Bad Luck Girl

by Sarah Zettel

  By that time, my skin had decided something was wrong after all. Pain throbbed in my arms and belly. Papa didn’t say a word. He just took my wrists, and his magic flowed across my skin like cool water. It stung for a second, but when I turned my palms up again, the skin was whole. He looked at me with his swirling, shining gaze, but the light wasn’t as bright as it had been, and I saw there were dark rings under his eyes and his face was drawn tight. My father was wearing out. He’d been using a lot of magic, fast, and he was still weak from his imprisonment, not to mention the fight with the Seelie king, and he’d just had to rescue us again.

  I bit my lip and turned away.

  Papa sighed and moved off to heal Jack and clean him up, same as he’d done to me. My mother had put on the look that meant a lecture was coming. But I wasn’t going to hear it. I knew I was wrong. I knew it was my fault Jack was hurt, but I couldn’t make myself say anything about it. It didn’t make any sense, but there it was anyhow. I turned away from all of them and marched to the granite station wall. I folded my arms stubbornly, and bent my knees until I slid down the wall and crouched in the shade. I would be double-darned if I was going to apologize for what I’d done. I was trying to save lives. And I wasn’t a baby. I knew what was what. I took my own chances. And Papa hadn’t needed to sic those men on that tree, whatever it was. Why couldn’t he hear it? Why couldn’t he have tried to help?

  Something sizzled overhead, and then it hissed, “You!”

  My gaze jerked up to the swaying power lines. Edison looked down at me with its almost human eyes. It had dimmed its white blaze, so it was barely more than a heat mirage rippling in the bright daylight. It swung down from the line, stretching its arms out like rubber bands until it dangled almost level with my eyes.

  “You killed her,” it breathed, if that’s a word you can use with something that flickers and burns.

  “Wha …” For one wild second I thought it was talking about Ivy Bright.

  “You killed Stripling.” Its words spat and scattered like sparks. “You stood there and let her get hacked to death!”

  I winced, and batted at the sparks as they fell. “It wasn’t me,” I tried to say. “I—”

  “Oh, save it!” The creature swung toward me. Edison might have dimmed down, but its heat still prickled against my skin. I tried to press backward, but there was nowhere to go. “You listen to me, Bad Luck Girl.” It stretched its glowing mouth out into a thin, mean grin. “Oh, yeah, I figured out who you are. Didn’t take me long neither. You’d better be real careful from here on in. ’Cause I’m putting the word out on you, and you can bet your last nickel the Halfers are all gonna know which side you’re on.”

  “What …” But the creature flashed back up to the power line. It balanced on the curve of black wire for a second, blazing bright, and then it was gone.

  4

  The Rock Island Line, She’s a Mighty Good Road

  I hurried back to my parents, mumbling apologies and ignoring Jack’s frantic looks. I stuck to them like glue the whole time we were navigating the Central Station, even though I could barely look at Mama. Every time I did, I saw her face drawn up tight with hurt and anger, and how she kept holding tight to Papa’s hand.

  Getting on the train was less of a problem than I’d been afraid of. Jack—helped out by the fat wallet Papa’s magic had given him—bought us tickets for a drawing room compartment on the Golden State Limited to Chicago, with a change to the 20th Century Limited to get us through to New York City. The sleeping-car porter was an old man with bent shoulders, sparse gray hair, and rich black skin. He showed the four of us to the drawing room without so much as remarking on the fact that we had not one piece of luggage between us, or even seeming to notice about us being different colors, which made me a lot more nervous than it should have.

  I’d never been in a Pullman car before, never mind in one of the private compartments. You could have lived for a month in there and not felt cramped. There was a dining nook by the window with two benches and a gateleg table that folded out from the wall. A curving cupboard overhead held the spare berth. There was a clothes closet, and two chairs, and a daybed made up so tight you could have bounced a quarter on its blue blanket. There was even a carpet on the floor, and cream and green paper on the walls. A separate door opened onto a washroom about the size of a postage stamp.

  If it wasn’t for what it was doing to Papa, I would have had the ride of my life.

  As soon as I got on board, the iron blocked up my magic senses, so everything was kind of dim around the edges and my head felt stuffy, like I had a bad cold. But where I was a little uncomfortable, Papa was sick as a dog, and maybe even sicker. When we first climbed up the steps behind the porter, Papa was as debonair as ever. But by the time we reached our compartment, perspiration dripped from his forehead and he leaned on Mama’s arm so he wouldn’t stagger too bad. As soon as the porter left us alone, Mama propped Papa up in the daybed with the pillows behind him and all the blankets over him because he couldn’t stop shivering.

  All that day, while the train rattled through the mountains and down into the desert on the other side, Papa lay in the daybed, and got worse. Jack shut the transom windows to keep out the draft and smoke, and got an extra blanket from the porter. As it came onto evening, we rang for tea and toast. Papa tried hard to take a sip, but in the end he just pushed the cup away. First Mama, then Jack, offered to try wishing for him, but he smiled and shook his head.

  “It’s just the one night,” declared Papa hoarsely. “We’ll be in Chicago tomorrow.” And then we’d have to get on another train to get out to New York. Mama forced a smile, and squeezed his hand. She looked to me, and I tried to pull out some magic for him, I swear I did, but I could only reach a tiny, shapeless trickle. I was as cut off as Papa was. The difference was, being so cut off was killing him. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t already been so tired out when he got on board, but he had been and it was.

  I suddenly couldn’t stand being in there anymore.

  “I’m gonna go find Jack,” I said to Mama. Jack had gone into the main compartment about a half hour ago, on some errand he hadn’t bothered to explain, and he wasn’t back yet. I didn’t wait for anybody to answer; I just went straight out the door. I especially didn’t look back. I didn’t want to see another of Mama’s hurt, puzzled looks. Or worse, see that she wasn’t looking at me at all, just at Papa.

  Our drawing room was at one end of the sleeping car. After us came the section with the open berths, and after them were the bedrooms, which were smaller than the drawing rooms, just big enough for a couple of bunk-type beds. Past that there was the lounge section with its swivel seats and pairs of sofas facing one another. Some other travelers played cards across the fold-down tables, or read the paper. Cigarette smoke turned the air hazy. Mothers and nurses shushed children and tried to make them pay attention to their books and crayons. A prim woman bent over her needlework.

  I didn’t have to look hard for Jack. He was coming up the central aisle toward me. I opened my mouth, but he hooked his hand around my elbow and steered me into the little space by the public washroom.

  “I was talking to the conductor,” Jack whispered. “Tomorrow morning, we’re coming up through Texas and Arkansas.”

  Those were segregation states. I swallowed. If anybody saw the color of Papa’s skin, they’d make him move into the stripped-down Colored car, where he wouldn’t have a bed, or blankets, or water, or a fan for the heat. Just bare benches and open windows. He might even have to wait for another train if this one didn’t have a Colored car, and sure as sure, they wouldn’t let Mama go along to take care of him. I had a feeling Mama wasn’t going to stand for being separated from her husband, especially while he was so sick. But if we kicked up a fuss, we wouldn’t be allowed on any train at all. We could even be arrested, or worse, especially if Mama forgot herself and pointed out they were married. If there was one thing I knew about Jim Crow territory, i
t was that they did not like seeing a white woman anywhere near a black man.

  “And that’s not the only problem,” I muttered. This was the first time Jack and I had been alone since we got on the train, and with Papa getting so sick so fast, I hadn’t wanted to give Mama anything else to worry about. So I hadn’t told her about the fire critter, or its threats.

  But I told Jack right then, and his face tightened up. “Yeah, okay. That does not sound good.” He let out a long sigh. “But we’ll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  We stood quiet for a long time, trying not to fall over as the train swayed around a bend in the track. The door at the end of the car opened, and the old porter came out, balancing a tray with a decanter and two glasses on his fingers. He bowed and smiled as he presented the tray to a pair of men playing cards. One of them took the bottle and glasses, and dropped a nickel down.

  I swallowed. “I’m gonna see what I can do for Papa,” I told Jack. “You go warn Mama we’ll have to stay in the room for the rest of the ride.”

  Jack nodded and headed back to the drawing room. The porter, in the meantime, had tucked his tray under his arm and was starting back up the aisle.

  “ ’Scuse me, Mr. Porter …,” I began as he drew even with me.

  He turned, beaming brightly and ducking his head so he wouldn’t be much taller than me. “Now, missy, you just call me George. What is it I can do for you?”

  I bit my lip. It took a minute’s hard struggle, but I was able to crack open my magic a little. Enough to sense this man’s name wasn’t George. That was just what the company told the porters to say. His name was Lincoln Jones. With that to hold on to, I could work an illusion on him, for a little while at least. Especially if I could sit down soon, because my knees were already shaking from the effort of keeping my magic open. I didn’t want to have to fool him, because Mr. Jones was just doing his job, and I was pretty sure he was a good man, but Papa had to be able to stay with us, and never mind what Jim Crow had to say about it.

  But as I stood there trying to shape the illusion in my head and in my power, Lincoln Jones laughed at me. “Don’t you worry, missy,” he said. “I see how your father’s so sick. No one will disturb you until you get where you’re going. That’s a promise.”

  “I … Thank you.”

  “Oh, don’t thank me. Word’s come down the line about you.”

  “What? How …?” My insides bunched up tight. But of all the things I could see about Mr. Jones, I didn’t see the least tiny bit of fairy light in his kind brown eyes.

  “Word’s from Daddy Joe hisself.” Mr. Jones winked. “The porters were to ease your way if you ever came on the rails. Some of us old-timers heard and we’ve made sure those as need to know do know.” His eyes narrowed and his head tilted. It was a small change, but for that single moment, that Pullman porter called George was gone, and I was seeing the real Lincoln Jones. He was careful and he was smart, and he knew every inch of the risk he was taking. “You and yours play it cool until we get into Chicago, and we’ll all be fine,” he whispered. “Get me?”

  I nodded and Mr. Jones broke out the great big porter’s grin again. “Well then, missy, you get back to your mama, and tell her not to worry none. I’ll be taking care of you personal.” He gave me another bow and a smile, mostly, I think, so nobody watching would think he’d said anything out of turn. Then Mr. Jones started up the aisle, walking as smoothly as if that rattling train was standing still.

  I collapsed back against the window. I’d met Daddy Joe on another train—a long black train that runs between this world and the next. Daddy Joe was the porter in charge there. He wasn’t a fairy, though. I wasn’t exactly sure what he was. Like the Indian spirit Coyote—who I also met—Daddy Joe was a mystery of his own kind. He was plenty powerful, though, and I guess he looked after his own.

  I looked at Mr. Jones’s bent back and I wondered how close he was to being taken up on Daddy Joe’s train. But unlike the prison tree in Hooverville, there really wasn’t anything I could do about that, except for maybe one thing.

  “Thank you,” I breathed. “If ever I can return the favor, I will.”

  Mr. Jones was as good as his word. He was the only one who knocked on our compartment door during that trip. If he had the conductor with him, he announced it, so Jack could be at the door to hand over the tickets to be inspected and punched. Mr. Jones brought us dinner, and came back at nine o’clock to set up the second bed and open the upper berth so we could all try to get some shut-eye. He even rustled up some pajamas and bathrobes for us, and took away our clothes to be cleaned and pressed for morning.

  Mama insisted I take the second bed, saying she’d sit up with Papa. I climbed under the covers and pulled the starched sheets up to my chin while Jack swung himself into the upper berth. I didn’t figure I’d sleep with so much rolling around in my head and the noise of the rails under the floor. But I was wrong. The past few days had been too long, and though it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as for Papa, I had the iron dragging on me too. When I shut my eyes, I didn’t so much fall asleep as fly straight toward it.

  I don’t know how long it was before the dream caught up with me. It wasn’t any kind of normal dream, where you’re inside a picture show that sort of makes sense. I don’t even know if dream is the right word for what happened. It started with me slowly understanding that something was going on, even though I was still firmly in sleep’s pitch-black and dead quiet. I couldn’t seem to get my eyes to open or my arms to move. I thought for a minute I was back through the fairy gate, and fear woke up along with the rest of my brain.

  Yesssss …, said a soft, beautiful voice. There she is. Yesssss … I see her now.

  Away wherever my real body’d gotten itself to, I’m pretty sure my heart stopped and my mouth went dry. I knew that voice. I’d heard it before, coming out of nowhere, just like this.

  “Shake,” my dream mouth said. “Uncle Shake.”

  I felt a jolt of recognition, and more than a little fear. But just for a minute. Well, well, little niece. I could hear the smile Uncle Shake forced into his voice. You have been a busy girl.

  “Where are you?” I tried to turn around, but since there was nothing but a world’s worth of solid black all around me, I couldn’t tell whether I actually managed it.

  Nowhere you know, my uncle’s voice answered. Where are you?

  I tried hard to think about the boarding house where I’d stayed in Los Angeles, about Ivy Bright’s bungalow, about anything except the train I was riding on. The last thing we needed was Uncle Shake coming around to add to our troubles. The Seelies and their friends were giving us more than enough to do.

  Unfortunately, what popped up easiest in my mind was my father lying in his bed, sweating and restless from the fever the iron laid across him. Maybe I couldn’t see a single thing about my uncle, but he had a front-row seat to what I was thinking.

  I heard Shake’s tongue click. Does my brother really look that bad, or are you having nightmares?

  “Show yourself!” I shouted back. I did not like his voice coming out of nowhere and everywhere. I did not like being blind as well as frozen and the rising fear was making it hard to think straight. “Show me your face, Lorcan deMinuit!”

  The power of my uncle’s real name rang through that nightmare dark, and all at once, I did see him.

  The first time I met my uncle, he was a handsome man with medium-brown skin, a pencil-thin mustache, and fairy eyes like amber and starlight all mixed together. He’d stood at his royal father’s side and his smile was full of confidence and cleverness. The second time I met him, he was nothing but a broken-down hobo who’d been kicked out by his parents, my grandparents. They’d left him with a scar that had ruined one of those eyes, turning it milk white and near blind under a sagging eyelid. I’d never found out how it happened, but it sure looked like somebody’d cut him deep.

  Wherever he was now, he’d changed again. Uncle Lorcan sat in a c
hair carved of ebony, his crooked hands lying lightly on its arms. He wore a black silk shirt and gray silk trousers trimmed with silver, and boots cuffed and traced with more silver. He looked like a Russian dancer I’d seen once when my human grandparents took me to a vaudeville show, only more sparkly. I guessed these were his fairy prince clothes. He wore a mask too. It was shining, obsidian black, molded across his eyes like a second skin. Silver ribbons tied it to his head, and more silver made patterns across the front, like vines, or maybe veins. Where the eyeholes should have been, there were mirrors, round and shining. Anyone who met Shake’s gaze would see their own eyes staring back at them. I shivered. That mask reminded me too much of being in the Seelie king’s palace. There’d been a whole party’s worth of fairies there, all of them in jeweled masks, all of them laughing at me.

  My uncle wasn’t alone. A crowd of what had to be fairies surrounded his ebony chair. They were tall and beautiful, but more like trees than humans, with long white fingers and blank white eyes and glimmering white robes. There were other, smaller people clustered around their knees, people like pale sticks, and people like marble stones, all of them beautiful and terrible in their own ways. Every last one of them was armed. They carried spears or swords, or long-handled axes. A silver shield rested at my uncle’s feet, marked by a golden mask. All the pale people around him had that golden mask on them somewhere too, on a shield or embedded in a spear shaft, or sunk straight into their white skin.

  Now that Shake could see me, his friends could all see me as well, and they did not like what they saw. There was somebody else too. Behind the rest of the crowd I could feel the burn of a fire made from nothing but hate.

  So, my little niece thinks she knows how to use true names now. My uncle’s sneer was as smooth and sharp as any knife blade and all those pale, pretty creatures laughed at it. That’s good, that’s good. You keep thinking, Callie LeRoux. Think very hard about this war you’ve made possible, and how soon you’re all going to die for it.