“A… minor inconvenience.” Zilch reached up and lowered their hood, revealing one dark eye and one bright blue one, and a great deal more stitches across their face, made of a patchwork mosaic of different shades and textures. The ‘library ghost’ may have been made of flesh raised from the dead, but their pieces hadn’t all lived the same past lives.
“Minor as in a few stitches, or a reattached limb?” the faunlike person—they had long, velvety ears, and, yes, those were definitely hooves—considered as they gently took Zilch’s injured hand in theirs and began studying its seams for tears.
“Just a re-attachment.” Zilch pushed their sleeve further up, revealing the inside of their forearm, where the entire length had come off in a single strip. The raw wound below was black, and sluggish, thick blood flowed like tar. But instead of sounding pained or even annoyed, they sounded resigned at most. “Again.”
“Your original skin is really getting more fragile, isn’t it?”
“Just a tear. I don’t mean to complain.”
“Sometimes I wish you would, a lot more.” They turned to look up at Zilch’s face, concern clear in their eyes—despite the fact that their eyes were entirely black. The sclera was dark and reflective as an ordinary eye’s pupil all around. “It’d make this easier, that’s for sure.”
“Don’t worry, Rowan.”
After a moment considering that request (and seeming to decide against comment) Rowan gently pressed the long strip closed. Then they began smoothing the papery skin as evenly as possible where it began to peel loose from the stitches that anchored it to its neighbors on all sides. "Tell you what. You complain more, I’ll worry less, how about that?"
“Even dead skin ages.” Zilch stared down at the gray expanse. “It’s wearing out faster. I think. Catches easier. Tears. Handholds. Claws. Even fingernails.”
“That could be very bad…” Rowan said a little distantly—but sincerely—as they prepared a needle and thread. They weren’t surgical as much as ordinary sewing equipment, tougher than medical-grade for the unique demands of working on dead flesh that still needed to be incredibly mobile and durable, but still kept carefully sterile. “Did that happen tonight?”
“No.” They dropped their head slightly as if embarrassed. “Loose nail.”
“I could replace these,” Rowan offered after a moment’s hesitation, still looking down at one strip of thin, delicate grey forearm skin—and the stripes of long, thin scars running down its length. “Not that we’d ever get rid of them, I know you want to keep your own skin—but we could preserve them with your other organs. But just for everyday, you could have some new pieces here. They’d be a lot easier to reinforce and prevent any more rips.”
“No,” Zilch said softly. “Keep the originals.”
“I know,” Rowan nodded with a sigh that was as easy for most people to miss as one of Zilch’s more subtle expressions. Or their own, for that matter. Without discernible whites, irises or pupils, their eyes could be difficult to read. “It’s important.”
“Very important.” Zilch confirmed, nodding. Others might have had difficulty understanding them. That was rarely the case with these two; not with their expressions or much else. “Even if they rip.”
"At least the more worn they get, the easier they are to sew…"
"And I can come back down here more."
"Which I’ll never complain about. Let me know if it hurts," Let me know if it hurts,” Rowan said, just before beginning the first stitch. Immediately, Zilch let out a strange, rasping noise and their hands stopped, lifting away at once—but when Rowan looked up, the expression they found on the face they’d help reconstruct too many times to count wasn’t a grimace of pain. “What’s so funny?”
“You say that every time,” Zilch said with a slight shake of their head . There weren’t many people who would have recognized the noise as a laugh. Or the squint of their mismatched eyes, the twist of their stitch-lined mouth as a smile. Even fewer who would have returned it.
“I guess I do.” Rowan smiled back. The expression was an unusual one with their all-black eyes as well, but at least most people recognized it as human.
“You don’t have to. I don’t feel pain anymore.” It wasn’t true and they both knew it. There were too many kinds to be immune to them all.
“You can still get hurt.” One of Rowan’s hands rested on their chest. There hadn’t been a heartbeat beneath the skin, bone and layers of black cloth for years, but some things never went away. Not the risk of heartbreak. And not warm hands.
Zilch looked down at their scarred arms, then back up. Even if their smiles didn’t look like everybody else’s, it wasn’t hard to tell when they tried to smile and failed. “They don’t hurt.”
“They did once.”
Their mismatched eyes dropped, then closed entirely. “That’s what you’re here for.”
“Whenever you need a stitch.” They didn’t need to see Rowan’s face to know that their smile wouldn’t reach their eyes either.
“No.” They reached out their injured hand until two warm ones caught and held it between their palms. “You’re here. Doesn’t hurt.” Both of them were quiet for a moment. This far deep underground there was no roar of engines or helicopter blades or even the fire far below. At last, Zilch opened their eyes and looked down at their arm. “Please.”
“All right,” Rowan said softly. “Tell me if it…” They let out an almost inaudible sigh. “Do you have to get right back out there?”
This time, a large, cool hand gently closed around Rowan’s wrist, moved down to their hand and held it. “It’ll still be Parole.”
“Then I’ll do some doubles. No loose nail is going to tear these off, not tonight.”
Zilch held very still until the last stitch. After the loose skin was secured, they rotated and bent their arm at the elbow, testing its reach and mobility. Finally satisfied, they looked up and broke the silence made comfortable after years of practice, familiarity, and trust. “In for the night?”
“Just me and Regan, I think. Ash took Annie out on that bike they’ve been working on—she’s wearing her helmet, yes, I looked. I heard from Jay, he said there’s a party we’re all invited to… which I suppose it’s not too late to make if we hurry.” Zilch just shot them another of their inscrutable-to-anyone-else looks, and Rowan laughed. “All right, consider my bluff called.”
“Being a ghost has its benefits,” Zilch said as they stood up and started toward the door. “No party obligations.”
“Going back out?” Rowan’s smile faded and worry returned.
“Mmm. Finn just fitted his cab with a new frequency scrambler. Needs to test it out in a high-traffic area.”
“Parole’s a scary place…but not as scary as the back seat of that nice young man’s taxi. Tell him to drive safe, wear a…” Rowan frowned a little as if realizing something troubling. “How high-traffic?”
Zilch didn’t look up, and their already-guttural tone sounded more like a mumble than usual. “South of the Arbor Street crater.”
“The Arbor—Zilch. We’ve had more SkEye activity in that one district than anywhere else this month. It’s a frenzy down there. They look at a nice kid like Finn, they see nothing but bait. He doesn't belong down there. Neither do you, but…”
“His idea, to make sure the scrambler works down deep. I think it's a good one.” Zilch raised their hood again, voice a bit rougher than usual to accompany their unashamedly (in this room, at least) ghoulish smile. “And I'm scarier than any predator in Parole. First one that goes after the bait will wish they hadn't. He's safe with me.”
Rowan was quiet for long few seconds. “You’re not just trying to escape the party threat, are you? I was kidding, I promise. We’re not going. There’s people there. Socialization.”
“I know.” Zilch stayed facing the door but didn’t move toward it. “Stay here. Where it’s safe. No Eye in the Sky. No predators.” Their lip twitched. After a moment, they turned ba
ck around to look at Rowan--and now their face did shift back into one of their strange, rarely-shared smiles. “No parties.”
“Oh, God, no.” Rowan smiled gently. “Regan’s probably in his nest, so that’s where I’ll be too, keeping the place safe from all those terrible things.” They moved closer then, rested a hand on Zilch’s undamaged elbow. “And we’ll still be here when you get back.”
“Good.” "Good." What was so different about tonight, why it made them so apprehensive and reluctant to leave, neither one of them could say, but Zilch seemed especially relieved to be reminded. Tension stretched between them then, but it wasn’t from a sexual charge. Their shared looks and words were electric enough anyway. “I won’t be long."
Zilch wrapped their long arms around Rowan’s soft waist and pulled them close, then leaned down to press a long kiss to the top of their head between their curling horns. They held on tightly and stared across the room. As soon as their face was hidden from view, the unreadable mask slipped; a stranger would have recognized the hesitation and worry in their eyes. Still, they said nothing—but didn’t leave either. Or move.
Rowan held Zilch tight as well, but hesitated, seemed to war with themself, caught between saying or asking too many things to even choose one. Instead they sighed and leaned against Zilch’s chest, letting their eyes slip shut and pretending it could be longer.
"Be careful,” they finally said. There were many kinds of passion in life. Neither of these two experienced it in its conventional sense, but attraction and drive were far from the only kinds. Nobody could say this embrace wasn’t passionate. “Come home safe.”
“Always careful.”
“And watch out for loose nails.”
“I will,” Zilch murmured, ghost of a smile returning at last. They hadn’t felt sensations like actual warmth since they’d felt their own heartbeat. But when they held people they loved close, when their fingers ran through soft fur or over smooth scales, they were sure they felt something like it. Something good. “Tell him to dream sweet."
Rowan smiled, enjoying the same warmth; just the shared thought was enough to melt some of the strange tension from this strange night that kept creeping into both of their hearts.
“…I’ll try.”
Outside, the sun had gone down, plunging the city into a darkness much deeper than anything the outside world enjoyed. No stars shone above and it was a rare night when any moonlight broke through Parole’s permanent haze of smoke. Only around a third of Parole’s buildings had electricity, running on private generators—either mechanical or personal, from somebody’s generously-granted ability. Parole nights were dark indeed and could be deadly. When Zilch moved into a shadow, it almost seemed as if they melted into its depths, disappearing as easily as any chameleon.
Tonight they didn’t bother. Tonight they had a ride.
A bright yellow taxi waited for them outside one of the library’s side entrances. The orange-haired driver gave them a wave as he opened the door and started the engine, lights flashing and tires squealing as they sped off down the street.
As one ‘library ghost’ left, another watched. After the red taillights had disappeared, Hans faded back inside, and continued to observe.
☾
Hans followed Rowan down a long, dimly lit corridor leading from the hidden lab (and walking corpse repair-room), through another locked gate. By the time they reached the final door at the bottom of yet another stairwell (there had to be an easier way to get here, even for non-ghostly people, he thought), Hans was both used to the regular clip-clopping of their hooves and about ready to just slip right through the door himself to see what was on the other side. However, Hans hadn’t spent ten years floating around the city without learning a thing or two about its inhabitants. Or the value of patience. Even the most insignificant-seeming details could be the most important when selecting a target and designing a plan around that target.
So he made himself wait, even if all he wanted to do was peek. And, by now, scream. If he didn’t know better, he’d almost think the ‘library goat’ was trying to annoy him, opening the door so slowly it had to be on purpose, putting their hooves down on the now-hardwood floor softly so as not to make a sound.
But finally the door opened and Hans eagerly followed inside… and almost disappeared right then in frustration and disgust.
“Great. Perfect.” The much-anticipated most-secure back room was also the most disappointing. The best-kept secret of Parole’s infamous library was nothing more than a much smaller private one. Shelves of books lined the walls; Hans couldn’t have cared less about the titles, but they seemed older and thicker (and more boring), more like a personal collection than anything a public library might have. And somebody loved all this old stuff, even the ancient hardcovers were clean and un-ruined, even the ones lying out on the small end table next to the big, soft-looking leather chair, or the long multi-leveled wooden desk against one wall. The walls actually had wallpaper and it wasn’t smoke-damaged, rare in Parole. Everything in it was undamaged, now that he was thinking about it. Maybe it wasn’t so boring after all.
The lamps had actual lampshades and fringes and they were turned way down low, the lighting a soft contrast to the harsh bare-bulb glare of the access stairwell or the main library’s fluorescent strips. And a thick, round rug covered the floor (onto which Rowan quickly moved, stopping any sound of their hoof-steps). Everything in this room was soft. Especially the beanbag chair beside the chair, and the pile of pillows and blankets on top of it, all gathered up into a cozy nest.
Curiosity satisfied, Hans was just about to wrap it up and fade through the now-closed door, until an unexpected movement caught his eye. The beanbag chair and its collection of blankets began to squirm just a little as Rowan moved slowly by and even though they immediately stopped, the wiggles didn’t.
“Morning?” a muffled voice asked, word turning into a long yawn. The blanket pile shifted, just enough to reveal a pair of yellow eyes squinting out into the soft darkness.
“Not yet,” Rowan whispered, smiling as the sleepy eyes blinked a couple times, then squeezed shut again. “Go back to sleep.”
“I’m awake now,” the voice protested, and the pile shifted as if someone were about to emerge—but it only flopped over itself, hiding the scaly face from view. “Sort of.”
“Sorry.” Rowan sat down in the overstuffed leather chair opposite the blanket nest. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Nothing gets past me. I’m alert. Un-surprise-able.”
“That is very true.” Rowan let out a soft chuckle. They glanced down at their hooves and gave their head a little shake—which caused their large horns to bump against the back of the chair. “And I’m not made for stealth.”
“Nope. Snuggles.” Now a few pillows fell to the floor as whoever lay curled beneath them sat up. The top thick quilt slipped down from the thin shoulders of a young man with the green, faintly iridescent scales of a lizard. Or maybe a fairy-tale dragon with a hoard of blankets, which he quickly wrapped around himself to keep in the warmth. His eyes were much more open now, yellow-gold with thin, vertical black pupils like a snake or cat’s. “But it wasn’t just you. I hear everything here.”
“Really?” Rowan sounded intrigued but not disbelieving. “What did you hear today?”
“Annie’s motorcycle.” One long, pointed ear twitched as if he were hearing the motor again, right now. “It’s done, isn’t it?”
“I think so!” Rowan nodded, this time avoiding bumping any objects with their horns as they leaned closer, looking excited in spite of their attempted calm. “I saw her and Ash leave earlier—and take off down the street. Several feet up in the air.”
His smile faltered. “They got the flight engines to work?”
“Looked like it from down here. I don’t know whether to be excited or terrified…”
“I know which one I’d be.” There was a loose flap of skin hanging around his neck, like a frill on on
e of the lizards Hans remembered seeing on TV once; he saw it for the first time in the low light when it gave a sudden shiver, flaring out just a bit before lying flat again. From the tension that crossed the young man’s face, he’d say it was a nervous twitch.
“Don’t worry,” Rowan said, already-gentle voice dropping a little. “Annie’s an expert driver already and Ash is with her. My brother will keep her safe from whatever this place could possibly dream up.”
“Yeah. I just… there’s a lot, you know?” He looked up now, yellow eyes not at all sleepy anymore, black pupils shrinking until they were nothing more than thin slits, focused directly on Rowan’s face. “There’s a lot that can happen.”
“I know.” Rowan reached out a hand, and the blankets immediately shifted; a scaly green one emerged and took it, held it tight. “And I know you do too, Regan. Better than most people. And more than you should.” in holding on, and letting go. He did not let go of Rowan’s hand.
Regan couldn’t answer. He just kept his eyes on them, as if trying to commit their face to memory. There was so much in Parole best left forgotten, and so much to remember. The trick came in holding on, and letting go. He did not let go of Rowan’s hand.
“It’s been one of those nights, hasn’t it?” Rowan asked softly.
He gave a shaky, wordless nod, and gave their hand a slight pull forward. Without hesitation, Rowan moved from the leather chair to the beanbag-and-pillow nest, unfolding the blankets and sinking down into the layers of covers beside Regan (who never let go of their hand), quickly pulling the blankets back around both of them before any warmth had a chance to escape.
Once Regan was pressed close against Rowan’s side and his head resting against theirs, he let out a long, slow sigh. Tension in his body he hadn’t realized he was holding flooded out of him like poison draining from his blood. Rowan held him close, and he breathed.
Life Within Parole Page 8
