Borderline

by Mishell Baker

  “With Teo?” said Caryl, arching a brow.

  “No, with Rivenholt. He seems very . . . vulnerable, right now, to judge by his drawings.”

  Caryl studied me. “You’re concerned about him?”

  “The drawings really affected me for some reason.”

  “Apparently the iron doesn’t stop the psychic elements of fey magic from reaching you. A pity.”

  “What are you going to do now? About Rivenholt?”

  “I am going to drive to the resort and confront him.”

  “By yourself?”

  “I want to handle this personally; it’s crucial that we keep Berenbaum happy, as he’s our primary donor. I don’t require a partner; Elliott serves a similar function for me.”

  “But I’m guessing Elliott can’t give you information you don’t already know. Maybe you should take me with you. I was there for the conversation with Berenbaum; I might spot a clue you can’t.”

  “This would defeat the punitive purpose of your suspension.”

  “Negative reinforcement doesn’t really work with Border­lines.”

  “Then how do you suggest we improve your functioning?”

  I sighed and tried to remember what Dr. Davis had explained to me. “Dr. Davis says BPD has something to do with sensitive people being raised in ‘invalidating environments.’ Whatever that means. So I guess, you know, don’t invalidate me.”

  Caryl looked at me for a long time. I would have given anything to know what she was thinking. Sometimes the first thing laypeople learn about Borderlines is that they can’t be trusted, and after that, further learning isn’t too likely.

  “Be ready at four a.m.,” she finally said. “If you are not dressed and waiting when I come by, I will leave without you.”

  • • •

  Even for a morning person, being ready for a road trip at four a.m. was a little harsh. And since we were planning to run into the viscount, I didn’t want to just slouch in there with my hair sticking up every which way.

  I started to put on the same outfit I’d worn to meet with Berenbaum, as it was my nicest and still fairly clean, but then I thought of the slim possibility that Berenbaum himself might show up at some point and decided not to risk the embarrassment. I chose my only other skirt and a matching knit top, then girded myself to face down the mirror.

  I went through yesterday’s makeup ritual, trying to convince myself that it was a little easier this time. I used styling wax to make it look like my hair was messy on purpose, and even tried on a pair of earrings before I started feeling a ­little too much like crying. I sponged a bit more makeup on my left arm and decided that was as much whitewash as this mud fence could handle. I went to the living room to wait.

  Caryl arrived at one minute till four, looking as put-together as always. After a brusque greeting, she handed me a pair of glasses like Teo’s. “I am lending you these,” she said. “If you behave yourself, you can keep them.”

  I took them in the hand that wasn’t holding my cane and slipped them on, noting once again the odd purplish-green haze that surrounded Caryl. “I’d rather have a phone,” I said. At this hour I sounded almost as hoarse as she did.

  Elliott attached himself to my shoulder, and Caryl pressed a fat file folder into my hand. “Familiarize yourself with that during the drive,” she said, and headed for the door, giving me little choice but to follow.

  “Does this mean I’m back on the case?”

  “For the moment.”

  “This file . . . I actually get kind of queasy if I try to read in a moving car.”

  “Then bring a bag if you like,” she said, “just so long as you bring the file.”

  I got into the car, belted myself in, pushed the glasses to the top of my head, and settled the folder into my lap, watching Caryl as she backed out of the driveway. “What kind of a name is Vallo?” I said. “Italian?”

  “My father is Czech-Indian and my mother is of Moroccan Berber descent, if that satisfies your need for ethnic categorization.”

  It didn’t, really, and then Caryl turned on some baroque harpsichord music at a punishing volume to discourage further small talk. Reading was hard enough for my rattled brain at the best of times; now I was squinting in the narrow glare of a reading light, trying to block out complicated melodies and keep down a bargain-brand bear claw.

  To keep myself from ruining Caryl’s leather seats, I mostly looked at the pictures. Some were stills from a recent film I had apparently missed due to either being in an anesthetic coma or locked up in the loony bin. There were reviews tucked into the file, too; they mostly praised John Riven’s ability to look stunning in various kinds of light.

  From what I could pick up between long, restorative bouts of staring out the window, Rivenholt had been visiting our world regularly for forty-seven years, and every decade or so he changed his human identity. He always favored pale hair and skin and always appeared to be in his late twenties to early thirties.

  “Hey, Caryl,” I said over the music. “Is it possible that Rivenholt could have changed his face since you saw him last?”

  “Not without returning to Arcadia to replenish his essence, and not without a human’s help.”

  “Because they don’t really get what we’re supposed to look like.”

  Caryl nodded, then turned up the music a bit more. I took the hint and dived back into the file.

  The viscount’s latest persona, John Riven, was the only one who had dabbled in acting; the rest had stayed out of the limelight aside from being occasionally photographed as a “close family friend” of the Berenbaums. His earliest alias, Forrest Cloven, had almost no paper trail at all and only one photograph, taken by the Project itself in 1971. None of his four faces really resonated with me the way the drawings had. They weren’t him.

  I was overcome by an urge to look at the drawings again, to study them, as though somehow I could solve the mystery of this man by following the strokes of his pen.

  “Did Teo give you both the drawings?” I half shouted at Caryl. “I want to see them.”

  She turned the music down: a small victory. “You’ll destroy them,” she said.

  “Then give me the one I already destroyed.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” I said irritably. “For the file.”

  She kept trying to give me one of her long, searching looks, but it was hard to do while driving in the dark. Finally she gave up. “Open my purse for me, but do not touch its contents.”

  It was an odd little bag, held together with leather straps and wooden rings. I managed to wrestle it open and presented it to her. Slipping my glasses back over my eyes, I saw the faint glow of magical objects inside the bag. I also noticed that Elliott was curled up in my lap as though dozing.

  Caryl, surrounded by that odd dark haze, felt around for the drawings without taking her eyes off the road, then handed me the one that had been crumpled and folded and drained of its magic. I snatched it from her with a little thrill.

  “Why did you hit Teo?” Caryl asked me before I had even unfolded the paper.

  I tensed, glad the glasses hid my eyes. “I thought he already talked to you about it.”

  “I want to hear your version.”

  I proceeded carefully, not sure what he’d told her and not wanting to contradict. “I was rattled,” I said. “Dr. Davis would call them ‘vulnerability factors.’ I had just walked in on Gloria screaming at what’s-his-name, and then I went up to Teo’s room, which was all cramped and dirty, and I was feeling kind of . . . trapped. I overreacted, and I’m sorry. If I had access to a phone, I could keep up my coaching with Dr. Davis; it’s very helpful.”

  “Overreacted to what exactly?”

  “Just something he said. Something I interpreted as . . . an insult about my appearance.”

  “Is y
our appearance important to you?”

  I snorted. “This is Los Angeles.”

  “That isn’t an answer.”

  “And you’re not my therapist. Give me a phone and I’ll call her.”

  Elliott fluttered from my lap to Caryl’s side of the car. I came within a hairbreadth of apologizing to the creature, then stopped myself.

  “Does Elliott have feelings?” I said.

  “In a manner of speaking, I suppose it does. The emotions of a child: unschooled and volatile.”

  “I’m sorry,” I cooed gently at the creature. “You’re a sweet thing. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Elliott crawled back across the car to me, wings limp. He lay back down in my lap, then rolled over, exposing a fine-scaled belly.

  “Aw, I want to pet him,” I said. I stroked my fingers through the air where his belly was, but I had no way of knowing if he could feel it.

  “Showing affection to the construct serves no purpose,” Caryl said.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I blurted, sending Elliott skittering away again. “Do you have no feelings at all?”

  “Not when I am at work.”

  “Wow. Must be nice to be able to just switch them off.”

  “It is.”

  I ground my teeth and opened up the paper to look at the drawing, pushing my glasses back to the top of my head. The confident, evocative lines of the sketch soothed me, even without the magic. Idly I traced a fingertip over the angular Ds on either end of DREAMLAND.

  “I am concerned by the way you are fondling that drawing,” Caryl observed languidly. “I know how easily someone with your disorder can become infatuated.”

  I stiffened, folding the drawing back up. “You know just enough about BPD to be really unhelpful.”

  “I know how bored and restless you must feel when you have no one on whom to focus your passion. It’s why Teo’s dismissal enraged you; he was your best candidate.”

  “Stop it,” I said.

  “I need you to understand that you would find no happiness with Rivenholt either. He would always put you second. No romance can approach the bond between a fey and his Echo.”

  “I guess it sucks that you don’t have one,” I said acidly.

  “My dear Millicent,” she said lazily, “if that were the greatest tragedy of my life, I would be a lucky woman.”

  I felt a twisted stab of contrition, mixed with concern and curiosity, but when I opened my mouth, what came out was, “Poor you with your magic powers and your nice clothes and your SUV.”

  Most Borderlines are virtually incapable of a sincere apology. Tell a Borderline she has hurt you and she responds with a list of ways you’ve hurt her worse. Why? Because in a “split” world, someone has to wear the black hat, and for a person with suicidal tendencies, avoiding guilt is quite literally a ­matter of life and death.

  “The difference,” Caryl said to me, “is that virtually everything that has gone wrong in your life, you have done to yourself.”

  “Fuck you,” I said, because nothing pisses off a Borderline quite like the truth.

  14

  The Regazo de Lujo Spa and Retreat was spread over fifty acres of green, sea-kissed land in Santa Barbara, but when we arrived, the sun had yet to rise to paint it in all its splendor. Even in the dark, the sprawling grounds and distant stucco villas looked inviting—but the REGISTERED GUESTS ONLY sign and dour-looking security guard at the end of the long, narrow driveway were decidedly less so. Caryl drove past the entrance as though planning to circle back around, but this place took the word “retreat” seriously; I hadn’t seen any sign of public parking for miles.

  “Where are we supposed to put the car?” I said. “Are you expecting us to park five miles away and walk?”

  Caryl turned off her headlights and began to slow down, easing her car over to the side of the road. She checked her mirrors, then drove over the curb onto the grass, coming to a lurching stop.

  “Get out of the car, quickly,” she said in a crisp tone that brooked no hesitation.

  “You’re going to get us towed.” I heaved myself awkwardly out of the passenger-side door, still queasy from my attempts at making sense of Rivenholt’s file. My nausea was not abated in the slightest when Caryl, now standing next to the hood on the driver’s side, rolled her eyes back and began to murmur under her breath in a foreign tongue.

  When I say foreign, I don’t mean foreign in the sense of “from another country” but in the sense of “invading virus.” The harsh, wet consonants and dripping diphthongs made the hairs on my arms and neck lift away from my skin. I slipped the fey lenses down over my eyes and saw that the shadows around Caryl’s form had thickened; Elliott had gone as still as a gargoyle on her shoulder.

  A sickly webbing the color of an old bruise began to spread across the windshield, then the windows, then the entire SUV. My hair stirred in a breath of wind that stank like an abattoir; I shuddered and pushed my sunglasses back up into my hair.

  The car was gone.

  No, of course it wasn’t. I stepped forward and touched the window, just to prove myself sane. I could still feel and almost see the cold gleam of glass under my fingers, but all my baser instincts were stubbornly telling me there was nothing there at all.

  “Glamoured,” I said, remembering the bookstore. I cleared my throat when I heard how hoarse I sounded.

  Caryl sagged against the hood for a moment, seeming supported by thin air. Her eyes started to roll back again, but she fought it, easing herself onto the grass to keep from outright falling. There was now a car between us, but to my stupid hoodwinked brain it looked as though she had simply vanished.

  “Caryl,” I said in alarm, hobbling around the invisible SUV to look down at her. She was sitting on the grass with her head between her knees. I felt a familiar tingling on my shoulder, and lowered my glasses, pointlessly putting a hand up to steady Elliott. He buried his face in the curve of my neck, and I tried to kneel next to Caryl. I half expected to smell or feel the smoky darkness that surrounded her, but I couldn’t.

  “I’m fine,” she said without lifting her head. “I really shouldn’t cast spells of that magnitude while I have Elliott out.”

  “Why did you?”

  “You’d rather park five miles away and walk?” she said dryly.

  Impulsively I laid a hand on her shoulder through the haze. Elliott fluttered away from me and curled into a ball on the grass.

  “Please do not touch me,” Caryl said. “Ever.”

  I yanked my hand away and stared out into the dark road, focusing on my breath. Elliott, fickle child that he was, came back to my shoulder and nuzzled me.

  “I am aware of the intent of your gesture,” Caryl said behind me. It sounded as though she was slowly getting to her feet. “And your concern is appreciated.”

  I didn’t look at her. “Are you sure it’s not Elliott who’s real, and you’re the construct?” I said. Elliott cringed on my shoulder, but this time Caryl didn’t deign to reply.

  “Come along,” was all she said.

  The sun was starting to color the eastern sky, but the grounds of the resort were still dim enough that lamps glowed all over. I kept my sunglasses on nonetheless, not wanting to lose sight of Elliott or miss signs of magic. Caryl didn’t wear glasses herself; maybe being a warlock gave her all the otherworldly sight she needed. One of these days I intended to find out exactly what the hell a warlock was.

  Since we’d slipped in at the edge of the grounds, the man guarding the driveway never saw us, and there was no one to stop us from walking across the grand spread of green lawn right into the main lobby. Apparently unauthorized pedestrians weren’t a big problem.

  Caryl paused for a moment on the lawn, pulling out her phone and dialing. “Forrest Cloven’s room, please,” she said. After a few moments she said, “Hello
?” in as warm a tone as I had ever heard her use, though her facial expression didn’t change to match. “Are you there? It’s Caryl Vallo from the Project.”

  She listened for a moment, then ended the call and slipped the phone back into her pocket.

  “You kind of just ruined the element of surprise,” I said.

  “He did not know where I am calling from.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing at all. He picked up the phone without a greeting, then hung up when I identified myself.”

  “So what now?”

  “I believe you would call it a ‘stakeout.’”

  The spacious lobby had slick hardwood floors the color of tea and scones, flanked by archways that let in just a hint of a sea breeze. Caryl ignored the drowsy woman working third shift at the front desk and seated herself in a comfortable chair out of the woman’s eye line, as casually as though she belonged there. I followed her lead.

  There was a bar just off the lobby, currently abandoned. I thought about the last bar I’d been in, the clink of Scott’s glass against mine, and shuddered.

  Elliott fluttered over to land in my lap, where he appeared to go to sleep. While I had doubted Teo’s ability to manage a stakeout the day before, Caryl seemed like just the sort of ­person to sit patiently for hours if not weeks at a time. I suddenly wished I’d brought a book.

  “This was your cunning plan?” I whispered. “I woke up at three in the morning so we could hurry up here and wait?”

  “I needed to catch the viscount sleeping, in order to confuse him into answering the phone and possibly flush him out. I also needed darkness and privacy to hide the car.”

  “What do we do if he comes down here?” My stomach did a weird little flip at the thought.

  “We’ll have a pleasant conversation. He needs to remember that whatever sort of trouble he is in, we are here to help him. He may have forgotten that he does not have to answer to local law enforcement. All he needs to do is go home.”