“My Lady,” The title felt more true by the moment, “who are you?”
“Little confused are you? A bit of a change for you?” the Lady teased fiercely, and took another sip of her hot chocolate. The whip cream on her lip and nose remained.
“To be honest, you have unsettled me a bit this morning.” I replied.
“Not as unsettled, upset, as your world has been these past few months. Has it?” Her eyes looked at me over the top of the whip cream mountain, trailed down past my chest over the table and landed on the light pink straw that protruded rudely out of the top of my coffee mug. We both stared at the vile thing. I gripped my ever shaking hands in my lap under the tablecloth and willed my shame at bay. Commanded my self-respect, thinned over the past months by the gradual decline of control over my body, to firm up and stay. Though it threatened to flee under the power of the Lady’s gaze. So I emboldened it with my anger.
“You, lady, have no right to come here and disrupt this man’s morning on a whim. Hot chocolate and mockery. Not something I ordered off the menu. Please take them elsewhere.” More difficult than I imagined, I held her eyes with mine. Just before her clear gaze of ice had mine beat, she released me. With a slow reach, she fingertip slid the petal she had handled across the table to me.
“The magic is real. And yours.” She spoke simply, her eyes on the petal beneath her finger. “The control you have lost, the deterioration of your body, cannot be changed. But in exchange, for the time you have left, a gift. A magic gift for you. To add a bit of the life to that which you are losing in the remaining time you have.”
She lifted her finger from the petal, now a dark wet purple from the pressure she had put on it. Bruised and mortally wounded, the petal sat square center on the white tablecloth in front of me. Her hand returned to the side of her mug, but she did not drink.
My eyes would not leave the poor, abused petal. A threat and a promise. The magic and the woman felt like both. I reached out a second shaky reach in the direction of something a breath away from death. But I wanted life to fill out, spring up from that petal once again. My will near begging, I jumped when the destroyed petal plumped up with a fresh blush of color. The tingle on my finger tip sizzled with intensity.
“Nicely done.” The Lady whispered, an intimate speech, just between her and me. “You even healed the others.”
The two other fallen and wilted petals matched the flush health of the one I focused on.
“That takes strength of will, which you seem to have in spades.” She continued. “Your ability will develop quickly, if that is your desire.”
“How far can I go? I mean, if I master this…magic. What is at the end? What would I be able to do?” I did not look up at her when I asked. My hope too fragile under her aware gaze.
But it didn’t matter.
“Plant life only. Not animal. Not human. This magic will not help your body, nor anyone else’s.” She answered, her voice flat in her intimate whisper.
Frustration. Anger. Rage. All trapped behind my walls, gentlemanly acceptance and my abhorrence of weakness bubbled and burst out of my chest in a fount of fear and pain. Only decades of practice to keep my emotions masked in public kept me from screaming in the face of the woman who had wiggled the carrot of my manhood and self-respect in front of me and yanked it away in quiet tones.
“Then what is the goddamned point!” I spit. Literally. Blood pressure be damned. And I shook. And shook. Hell, I shook so bad I near punched myself in the face with the cloth napkin in my lap I snatched up to wipe the spittle from my mouth as I tried to regroup.
She just watched me and said nothing. Which didn’t help in the slightest.
At least her eyes held no pity.
“Who. Are you?” I growled in a low whisper to match her own. The force of my anger made it difficult to keep my words below a roar.
“Once upon a time…” She started.
“Jesus Christ!” I threw the napkin on the table and pushed back my chair. Then leaned in to her. “Whatever trick you have Lady, you’re done playing me.”
I stood and snagged my cane from where it leaned against the wall. The cold rippled steel of the lion’s head slipped into my hand as a familiar comfort. Jacqueline skittered over with a concerned look on her face. I shooed her away, unwilling to subject an old man’s anger on the innocent. So, I left. Ran away, in a sense. Ran into the park, away from people as much as possible on an island of millions. And when I say ran, I mean I hobbled as quickly as my unsteady gait could take me.
It took time before the red heat of my anger blew away in the thin morning breeze to take in the world again. The grey asphalt walkway had been splashed with yellow and orange light from the morning sun. They waved and swam as the budding canopy above swayed in the wind. Branches rubbed together with a sharper sound than wind through leaves they did not yet carry. The path wound and curved just enough to give the feel of being deep in the woods. Deep wet woods. Not feet from the greatest metropolis on the planet. Wood slat benches offered a moment’s respite, but as I approached each one my anger ebbed me on. I needed to cool down before I re-emerged into the public eye, and caught a cab home to lick my wounds.
She stood in the middle of Strawberry Fields like a Madonna. All power and strong, beautiful and soft. One foot on the “M”, one the “N”, she straddled “IMAGINE” written in that stone circle memorial with hands in the pockets of her tan overcoat. The red edge of her skirt peeked and waved from beneath the coat’s edge.
“Once upon a time,” she started again.
“Jesus, let me alone, woman.” I answered, surprised at my exhaustion. The bench to the right against the fence looked inviting. Stubborn pride kept me where I stood. For better or worse.
“Sit down.”
Her words brooked no argument, and neither did my legs. They started an inner countdown to collapse I could not ignore. I shuffled to the bench and eased into it. Damn getting old. Damn it to hell.
She joined me on the bench without an invitation. Her shoulder-length hair brushed her cheek in the wind. Her pale blue eyes found mine again. Sad, but not for me.
“Once upon a time, before airplanes and penicillin, before wisdom and old age, man discovered fire. Life became more than simple survival. The body decayed before the mind. The weakness of the flesh sent a soul to Death before Life killed it.” The Lady shifted on the bench, slid her hands into her pockets and folded her coat tighter around herself. Just after she hugged herself for warmth, a chill breeze blew up, wove its way around them both, pulled my hand heat from the top of my steel lions cane head and turned it to ice. The Lady raised one lone eyebrow at me again.
“Continue. I’m listening.” I said, and shifted my chilled hand down to the wooden body of my cane.
“Not much more to tell. When Death observes a body approach him that Life has not conquered except through the deterioration of the flesh, He bestows upon them a gift of magic. Different for every body.”
I considered her story and found it lacking. Hard to swallow an understatement.
“And you are Death?” I asked.
She laughed. The sound filled the air around me, traveled over the “IMAGINE” stones, down pathways, over bridges, between statue and bicyclist, wrapped around every tree trunk, branch and bud. Intense and thick, the pressure of the sound rose up to fill the entire park and burst onto the city streets.
I gasped at the relief. Giggled strangely at the oddity of what had happen. And my belief in every word she had said solid and grounded as granite, marble, and taxes. It relaxed me. The oddest of all.
“No, I’m not Death.” She said, her face severe as if the laughter never was. “Just call me an agent of Death. A Lady of Death, you so politely keep reminding me. Which is nice.” The last she said on an exhale, then looked into the park, past the trees.
“How much time do I have left?” I pushed out the words as calm as calm, though my stomach clenched.
Her gaze discovered mine
again in a slow turn of her head, her eyes more ice than blue.
“Harold, it is never enough.” She said, and stood and walked away.
“Wait.” I said too late, and scurried after her.
Like the wind itself pulled her away, a swirl of hair, coat, and flapping red skirt turned a corner on the path. And she was gone.
I panted and shook. Leaned on a black iron lamp post, one of those mock pre-electric Victorian things. Time felt to spin and go sideways. Magic in the time of car horns? Death gave presents?
Did that just happen?
The stick ends, dried and withered, of an old bouquet poked out of the black hole of the green barred garbage receptacle. I grabbed them. The brown trampled and tire treaded mass had once been daisies. Such a common flower.
I willed the tingle to my fingers wrapped about the stems. Yelped when I felt them sizzle. Shouted when stems grew plump and firm. Laughed as white petals re-bloomed and smiled their happy yellow centers toward the sun.
With a spring in my step, and a shaking grip on the simple bouquet, I went in search of someone willing to drink a cup of coffee with me. Through a straw.
Introduction to “Red As Snow”
Seanan McGuire is an enigma. At six years of age she told Vincent Price he was going to be her husband. She has been a foster parent to a rescued mountain lion named Miss Kitty. She rarely sleeps, which is how she gets so much done. And she would gladly kill someone with a hammer to get a night in the Disney princess castle. After reading “Red As Snow,” I’m convinced that she is also really a Waheela.
Seanan lives in the foggy depths of the San Francisco Bay Area, where she is regularly visited by rattlesnakes, mountain lions, and other delights. She is the author of the October Daye series and the InCryptid series, both of which are published by DAW Books. She also writes as Mira Grant, author of the Newsflesh trilogy and the Parasite duology. In her spare time, Seanan watches horror movies, reads superhero comics, and writes more books. Seanan shares her home with three abnormally large blue cats, way too many books, and a lot of creepy dolls. Seanan writes:
“‘Red As Snow’ was inspired by the desire to spend more time with Istas and Ryan, two characters first introduced in the book Discount Armageddon. Neither is human, but I adore their way of looking at the world. You don't need to have read any of my books to understand what’s going on, although the story is firmly set within the InCryptid universe.”
Red As Snow
Seanan McGuire
“Flesh is temporary; flesh will end. Ice is forever. Remember this, and choose your steps with caution.” —Waheela proverb.
The Freakshow, a highly specialized nightclub somewhere in Manhattan
Now
“Istas!”
I studied my reflection in the small mirror set into my locker door for a moment more, trying to figure out what I could do differently with my eye makeup, before yawning and turning toward the sound of my name. Looking was a courtesy, nothing more: even if I could not recognize the sound of my employer’s voice, I would have known the smell of her, a mixture of cream foundation, overheated velvet, and the curious pheromone stew of her sweat.
“Yes?” I closed my locker as I turned. It was one in a row of twenty, matching three other free-standing rows, all arranged like this was some sort of gymnasium, and not the changing room of a popular strip club turned burlesque show.
Kitty Smith, owner and operator of the Freakshow—the aforementioned strip club turned burlesque show, which had been founded by her uncle—folded her arms and scowled at me. This took several seconds; bogeymen have very long arms. That, along with their grayish skin and the extra joints in their fingers, is all that visibly distinguishes them from the humans. She even wore her long black hair curled in the human style, framing her pointed, inhuman face. “You’re supposed to be on the floor. What are you doing back here?”
“I am not supposed to be on the floor,” I replied, picking up my parasol. It opened into a pleasing bloom of pink and black lace, which went perfectly with my puff-sleeved, pink and black satin dress. It had taken me weeks to sew the alternating tiers of pink and black petticoats, but the effect was worth the effort, especially once I had dyed pink streaks into my naturally black hair. “If you check the schedule, you will see that I was scheduled to end my labors at nine o’clock. It is now nine-fifteen. I am done for the evening.”
“That schedule was made before Candy went on maternity leave,” protested Kitty.
“My request for time off was not dependent on the status of Candy’s gestation.” I gave my parasol a lazy twirl. “Ryan and I will be having a pleasant evening involving courtship activities, food, and coitus.”
There was a pause before Kitty asked, “You’re going out for dinner and dancing before you go back to his place for sex?”
I frowned. “I believe I just said that.”
“No, honey, you didn’t.” Ryan sounded amused and exasperated at the same time, a combination that I have become intimately familiar with since we began our relationship. I turned, smiling, to see him standing in the doorway of the women’s locker room. He shook his head, smiling back. “Remember what I said about sounding like a dictionary? It confuses people.”
“Refrain from discussion of carnage and how many colors are inside a person, try not to sound like a dictionary…this is why waheela don’t talk to people, you know. It’s far too difficult.”
People might be difficult, but Ryan was easy. Tall, with dark hair, dark eyes, and golden skin, Ryan Yukimura was the first man of any species who had thought to ask me if I was in search of a mate. He was not human—his species, the tanuki, originated in Japan—but as I was not human either, that did not present a significant barrier. Both of us were shapeshifters, and as such looked perfectly human when we saw the need.
“It has its rewards.” Ryan looked past me to Kitty. “My shift’s up. Angel’s got the bar. See you tomorrow night, ma’am?”
Kitty threw her hands in the air. “Oh, sure, you leave, too. My best bartender and my most productive waitress. Why isn’t there a law against employees dating?”
“Because your uncle wanted to hit on the cocktail waitresses,” said Ryan amiably. “Come on, Istas, or we’ll miss our table.”
“Coming.” I picked up my clutch purse, bobbed my head at Kitty, and followed Ryan out of the dressing room. He looped his arm through mine. Normally, he was taller than I was, but I was wearing high-heeled boots, and we were almost the same height. Side-by-side, we strolled away.
***
I was born in a place that has no name, so high in the Canadian tundra that the permafrost never melted, no matter the season. There were five pups in my litter. I was third-born, large enough to fight off my siblings, small enough not to seem like an attractive mouthful to my father. The largest of us did not survive the winter. Neither did the smallest, and when the first green of springtime came, only three of us remained. I think of those days often, when I am frustrated with the crush and chaos of Manhattan, or when the stupidity of the humans I have surrounded myself with seems too much to bear. Those were my happiest days, cradled in the love of my siblings, protected by the instincts of my mother. And if those days were the best that my homeland has to offer…is it any wonder that I have no intent to ever, ever go back?
Ryan kept his arm looped through mine as we walked along the sidewalk toward our destination, as much a restraint as a show of ownership for the people around us. He didn’t want me departing from the path that we had charted for our evening. A pity. There were some lovely-smelling rats in the nearby alley, and I had yet to eat.
“We’re almost there, Izzy,” he said, still pulling me along.
“Anyone else who called me by such a diminutive would find themselves searching the gutters for their arms,” I said, amiably enough.
Ryan grinned. “Good thing I’m not anyone else, then, isn’t it.”
“Yes.”
We walked a few blocks more, finally sto
pping in a pizza parlor that smelled amazing enough to make up for the fact that it was essentially a dark cavern carved from the wall. I frowned. Ryan tapped my shoulder and pointed to a sign in the window.
SUNDAY ONLY—ALL YOU CAN EAT, NINE TO MIDNIGHT.
“I love you,” I breathed.
He grinned. “Yes, you do.”
***
To be waheela is to be a creature of endless appetite, as hungry as the winter wind which blows from the north. After consuming the better part of three large pizzas with everything and an entire medium pizza with ham and pineapple, I began to wonder if the north wind had been going about things the wrong way for all these years. Maybe it just needed to visit a nice Italian restaurant and eat until it wanted to vomit.
Not that this was technically a “nice” Italian restaurant. It was narrow, and dark, with walls that had once been white, and were now a dingy shade of cream. I would have thrown away any article of clothing as visibly stained as those walls. The furniture was old, full of splinters and scarred by inexpert repairs. None of which mattered; the food was plentiful, and that was the end of my concern.
Ryan reached for one of the last slices of pizza. I growled briefly, reminding him that the food was mine, before leaning back in my seat and allowing him to take it. Ryan grinned.
“I take it you approve?”
“I do.” I nudged him under the table with my toe. “How did you discover this venue?”
“I told some friends that I needed somewhere to take my lady where they wouldn’t look at us funny for eating everything in sight. This place,” he gestured to the restaurant around us, “does all-you-can-eat Sunday once a month, at which point it winds up packed with college kids, competitive eaters, and lots of other folks who are more interested in eating than they are in judging.”
Fiction River: Hex in the City Page 9
