his room, he lay back on the bed. That night at dinner, Io came clean about James. She’d been discreet—classic Io—but for once he was relieved. He didn’t need to know the details. It was enough that she was happy.

  He imagined the things Justine must have said to Xochi, embellished versions of the trouble she’d tried to make when Pad had brought her to stay at Eris Gardens. Justine might have been the first, but she wouldn’t be the last. Even without her connection to Lady Frieda, Xochi was the kind of shiny and young people like Justine coveted.

  “Hello?” Xochi called. “Leviticus?”

  He knocked on the bathroom door.

  “Come in.” She was huddled in the tub, knees to her chest. “I feel kind of nauseous.”

  Leviticus put the wastebasket next to the bathtub and got a washcloth from the cupboard. He knelt beside the clawfoot tub—not as impressive as the one in Pallas’s attic, but deep enough that Xochi was almost completely submerged. She closed her eyes as he washed the smudged makeup from her face and scrubbed her back. When he reached her arm, he turned it over to see the mark where the needle went in, backlit by a faint bruise. Reflexively, he rubbed the inside of his own arm where the black scars would always feel different from the rest of his skin.

  “We’re alike,” Xochi said.

  “Yeah, we are. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you. Or take advantage.” He picked up her hand and held it.

  “Then don’t,” she said, taking her hand away.

  He got up, sat in the chair. He reviewed what he knew. Xochi was wise, but inexperienced. A runaway, like him. Someone had hurt her. That was clear. And sometimes, she wanted to hurt herself. Leviticus knew this story. It was his own.

  “Leviticus?”

  “Xochi?”

  “Come here.”

  “Xochi, you’re high, it’s not right . . .”

  “Come over here.” Her voice was husky. She was going to be serious trouble when she figured out seduction for real.

  “Not a chance. I have a policy about that, too. No sex with anyone who’s too high to operate heavy machinery. It’s served me well for many years.”

  “So far, your policies seem pretty flexible,” Xochi said, a challenge and an invitation.

  She was right. If he’d followed his own rules, he wouldn’t be here with her right now. And what about Xochi? Would she really have landed in Justine’s sights if he’d just left her alone in the first place? He shook his head. “Not this time.”

  “Well, then, what?” Xochi sounded impatient, more like herself. “What now?”

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m tired. And my neck is killing me. Who knew you were so heavy?”

  “You didn’t need to carry me out. But thanks for coming to get me. It got so crazy in there. Ky—did he hit Duncan?”

  “He might’ve. I left it up to him. I just wanted you out of there.” She was getting cold, starting to shiver. He turned on the hot tap and went to his room, rummaging around in his dresser. “Here.” He laid an old T-shirt and some boxers on the lid of the hamper. “There’s a sweatshirt if you want it, too, on the hook behind the door.”

  It was a long time before she came out, long enough that he started to worry. When she opened the door, he was in bed reading. She stood there, so ordinary with her scrubbed face and damp hair. Too beautiful. She rolled her eyes, seeing he wasn’t going to make it easy by telling her what to do. She closed the bathroom door and slid into the other side of his bed, letting out a long, relieved exhale.

  “Leviticus?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you think it’s safe to go to sleep?”

  He looked up from his book at the girl in his bed. “It should be,” he said. He reached over, touched her cheek. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  43

  Night Bird Flying

  Peasblossom had been plagued with insomnia since his audience with the koi. He rolled over, cuddling the backs of Nora’s knees.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Was someone at the door? Nora’s digital clock read twelve-fifteen. The sound continued. The cat ignored it until he couldn’t.

  Something was entering through the cat flap.

  In the hall, hackles raised, Peasblossom was shocked to see a small gray bird perched on the top of Anna’s purple rain boot. Bending its neck sideways in a gesture of greeting, it made a sound that perfectly mimicked a motorcycle kicking to life. It flew a few steps toward the front door, perched on Nora’s backpack, and made the revving sound again, followed by an excellent facsimile of a Siamese cat’s meow.

  “You’re a mockingbird, I take it?”

  The bird revved and flew to the doormat, cocking its head. It whistled a sharp two-note call, a human sound used to summon a taxi, and jerked its head toward the c
at door.

  Peasblossom approached slowly, careful not to alarm. “Did Moonlight send you?”

  The bird whistled affirmation and hopped to the doormat.

  “After you,” Peasblossom said in deference to their predator-prey dynamic. “I will wait for a respectful interval and follow.” He spoke simply, unsure of the bird’s understanding beyond its ability to mimic. The bird cocked its head, eyes beaming amused intelligence. It hunched its shoulders and flew, head bent like a charging bull.

  On the stoop, Peasblossom flexed his whiskers to take in the night. The mockingbird, perched on a wire above, wolf whistled as a taxi turned the corner and parked in front of Peasblossom’s building. The driver got out, opening the door for the elderly man who lived next door, leaving the back door open as he carried the neighbor’s walker with one hand and helped him inside with the other. The gray bird flew down to the roof of the taxi and made a soft kittenish meow.

  Peasblossom had been at the intersection of fate and folly enough times to know what action to take. He slipped into the cab and slid under the passenger seat. The driver got in and took a long swig from a water bottle. A burst of static came from the radio. “Hey, Ben, pickup at the O’Farrell. It’s Misty. She asked for you.”

  The fur on the cat’s spine rose a quarter inch. Misty. The bouncer had called Xochi’s mother by that name. A chill ran seismically through Peasblossom’s pelt. The O’Farrell must be the theater that housed the strip club, the one on O’Farrell and Polk. The driver rolled down his window a few inches and tuned the stereo to classic rock. A high-pitched echo of the Hendrix guitar riff playing in the cab spilled from the wire overhead before the mockingbird took flight. Peasblossom made himself comfortable as the driver put on his turn signal and headed for the Tenderloin.

  The moment Xochi’s mother opened the taxi door, Peasblossom once again noted her scent’s resemblance to Xochi’s.

  “Hey, Gina,” the driver said.