Salt and Silver

by Anna Katherine

  I can’t stop myself. I sneer at Narnia. “I want you to understand that I have about the same level of excitement at this point about seeing the bagels as stopping the end of the world,” I tell her.

  “Just stand there,” she snarls back, and whips a Zippo out of a tiny little pocket. I bet it’s engraved. I bet it’s custom. She seems like the kind of person to have a custom lighter, even if she doesn’t smoke.

  Next to me, Ryan’s pulled a pouch of tobacco out of the bag that held bagels, and is rolling a cigarette.

  “Give me some silver,” says Narnia, impatiently, like she’d asked three or four times and had been ignored, except she hadn’t. What gave her the right to act like the queen of the world? We were the ones who had done everything.

  Roxie pulls her medallion over her head and hands it over. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before but it’s big and it’s silver. Ryan gives his—a big Star of David. Mine’s gone, still with Stan. Narnia puts them both in the palm of the hand, sets the hand on the ground, and motions to me.

  I stay where I am.

  “Come here,” she orders.

  “What’s the magic word?” Ugh, I am a bitch. And repetitive. Narnia brings out the worst in me.

  Her eyes flash gold sparks. Uck—I am so tired of that. I bet it’s just a stupid trick, too. I bet I could—

  I think about the little blue lights I breathed in Hell, and I inhale, thinking, If I could pull this in, pull it up, flash it out—

  And flash! I see blue. I didn’t think that would work.

  “I didn’t think that would work!” I say to everyone’s surprised faces.

  “Of course it did,” says Narnia. Whatever, witch, you are startled, and I win.

  Narnia gestures me over again. She pulls a small pouch out of the top of one of her boots. I can see a little knife settled next to it. Maybe her boots are like our lamia-skin coats.

  I shudder at the memory of lamias.

  “Ready?”

  “For what?” I stare skeptically at the bag.

  “Put your hand out and think about your avatar, like you did just now,” she instructs, her voice a little softer. “We need it.” She pours some of whatever’s in the bag into my hand. It’s salt.

  Then she lights it on fire.

  I shriek really loudly, but don’t drop the salt. It doesn’t even hurt. The fire is golden, and gorgeous.

  “Think about your avatar,” she says again. I take a deep breath and think about the gorgeous blue waves that come off me, the way my eyes sparked with blue fire when Narnia pissed me off. I think about my wings. I can smell the smoke from Ryan’s cigarette, and the dry crackling of Roxie’s snakes, and sweat, and—

  Narnia grabs my hand and overturns the fire onto the mummy’s hand and the silver medallions, and there’s a giant noise.

  When I open my eyes, I’m floating about a foot off the ground, and surrounded by blue light. I blink, and crash to the asphalt.

  “Oww,” I whine, because, really, I could have at least landed on my feet.

  Water is gushing out of the hand, spreading faster than water should, going in every direction. The water is also ice cold, ocean cold, and I know this because I have landed in it.

  Narnia’s smirking, and Ryan’s still smoking, and Roxie’s eyes are wide.

  “I really didn’t think that would actually work,” says Narnia. She sounds pretty satisfied with herself.

  The hand is lying on the ground, melted silver all over it. As fast as it came, the water stops gushing out, and the water surrounding me and edging into the distance disappears.

  The asphalt abruptly cracks apart, and the hand falls into the ground. My mouth drops open as the asphalt seals itself up again.

  “That was fucked up,” I announce, and scramble to my feet. My bagel is not sitting well in my stomach, and I am super-glad that I didn’t drink any coffee, because I’d probably puke it all back up.

  “Allie, try to find the Doors,” says Narnia. She leans back against the truck, smirking.

  I blink at her and try to think fast. “I don’t know what you’re—”

  Narnia snorts. “Don’t be coy. I know you did it in Hell, and I know you’ve tried to do it here too. Try it again.”

  Well. Okay, fine. But if my brain splats against a big mental brick wall, I am going to cut someone.

  I think, in my Door voice, Where are you? and the sound bounces out through the city, looking for spontaneous Doors. Nothing stops me, and I realize: It feels really good to be able to do this.

  Only three Doors I don’t recognize answer. That’s pretty good, particularly out of all the hundreds of spontaneously vivified Doors I know existed five minutes back.

  I kind of wonder what Hell looks like now.

  Narnia sighs.

  “I’m a little sorry that it’s over,” she says. Roxie’s glaring at her. I guess it takes more than a bagel to keep Roxie from wanting to kill her. “It felt really interesting. I’ll have to record it all . . .” She trails off and looks around at us. “What? It’s over, it’s done. I could really use a coffee.”

  “So is my Door back where it was before?” I finish the bagel by cramming an entire quarter of it into my mouth. There is a delicate look of disgust on Narnia’s face. I will smack that bitch up if she says one word about my eating habits.

  But instead she says, “Of course not.” She’s talking to me like I’m an idiot, and only Ryan’s hand on my shoulder is holding me back from punching her. Ryan’s hand and the knowledge that it would probably hurt a lot. “This was just stopping the end of the world. Temporarily.”

  Narnia stands up straight, teeters a little on the stiletto heels of her boots, and rights herself. No one moves to help her. “But the pieces are all still in play to start it right back up again, and soon.”

  “So we went through a pile of Hells for . . . no good reason at all?” I am displeased.

  “You went through nine. Every Door leads to nine underworlds one way or another. And I wouldn’t call saving the world, even temporarily, nothing.” Narnia grins, a real actual smile, and I’m taken aback by how pretty she is when she’s not sneering or smirking or making that generally annoyed face she has.

  “Narnia. What next.” Ryan’s clearly losing his patience too.

  Narnia taps a perfectly manicured finger—French, of course—against her mouth. “You came back through the Door with what we needed—time. With the extra Doors gone for the moment, we have a chance at correcting whatever’s the central issue. I just don’t know what the central issue is here. Something—it’s not very strong, but it’s there—is blocking me from feeling where Allie’s Door has gone. I’m supposed to feel them.” Narnia’s mouth turns down in an attractive pout.

  What? I know I don’t like her, but she is cute. That’s part of why I don’t like her. I’m sticky and sweaty, and one of my hands still has salt on it. I try wiping it off on my coat, but it’s sticking to me, kind of gold-tinged.

  “Because it all comes back to your Door,” Narnia continues. “It’s the only anomaly in this scenario. How did it move? Why did it move? And how is it related to the world ending in earth and air?”

  She looks at all of us and when we don’t say anything, begins tapping her foot. I think she must have seen the three AM PBS how-to-brainstorm series. And then decided it took too long.

  Ryan looks speculatively into the distance. “I can’t answer the third one, but I bet I can answer the first. Allie, remember when you did that stupid thing in the first Hell?”

  “First Hell?” asks Narnia. “And Allie did something stupid. Oh, do go on.”

  I shoot a nasty look at her. “You mean when I moved the Door so that it was right by us?”

  “Yeah.” He looks at Narnia. “She wished for it to move, and it moved. Could someone have wished it away from the diner?”

  “That sounds . . . eerily plausible.” Narnia nods.

  “I thought you knew everything already,” I say to Narnia. Maybe
I sound a little nasty. I’m trying not to. After all, I am the one Ryan likes—likes enough to shove away at every opportunity. He doesn’t seem to ever be shoving away Narnia. That either means he doesn’t care enough about her, or he thinks she can take care of herself without his participation.

  I don’t know if that’s comforting or not. I feel a little annoyed.

  “No, I don’t,” Narnia snaps. “If I knew everything, you wouldn’t have had to go into the Hells to help me figure it out.”

  “So . . .” Roxie’s voice is a jolt; she’s been quiet this whole time. “That leaves the question of why it moved, and how it’s ending the world.”

  Narnia nods. “Yes. With Allie’s little discovery, I think I can answer the ‘why’—the Door will do what it thinks is in its best interest. Or rather, will grant the wishes that fit best with getting more wishes. So if someone wished it to move, and the Door knew there’d be more wishes to come, it would go.”

  “Why does it care about getting more wishes?” I cross my arms and glare. “This is crazy Door history that no one’s bothered to tell me, isn’t it?”

  Narnia smirks. “Might be.” Ryan rolls his eyes and goes to stand next to Roxie. I glare at Narnia. Narnia glares at me. She lets out a huffed breath. “Doors are . . . they’re symbols. Mostly. Or allegories. Or morality tales. They’re metaphysical manifestations of the choice between following the gods’ path for you and making your own fate.” She waves her hand. “Or they’re not.”

  “This,” I say, with what I feel is supreme good temper, “is not helpful.”

  “Doors gain power through wishes,” Narnia bites out. “Because . . . Look, the Doors, so far as we know, are a test for humanity. That’s why we have Doors. Something, or someone, out there wants to gather data on us, and see how we deal with these little magical darlings. So the Doors grant wishes because it draws us to them, and the wishes feed the Doors, so they want to stay near us. It’s a balance, a very carefully created balance.”

  I frown. “With some puppet master in the background.”

  Narnia nods reluctantly. “That’s what we think. But maybe that’s not the case at all. Maybe there’s no reason for Doors to exist. Maybe we’re just unlucky enough to have that kind of temptation in our lives. It’s not something we can really test.”

  I remember that Door in the mummy’s Hell, that just wanted to be left alone. “Maybe,” I say, “the Doors don’t have much choice in the matter either.”

  Her eyes flash, except I think she’s just thinking something, not deliberately trying to intimidate. She looks down, smiles slightly to herself. “Well,” she says. “That’s a theory. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that everything about Doors involves a choice. Do you or don’t you? What sort of person are you? What’s more important: your heart’s desire, or your desire’s heart?”

  I blink. Ryan snorts, and Roxie says, “Dammit, she’s gonna start rhyming soon.”

  Narnia gives herself a little shake, and the glare is back. “Your Door moved, which means someone wished it away, and the Door thought it was a good enough deal to allow it. We need someone who knows about your Door; someone who knows about wishes; and someone who has the potential to create enough trouble to be worth a Door’s time.” She sniffs. “You and your stupid friends fit the bill. You’re the only mundanes who’ve ever opened a Door and lasted longer than a week.”

  “What, and it couldn’t have been a hunter?” I just—I can’t even. Yes, we were dumb, but—

  “Can’t have been a hunter,” Narnia says. “Their thoughts are mine.” Roxie squawks behind us, but we both ignore her. “Really, Allie,” Narnia says. “Think.”

  I don’t want to think. And I don’t like the answers I’m coming up with anyway.

  I know it’s not me, because I had too much going for me by having the Door in the basement. (For the record, I hate that. Hate hate hate.) And it’s not Stan—Stan’s dead, he can’t still be wishing things, making all this garbage necessary. I test it anyway, sending my mind to his house, his clubs, his favorite booth to nap in in the diner—and no Doors pop up. He didn’t have it.

  Which only leaves—

  Ryan puts his hand on my shoulder. I hardly feel the weight of it. “Amanda,” Ryan says.

  I let out a breath. “Amanda.”

  “Who’s Amanda?” asks Roxie. “The other one who summoned the Door with you?”

  I’m so tired. “It was her idea in the first place. We thought it was a joke . . .” I stare at the ground. “Shit. This is just like her. If she realized she could move the Door, get 24/7 time with it—”

  “Allie,” Roxie says. “Check it first. You found the Doors before, yeah? Look for your Door now.”

  I blink at her. And then I close my eyes, and say, Door? Where are you?

  Allie! It sounds really happy to hear me. I get a picture of a big house on a rolling lawn that tapers into a beach with sparkling blue water, tiny waves lapping at the shore. I see a pool behind the house and a pool house with brown and cream towels and matching bed linens.

  And the Door, sitting in the middle of all of it. I know that house. I know that beach. And I know that pool house.

  The Door is huge. The Door is at least three times the size it was when it was in the basement of the diner, swollen with wishes, gurgling with its own happiness.

  “Oh, shit.” I open my eyes. They’re tearing a little, so I rub at them—bad move with the salt still on my hand. Now my eyes sting, too. “Fuck.”

  “So, we’re talking bad?” Ryan says.

  I nod. “The Door’s with Amanda, out on Long Island.” I giggle a little. I don’t mean to. “Guess it really was the Hand of Franklin, huh? It pointed toward the ocean.”

  “Allie,” Roxie says, and I swallow my laughter and try again.

  “It’s badder than the three of us,” I say, and then nod at Narnia. “Four if you count Tolkien over here.”

  Narnia looks ready to breathe fire. Can she do that, though, like, for real? That would be equally cool and terrifying. I will ask Ryan later.

  Ryan takes off his hat and swipes a hand through his hair, and some grass falls out of it. I am reminded very vividly of what we did in the grass.

  I close my eyes for a moment.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking,” Ryan says. He puts his hat back on his head. “Narnia. Can you get us backup?”

  She sighs. “I know where you’re going with this. And it’s going to be exhausting,” says Narnia. She turns her hands palms up, stands with her legs slightly spread, and her eyes flash. I hear her sparking, feel her magic reach out around us, touching each hunter. It doesn’t touch me, though, which I call unfair—I form a little hook out of my inner blue and toss it after her magic.

  Look. I hate to be ignored. This must be really clear by now.

  Except instead of paying attention to me, I end up following behind her everywhere she goes, and “meet” all the hunters. Narnia knows them all by name—not true names, but hunter names. There’s Fagey—who wants to be called Fagey?—and Moshe, Theresa, Smith, Curlique, and Starr (that’s more like it). They keep going and going, Fedoras and Stetsons and Baseball Caps, at work, at home, having sex, eating supper.

  Come, says Narnia. It’s like my Door voice, but it doesn’t smell like “Door” at all. It’s powerful, though, and it’s directed at me. I grab her hand tightly, and show her a picture of the house, the roads that lead out to Noyack Bay and Sag Harbor, the trees and beaches and endless blue ocean. Then, because she’s never been there, I show her my diner, everything I can remember about it. The red vinyl booths, and the green vinyl chairs, and the blue sparkly vinyl padding on the stools that sit up at the counter. The tables decoupaged with old articles about hippie protests that Sally had gone to back in her hey-day. I show her Williamsburg, the part that I live in, it’s all concrete and subways and old row tenements.

  Tell them to meet there, I say in my Door voice. And—Narnia shudders. She wrenches her ha
nd from mine, and cuts her magic from my blue. Everything goes dark.

  When I open my eyes, I’m being held up off the ground by Ryan, and Narnia is in Roxie’s arms, her head hanging back.

  “I want a cup of coffee,” I slur, and my eyes slide shut again.

  When I open them again, I’m in the van, lying down. On one side of me are the crossbows. On the other side is Narnia. She looks terrible—her face is ashen, her lips are pale under their perfect application of Elizabeth Arden, and there are dark circles under her eyes.

  While I’m staring at her, she opens her eyes and stares back at me. “Thanks for the creepy help,” she says hoarsely. “I couldn’t have done that without you.”

  “I just followed you,” I tell her.

  She corrects me: “You loaned me your power. And you have a lot of it. You never use it.”

  Whatever. “I told everybody to go to the diner.”

  Narnia makes a tiny moue of distaste. “I know. Not the best idea, but there wasn’t much I could do to stop you.” She doesn’t say anything for a second, and then: “I’m sorry your friend died. Stan, right?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Amanda might die too. I think the Door knows her true name.” Narnia’s eyes flutter shut, and I keep my mouth closed.

  The Door does know Amanda’s name. Amanda’s never had a nickname; she’s never wanted one. But I always hated my real name, and made everyone call me Allie starting when I was just a kid. And Stan was always Stan because his father was Charles, and it was just easier, so that we didn’t get Charles Standish III mixed up with Charles Standish IV. Charles Standish II was Grandpa Charlie. I never met Charles Standish I.

  My mother always said that their fetish for naming the first son was tacky, but she invited them over for supper every month anyway.

  Of the three of us who opened a Door—three mundanes who lived longer than a week—Stan’s dead from a werewolf bite, Amanda’s in the thrall of a Door to Hell that knows her true name, and I . . . I don’t even know what I am.