Borderline

by Mishell Baker

  “Okay then,” he said. “I need to have a private conversation with my friend here.” He pulled out a wad of bills and held them out to her.

  She made a sound of disgust and walked away without taking his money. She muttered something in Spanish as she went, and I know Teo understood her, because his slouchy posture went ramrod straight before he came in and shut the door behind him.

  “I was getting along with her just fine,” I snapped. “Would it have killed you to be polite? Now she’ll report us.”

  “To who? Anyone important knows I do business with the viscount. Now relax. Since we’re here, we may as well get something out of it. Go through the trash.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re the one who decided to trespass, so you get to be the one to touch his snotty tissues or whatever.”

  “Don’t these sort of people use handkerchiefs?” I went to the bathroom and found a shower cap to put over my hand.

  “Lady, you have no idea what sort of person you’re talking about.”

  “A vampire?” I guessed. I picked up the trash can—which held a frankly absurd number of Reese’s cup wrappers—and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Nope,” said Teo, casually, like it had been a decent guess.

  “I was kidding,” I said, taking out the wrappers carefully, one at a time, using the shower cap as an ill-fitting glove.

  “You weren’t kidding,” said Teo. “Not really. I bet you believe all kinds of crazy shit, or Caryl wouldn’t have recruited you.”

  I found something near the top that wasn’t a candy wrapper: a folded piece of white paper. I clumsily eased it open with my shower-capped hand, hoping to find a scribbled address or phone number like you always do in the movies, but instead it was just a little sketch made with a ballpoint on hotel stationery. I stared at it.

  Teo chattered on, poking around the room. “So apparently instead of checking out, the viscount extended his stay by a whole month. Either he completely forgot when his visa expires, or—Millie, you okay?”

  The sketch was of the view out the window, the one I had just dismissed, but somehow in a few spare lines the artist had captured L.A.’s restless energy. DREAMLAND was written at the bottom in a bold, masculine hand. I stared at the paper and remembered, on a primal level, the thrill I’d felt when I first saw the city from the freeway eight years ago: sun low and heavy in the sky, downtown’s high-rises glittering in the vermilion light. I felt a stinging at the back of my eyes and let the drawing slip to the floor.

  “What is that?” said Teo.

  “Nothing. Just a sketch of the city.”

  He bent and picked it up as I continued sifting through candy wrappers, and then he did something odd. He pulled a pair of nineties-retro mirror shades out of his pocket and put them on, peering at the paper through them. He hadn’t worn them the whole ride over, even when we were driving into the sun, but now he put them on in a fashionably dim hotel room?

  “He drew this,” he said. “The viscount.”

  “Or maybe some lady friend who got bored waiting for him to come out of the shower.”

  “Nope,” he said. “There’s fey magic on this.”

  “What’s fey magic?”

  “You can look through my glasses,” he said, “but give them back when you’re done. At this rate you’ll have your own pair before long.”

  I took the glasses from him and slipped them on, looking at the paper in his hand. My breath caught, and I felt every hair on my body lift away from my skin.

  Everything else in the room looked normal through the shades, only darker. The drawing, on the other hand, lit up like the Fourth of July. Radiant curving strands like flowering vines danced and shimmered from its surface.

  “What the fuck is that?” I breathed.

  “Magic,” said Teo. And this time, I was pretty sure it wasn’t sarcasm.

  8

  I stared at the shimmering swirls on the paper; they moved as though they were alive. I’d misplaced the speech center of my brain again. When I found it, I said a little drunkenly, “What kind of glasses are these?”

  “It’s like an advanced version of the fairy ointment from the stories,” he said. “One side of the lens shows you what kind of magic a thing has; the other side shows you things as they really are.”

  I waited for my rational mind to put up a fight, but it rolled over and showed its belly. I gave the glasses back to Teo, my hand shaking slightly. He slipped them into his coat pocket, along with the drawing itself.

  “You need a minute?” he said, watching me closely.

  I shook my head. “I’m fine. What was that? I mean, I get that you’re saying it’s a spell or something. But what does it do?”

  “It’s a type of charm. Basically he draws something and sort of . . . weaves his magic into the paper, so that whoever looks at it feels exactly what he was feeling when he drew it.”

  “And he threw it in the trash?”

  Teo shrugged. “Nobles like Rivenholt—they call them sidhe at World HQ in London—they’re into heavy-duty magic. Wards, enchantments. Charms are low-class, like parlor tricks.”

  “If it’s so beneath him, why make one?”

  Teo considered. “I guess even low magic would be pretty valuable on this side of the border. Because it’s tradeable. Maybe that’s a draft of something; maybe a human offered Rivenholt something irresistible.”

  “Like a lifetime supply of Reese’s cups?”

  Teo glanced at the pile of wrappers that had accumulated on the bed and made a disdainful little sound. “Typical fey.”

  “If somebody wanted low magic, why would they ask a noble?”

  “It’s really just nobles who come here. I’ve only met two commoners ever, a dryad and a goblin. There’s all types of fey in Arcadia I’ve never seen.”

  “By fey you mean fairies. This guy’s a fairy.”

  Teo shrugged. “Maybe? The word is spelled F-E-Y—it just means weird or supernatural—but London HQ tends to see everything through a fairy filter anyway. Honestly, we don’t know what the fuck these things are.”

  “Reassuring.”

  “When they’re here, they enchant themselves to look human. I think ‘facade’ is the official HQ word. Do you know John Riven?” When he saw my confused expression, he clarified. “Actor; he was in Accolade.”

  “Which part?”

  “Some white dude in a suit; I don’t remember all their names. Anyway, John Riven is Viscount Rivenholt. He’s way more involved on this side than most fey. I’ve got a photo back at the Residence; you’ll know him when you see him.”

  Teo looked at me like he was waiting for me to argue with him, but I’ve never understood the pointless ritual of denial. I had a job to do, so I’d assume it wasn’t bullshit until I found out otherwise.

  “So what next?” I said.

  “Still with me?” He looked dubious, but he at least stopped staring at me and went over to peer at the telephone, which continued flashing its tiny light.

  “I think so,” I said. “Where is Arcadia, exactly?”

  “It’s like a parallel world or whatever.” He held up the phone receiver to his ear and punched in a few numbers on the cradle. “We call it Arcadia just to be calling it something.”

  “What do the fey call it?”

  “Uh, ‘the world,’ I guess,” he said distractedly as he punched in another number.

  “What do they call our world?”

  “Earth mostly, because we do. There’s some weirdness with them and language.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He held up a hand to shush me, listening intently to the phone, then scribbling something on the message pad. “Two messages from Inaya West.”

  “What?” I forgot Arcadia for a second. “The actress?”

  Teo g
lanced skyward. “No, Millie, the postal clerk. Who do you think?”

  “You’re screwing with me.”

  “See for yourself,” he said, pushing a couple of buttons and holding the handset out to me. I grabbed it from him.

  “Johnny, it’s ’Naya,” said the first message, dated a week earlier. It did sound like her. “Call me back when you get this, gorgeous.”

  The next one had yesterday’s date. Same voice, completely different tone.

  “Inaya again. I know something’s up, Johnny, and I know this isn’t your cell number. And now all of a sudden David won’t return my calls either? I don’t get it. Whatever’s going on, I’m reasonable; you don’t have to hide from me. Just talk to me. Please.” And this time she left a number.

  I tried to commit it to memory, since Teo had already torn off the paper he’d scribbled it on and stuffed it into his pocket. You never know when the phone number of an A-list actress might come in handy.

  “What do you think that’s about?” I said to Teo.

  “No clue. Maybe Rivenholt was having a fling with Inaya and broke it off. Still doesn’t explain why he extended his hotel stay and then left the room. It’s like he’s running from something. I didn’t want to bother Berenbaum with this, but it looks like we’re going to have to.”

  My stomach dropped to my knees. “Berenbaum? David Berenbaum?”

  “No. Oprah Berenbaum.”

  “I went to school for directing,” I said numbly. “He—I—my dad took me to see Blue Yonder when I was ten. David Beren­baum.” The name tore open some hermetically sealed pocket of naïveté I had forgotten I had.

  “Oh Jesus. You’re not going to piddle on the floor of his office, are you? If so, I’ll just crack a window and leave you in the car.”

  “David Berenbaum. We’re going to see David Berenbaum.” I couldn’t stop saying it.

  “He funds, like, half the Project. Rivenholt’s his Echo. Uh, partner, you might say. Not in a gay way, that I know of; Rivenholt’s like his muse. That’s what the Project’s for, to regulate travel between here and there. So we can get inspiration from fey and vice versa. Anybody who’s anybody has an Echo.”

  “All of them? You’re saying Martin Scorsese hangs out with fairies?”

  “Yup. Not all fey are sunshine and rainbows.”

  “Kubrick, Eastwood, Coppola?”

  “Kubrick’s before my time, but probably. Eastwood and Coppola, yeah.”

  “Spielberg?”

  “He doesn’t need one; he’s a wizard.”

  The wave of vertigo that swept over me suggested that this was a good time to stop asking questions.

  “Let’s get you back to the house and feed you some lunch before we go see Berenbaum,” Teo said. “Half the reason we get to hang out with these people is that we stay cool about it, and you are not looking cool right now.”

  When we got back to the car, which was badly parallel parked under a palm tree, Teo reached into his jacket for the drawing and studied it again in the sunlight. I peered around his arm at it curiously; it gave me the same icy-bright rush of exhilaration as before. No matter how many times I looked away and back, the feeling was the same, like traveling eight years into the past.

  But the drawing was showing me what Rivenholt had felt when he looked out his window, a fact both intimate and puzzling.

  “Do you remember when Los Angeles made you feel like that?” I said to Teo.

  “Nope,” he said, folding the paper and tucking it away. “Unlike ninety percent of this town, I was born here.”

  • • •

  We arrived back at the house to find a crisis in the living room. We heard it as soon as we opened the car doors, actually, but had to see it to believe it. When we walked in, a very tall black man was kneeling behind Gloria, holding her by the arms. Gloria was shrieking, red faced, at the bearded white guy I’d met briefly the day before. The bearded man—whose name I’d already forgotten—was slumped at one end of the couch, face buried in the crook of his elbow, sobbing.

  “Look at me, you coward!” Gloria shrieked at him. “Have the decency to say it to my face!”

  “Quit it,” said the man holding her, barely audible over her screams. “Settle down.”

  When it comes to drama, I am both amplifier and sponge. You want to keep drama as far away from me as possible. Faced with this spectacle, I planted my sneaker-clad carbon feet on the hardwood floor as though I were staring down head­lights.

  “Where is Song?” Teo asked briskly of the only other calm person in the room.

  “She went to the store,” said the man holding Gloria. For just a moment I saw the strain on his high-cheekboned face, the coiled control. When he spoke again, he sounded almost bored. “Gloria, you know they need you back on set in twenty. You need to stop it now.”

  Teo touched my elbow, startling me. “Let’s go up to my room,” he murmured. I was too disconcerted to make any smart-ass remarks; I just nodded and tried to follow as Teo gave a wide berth to the tableau and practically vaulted up the stairs. I stumbled on the steps myself, dropping my cane as I grabbed for the rail with both hands. Teo doubled back, picking up my cane and helping me up the stairs none too gently.

  “Unless the rent is dirt cheap here,” I said breathlessly once we’d reached the top, “I think I’ll take my chances on some other living arrangements.”

  “Three things,” he said crisply, handing me back my cane. “One, Gloria’s normally very sweet, and when she’s not, it’s always Phil who gets it. Two, rent is free here. Three, employees at our level have to live in a Project Residence.”

  “Why?”

  “There are wards on the property and stuff; it’s a little complicated for your pay grade.”

  “I’m not being paid.”

  “My point is, there are reasons we all live together. Working for the Project isn’t dangerous, but only because we follow the rules to the letter. It’s extra important that new people don’t do stuff on their own, but the perks get better as you work your way up. You should see Caryl’s place.”

  I wanted to, once I stepped into Teo’s room. There was barely enough space for his loft bed and the computer desk he’d shoehorned under it. His Avengers bedspread hung off the footboard in a lumpy tangle, and I could smell the dirty laundry that had piled up all the way to the windowsill. His closet was partially blocked by a chest of drawers that was missing the bottom drawer. The only available floor space was dominated by a suspiciously streaked beanbag chair.

  “Ugh,” I said. “Doesn’t it seem like a terrible idea to you, hiring a bunch of crazy people and penning them up together?”

  “I like it here,” said Teo. “It’s nice not to be judged all the time. So maybe don’t start, okay?”

  “Seriously, what’s the deal? Does mental illness give people some kind of sensitivity to magic?”

  “I dunno; Caryl’s cagey about it. But I get the feeling it’s just—we’re all creative people who might not get a shot anywhere else, you know? And I guess we’re open-minded ’cause we’ve got no illusions that life makes any sense.” He gestured toward his “chair” as he rifled through the file drawer in his desk. “Sit if you want.”

  “Even if I had a prayer of getting back out of that thing, I wouldn’t sit in it for a hundred dollars.”

  “How about a thousand?” he said absently as he flipped through folder after folder at near-light speed.

  “Nope.” I was only half listening to him; I could still hear Gloria’s raised voice from downstairs, and it twisted my stomach into a knot. I wanted to get away from it, but where was there to go?

  “Everybody has a price,” he said without looking at me.

  “Yeah?” I forced my attention away from the confrontation downstairs. “What’s yours?”

  “That depends. For what?”

  “
Oh, I dunno. An hour in a cheap motel.”

  He shot me a look. “With you? Not enough money in the world.”

  He said something after that, but I didn’t hear it. It was as though a glass capsule of boiling acid broke inside my head. Before I knew what I was doing, my cane swung in a swift arc and struck the side of Teo’s head.

  9

  My swing wasn’t hard enough to seriously hurt Teo, but it was more than enough to throw me off balance and send me toppling to the floor by way of the beanbag chair. Even with all those little plastic beans to absorb the shock, it felt like every pin and nail and plate that held my shattered bones together suddenly jarred loose and sent me back to pieces.

  “Shit, you okay?” I heard Teo say somewhere over me.

  A few moments went by before I could speak. I lay half propped up on my side, staring down. I’d twisted my ankle hard enough to break the suction suspension on my BK prosthetic.

  “My leg came off,” I said, staring at it.

  “I see that. Do you need—”

  “And my elbow’s bleeding.”

  He knelt next to me, smelling of hair product and stale ciga­rette smoke, sitting me up with careful hands. It had been a year since I had a hug, so I sort of turned it into one.

  “You dumb shit,” he said. “Why did you hit me? Now I have to report you.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “Don’t move; I’ll be right back.” He tried to pull away. “Let go, you nut job; I’m not reporting you this minute, I’m getting something for your elbow.” He eased me onto the beanbag chair and hurried out, returning with a wet washcloth.

  I grabbed his arm. “Please don’t report me.”

  He pulled free, then handed me the cloth. “I have to; it’s the rules.”

  “I don’t want to go back to the hospital. I’ve got nowhere else to go. Please.”

  “I’ll tell her I provoked you. And I’m sorry about that, I only meant—”

  “I know what you meant, just shut up now please.” I adjusted the silicone sheath on my shin and slid it back into the suspension, but the seal was sloppy.