Prize of Night

by Bailey Cunningham

  “It’s not your fault,” she said.

  Carl blinked at her. “What?”

  “All of this. The shit-show that we’re currently in the middle of. Everything that’s happened over the past few months. None of it is your fault.”

  “I get that.”

  “I don’t think you do. Roldan didn’t die because of you. He died because he made a choice. There was nothing you could do to stop it.”

  Carl looked at his hands. “I saw his expression. I knew what he was up to. I could have run faster, Shelby.”

  “No.” She placed her hand on his. “You weren’t even there. Roldan made the choice, and Babieca couldn’t do anything about it. Not even if he was a fast runner. Which is impossible, because when he’s sober, he can barely make it up a flight of stairs.”

  Carl chuckled softly. “What an asshole.”

  “The wheel turns. You can’t predict where it’s going to go.”

  “That’s parking.”

  “We’re in a park.” She looked around. “Maybe we never left.”

  “What are we supposed to do?” He folded his arms. She could see a bit of his familiar waspishness coming back. “I don’t even know who we’re fighting anymore. Is Andrew the enemy? Does Latona want us dead? If so, she’s playing the long game. Every time someone buzzes my apartment, I expect to see a homicidal eunuch, but it’s always just the delivery guy.”

  “If you want to be absolutely sure, you could always just pick up the order.”

  “Spices of Punjab is too far away. I’d rather take my chances.”

  Now it was Shelby’s turn to stare at the grass. She couldn’t tell Ingrid. Not yet. But she had to tell Carl. Better to come clean now, before he pulled it out of her. Ingrid gave her the benefit of the doubt. Even if she sensed that something was wrong, she’d just put on another pot of coffee and refuse to ask questions. Carl was direct. If he saw a loose thread, he’d pull it until the tapestry was in shambles.

  “I have to tell you something,” she said.

  “Are you quitting the program?”

  She looked at him sharply. “No. Why would you think that?”

  “Well, your supervisor might literally be a monster. And you haven’t complained about your thesis in a while. I thought maybe you were teetering. The job placement rate is something like twenty-five percent. Nobody would blame you for leaving academia.”

  “This is your pep talk?”

  “I’m only trying to be realistic. It’s even harder to get a job as a historian. If I’m lucky, I’ll end up as my mother’s research assistant.”

  “Wow. The university should ask you to write their advertising copy.”

  “At least it would be honest.”

  “We don’t know for sure that my supervisor is a monster.”

  “Ingrid hit a silenus with her car, and the very next day, Trish Marsden was in the hospital with a broken leg and multiple fractures.”

  “That doesn’t make them one and the same! If you hit a coyote with your car, and the next day I ended up in the hospital, would you think that I was a shape-shifter?”

  “I wouldn’t rule it out.”

  She digested this for a moment in silence. Her subconscious certainly agreed with Carl, if dreams were anything to go by. The silenus haunted her. But there was absolutely no proof that the two were connected. For all she knew, Dr. Marsden had been hit by a drunk driver, and the silenus had crawled away at dawn. But when she’d visited her supervisor in the hospital, something had seemed not quite right. Then Dr. Laclos had shown up with coffee and pastries. It didn’t seem plausible that a monster would eat a croissant. That didn’t have quite the same effect as I’ll grind your bones to make my bread. Though perhaps that was just ogres. There might be a whole cadre of civilized monsters who ate nothing but pain au chocolat.

  Carl waved at her, and she realized that she’d been staring into space.

  “Sorry.”

  “I said: if you’re not quitting, then what do you need to tell me?”

  That I’m falling in love with a single mom, and it scares the shit out of me. That I think we’re all in way over our heads. That I don’t know what my own mother wants from me. That I thought about quitting the program seconds before you mentioned it.

  “Last night, I was in Egressus.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “I traveled there. With Narses. I mean, he showed me the way.”

  “Why are you talking to Narses all of a sudden?”

  “He found me. Anyhow, that part isn’t so important.”

  “It’s important to me. If you’re having secret meetings with Latona’s former chamberlain, I think you ought to explain why.”

  “I told you. He approached me. It’s not like I was stalking him.”

  “He just knocked on your door.”

  The problem with telling the truth is that there are no half measures. Either you’re all in, or you’re still lying. Shelby knew that Carl wouldn’t let it go. She’d have to give him the whole story, even if the beginning was messier than the end.

  Shelby sighed. “Fine. I was following Andrew.”

  “I know. I saw you getting out of your truck.”

  Her eyes widened. “You knew this whole time?”

  “It was painful watching you deny it.”

  “Were you following him too?”

  “No. I was at the paper store, and I saw you parked there, and wondered what was going on. When you didn’t say anything at Ingrid’s, I was even more curious.”

  “You could have just asked.”

  “And you’d have told me the truth?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Well, now I’m completely won over.”

  They were silent for a beat. Shelby wished that she’d saved part of her steamed bun. It was a good excuse to stop talking. Finally, she said: “Andrew and the eunuch are working as some kind of team. I don’t know if they’re on Latona’s payroll or not, but Narses seems to be having second thoughts. That’s why he brought me to Egressus. I think”—she frowned—“he might actually be scared of Andrew. Of what he might do.”

  Carl took a moment to accept this. Then he looked at her strangely, as if seeing her for the first time. “Wait. You just followed a eunuch into a park, in the middle of the night, and then let him take you to a second location? Your mother would be so disappointed.”

  “That’s her usual state,” she murmured. “Look, I know it was sketchy. But I think he’s on our side.”

  “You’re that sure, huh?”

  “He took me to see Basilissa Pulcheria.”

  Carl frowned. “He’s some kind of double agent for her?”

  “It stands to reason, doesn’t it? Latona exiled him. Pulcheria’s no friend of hers. They make perfect bedfellows.”

  “There’s a little something missing, I believe.”

  She ignored this. “Pulcheria has been gathering strength for some time. She knows what Latona’s planning, and she intends to stop it.”

  “So we get to be her pawns? That’s a lateral promotion at best, Shel.”

  “We don’t have a lot of options here. If she really intends to raise the lares as some sort of army, then we have to move quickly.” Shelby didn’t say they—she didn’t quite want to believe that Andrew had a hand in this—but the doubt refused to vanish.

  “How can you trust Pulcheria?”

  “Because she owes us. We saved her life.”

  “She could still throw us under the wheel.”

  “It’s not as if we’ve been doing a bang-up job lately as free agents. We’re caught between rival queens, and if we don’t choose one, they’ll both end up crushing us.”

  Carl laughed. “Sometimes, I can’t believe what we sound like.” Then he stood up.

  “Wh
ere are you going?”

  “To get a hot dog. I can’t hear any more of this until I’ve had a proper lunch.”

  “Hobbit.”

  He stuck his tongue out at her and walked toward the hot dog stand.

  Shelby looked at the war monument again. She half expected to see a monster there, watching her from a patch of shadows. But the concrete was awash with light, and the only person nearby was a woman selling flowers.

  • • •

  She sat in the driveway, not quite able to exit the car. It was strange. She wanted to be here more than anything. Her mother was away at a conference, and she’d suggested that Shelby check in on her grandmother, as if it were another errand. In fact, she relished the time alone with her. When her mother was around, they always ended up in the middle of a decades-long argument whose exact permutations eluded her. They knew all the lyrics by heart, while Shelby just hummed along, making sure that nothing sharp had been left on the kitchen counter. When her mother was gone, the tension dissipated. The house could breathe again. They’d order takeout and listen to opera on the radio, or nokohm would treat herself to a glass of prosecco and tell stories about the crazy uncles.

  It wasn’t that her mother created tension on purpose. Like most academics, she was an introvert who was paid to perform as an extrovert for several hours a day. She could spend hours in the garden, sparring with cucumbers, or lose herself for an entire day in a book about ancient phonology. But sometimes, it was as if some tightly wound spring within her suddenly burst from its mechanism. Shelby could almost sense it coming, a faint barometric change that signaled an oncoming fight. Her grandmother had no problem dealing with these tempests, but Shelby found them unsettling. Her response was generally to lock herself in the kitchen and wash every surface until it was reflective.

  She wanted to see her grandmother, now more than ever, but something froze her to the seat of the car. Some feeling that she was going about everything wrong, that she’d missed a step and was screwing up the recipe for her life. The result would be tragic and inedible. She often felt this way. A therapist had once told her: You’re giving yourself too much power. Then why did she feel so powerless? Or was this what mastery felt like? If so, it resembled a panic attack in nearly every significant way that she could think of. Her supervisor was always telling her to slow down, to reassess the problem. But that was equally impossible advice. It was like being told, Well, don’t get upset, when you could feel the anger building inside you, a trembling firework on the verge of disaster.

  Finally, she got out of the car and walked up the driveway. She’d brought flowers and a crossword. Her grandmother answered the door and gave her a hug. She smelled faintly of Oil of Olay. Her arms were surprisingly strong.

  “Tansi, dear. How are you?”

  “Good. How’s your day been, nokohm?”

  “You know me. Always the wild one. I’ve been catching up on Judge Judy.” She saw the flowers. “Those are lovely.”

  “They’re from Safeway,” she admitted. “But I think they’ll brighten the kitchen.”

  The kitchen was spotless and needed no brightening. Shelby arranged the flowers in a mason jar and immediately regretted buying them. The house was already in a perfect state of equilibrium, and her mother would only question their presence when she returned.

  “Is that a crossword?”

  “Oh yes. The weekend edition. Extra tough. None of that Leader Post nonsense.”

  “Just let me find a pencil.”

  They sat at the kitchen table for the next half hour, doing the crossword. Her grandmother’s eyesight was failing, so Shelby read the clues aloud. She was held up for a moment by penitents’ antechamber, but her grandmother pronounced “narthex” in an absent tone, as if she were merely recalling what day it was. They made short work of the puzzle and then watched Jeopardy! Shelby was embarrassed by her far-reaching ignorance of geography. Her grandmother second-guessed herself once, and when she realized that she’d been right all along, she swore. Shelby laughed and made them tea. Their rhythms were familiar and comforting. They sat on the couch pressed against each other, nokohm with her neck pillow, Shelby with her knees drawn up to her chest. They made fun of commercials. Once, her grandmother almost didn’t make it to the bathroom, and they stumbled down the hallway arm in arm, laughing. In the end, she didn’t need to change her pants, and a squeeze of perfume covered the momentary whiff of urine.

  Her grandmother was still chuckling when she sank into her armchair. “That happened last week, when your mom and I were shopping. They only had one teeny washroom, and there was a lineup. Your mom was holding this froufrou handbag, the kind with the letters on it, and she kept trying to get to the front of the line. She was frantic. And I said, ‘Daughter, if an old lady pees herself, it’s not the end of the world.’ She gets so riled up.”

  “She has a lot of responsibility at work.” Shelby wasn’t sure why she felt the need to defend her mother, especially here, in this intimate space. “I think she just gets overwhelmed and wants things to go smoothly.”

  Her grandmother was also famous for not complaining about anything until it necessitated a hospital visit. Bruises were no great thing. Falling could happen to anyone. She’d once baked a cake while suffering from kidney stones, her face bone-pale, and would only consent to visit Emergency once her skyrocketing blood pressure was confirmed. Shelby had inherited this stubbornness. She refused to take pain medication and would only visit the clinic if her phlegm turned neon.

  “She’s always been a frayed sort, your mother. She worries too much. Especially where you’re concerned.”

  Shelby resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “She worries more about her course syllabi.”

  Her grandmother gave her a sharp look. “Don’t you doubt for a second that she loves you more than life itself. You’re everything to her.”

  “I know.” It sounded unavoidably sullen, as if she were a child being told something that was patently obvious.

  “She may not show it, but you’re always on her mind, Shelby. She brags about you all the time. My scholar daughter. She wishes you’d visit more.”

  “Every time I come, we get into a fight.”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “That’s just mothers and daughters. Why do you think we fight so much? It’s a teakettle letting off steam. The better you know someone, the more you fight with ’em. You think you’re mysterious, but there’s always someone who’s got your number, and they see all the silly things that are right in front of your face. But you can’t be scared of a little fighting, my dear. It’s part of life.”

  “Not my favorite part.”

  “Aren’t you academic types supposed to love arguing?”

  “Some of us prefer to write passive-aggressive footnotes instead.”

  Her grandmother laughed. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  Shelby made them cucumber sandwiches for lunch. It made her feel like they were characters in a drawing room comedy. After they’d eaten, she cleaned the kitchen while her grandmother did beadwork. Her fingers were still quick, and Shelby loved watching the beautiful patterns materialize. Her grandmother sang softly in Cree as she worked. It was a love song, but Shelby could recognize only a few words. She was just about to ask her for a translation when nokohm, without looking up from her work, asked: “So, are you ever going to bring the girl home, so I can meet her?”

  She froze, the damp tea towel still in her hand. Water swirled in the sink. The entire kitchen seemed to be waiting for an answer. Shelby knew exactly what her grandmother was asking, but her instinct, as always, was to buy time.

  “What girl, nokohm?” She stared out the window, unable to turn around. In the glass, she could see the faint impression of her grandmother, moving rhythmically, with the patience of a mosaicist. She would select a color, and then her hand would swoop, adding to the pattern that bloome
d in her mind. Stitching a polychrome story.

  “I’m old, not deaf,” the woman replied, still concentrating on the work. “I’ve heard you talking about her with your mother. Ingrid. That’s her name, right?”

  Actually, she has two names. Shelby almost said it but managed to stop herself. Though some part of her suspected that her grandmother already knew this. That she’d known about the park and its secrets long before Shelby had.

  “Yes,” she replied finally.

  “You’ve been spending a lot of time with her.”

  “I guess.”

  Why was she answering in monosyllables? We’re dating. It was a simple response. Her grandmother obviously knew the truth. But the words eluded her. All she could do was keep washing the same plate, over and over. Even if her mind was frozen, her hands moved of their own volition, making circular patterns against the blue ceramic.

  “Did you meet at school?”

  We met in the Hippodrome, where she was fighting as a gladiatrix.

  Shelby blinked. “In class. Yeah.”

  “And how long has this been going on?”

  She wasn’t sure what the question actually meant. How long had she been interested in women? How long had she been going to the club with Andrew and Carl, trying to work up the courage to take someone home? How long had she been sleeping in a house that smelled of coffee and fresh laundry, surrounded by unmarked papers and plastic dinosaurs? She could think of no satisfactory answer. It was like being asked, What do you want? She didn’t know. But she could remember wanting it for a long time, in a thousand different guises.

  “It’s fine,” her grandmother said. “I know that you don’t tell me everything. Not like you used to, when you were little.”

  Shelby finally turned around. “Nokohm, I tell you things. I mean, maybe not everything, but I don’t keep things from you.”

  “Oh?” This time she looked up from her work. “What about that picture that you stole from the mantel? I thought you would have replaced it by now, but the empty frame is still sitting in the drawer. Lucky that I’m the one who dusts, and not your mom.”