by Holly Black
I find Spider in the kitchen in his threadbare bathrobe, striped socks, and curly toed slippers, his long silver dreads sprouting twigs and leaves as though birds have been nesting in the coils. He is cooking for a small army as usual—squat members, band members, assorted waifs and strays, and one very drunk elf lord. “Morning, sunshine,” he says when he sees me. “You’re just in time for some grub. Grab a plate.”
I don’t know how Spider comes up with this food, but there is always just enough somehow. The table is crowded, but everyone scootches around it to make a place for me. And then suddenly I am fighting back tears, and it’s stupid, I know, but I want it so much. This place at the table. It feels good. It feels right, this sense of belonging.
But I am the dependable one in the family. Not the one who disappears on the Border.
* * *
The sun was slanting in the windows to the west.
“I hear,” Anush’s lady said, “that there is a half-breed who plays the Trueblood music with your kind and ours, and makes a kind of magic with it. Widdershins. The people dance, and even rock out, they tell me. Why do you laugh?”
“Never mind,” Anush said. “Go on.”
“Poor, cast-out, deluded Farrel Din keeps the club where they play. It’s called the Dancing Parrot.”
“The Dancing Ferret. I know it.”
“Good. You will take me there tonight. For, sweet as our nights together have been lately, I feel the need of more company. And pure Trueblood conversation is still a bit … above your head.”
“Whose fault is that?” Anush said bitterly. “You could teach me.”
“Teach you?” She turned an opaque gaze on him. “Are your kind capable of learning?”
“I’m not an animal, dammit.”
Her silvery laugh cut like a knife. “Aren’t you? Take a look in the mirror.”
“That’s it,” he said. “I’m out of here.”
No knowledge was worth this—not even his delectable, firsthand, up-close-and-personal intimate knowledge of the sexual practices of Trueblood ladies fresh from the Realm. She was great at night—but did she ever ask him any questions? She didn’t give a damn who he was or where he was from, what he knew and what he wanted. That schoolgirl, Trish or Tara or whatever her name was, was worth a hundred of her.
He was going home.
“Farewell,” the lady said. “And best of luck to you. Be careful as you leave the Borderlands.”
Something in her tone made him pause. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Magic is chancy on the Border,” she said, avoiding his eye, stroking the links of the silver chain belt that girdled her slender waist—one of her truth-telling postures. “I know that once you return to the World, you will no longer change shape. But who can say, at the moment when you quit these lands, what shape will be yours?”
“Who can say?” Anush exploded. “You can, right now! Quit messing with me. Undo your spell.”
“Who are you to command me?”
But she didn’t sound very sincere. And indeed: “Oh, all right. This is getting boring. The sun sinks low. As soon as you’re in manly form, we’ll go out clubbing, and then, in the morning, I’ll undo the curse.”
“Undo it now. I want an extra hour to primp.”
“What will you give me if I do?”
“I’ll buy you a beer.” He was in an agony of anticipation. “Come on.”
“I shall miss your funny squeaking,” she said. But she raised her hands and did her twisty thing, and spoke some words.
His back itched. He reached around to scratch it.
“It didn’t work.”
“Of course it worked,” she said. “It just isn’t sunset yet.”
But sunset came and went, and nothing changed.
“Fear not,” she said. “It is, perhaps, some strange phase of the moon at work. Tomorrow we will try again.”
“Tomorrow,” Anush growled, “I am going to strangle you with my bare hands.”
“I can change them,” the lady said silkily. “So I suggest you be on your best behavior.”
He shuddered to think what another of her attempts might bring.
“Now come, my pet. Let us go out and hear sweet music.”
Anush buried his head, his unspeakable head, in his huge, hairy hands.
* * *
Trish tried hard not to think of Anush. But every time she caught a glimpse of a dark-haired guy just a little taller than she was walking into the Hard Luck, she had to check to see if it was him.
It never was. So probably he hated her. He’d thought she was all smart and collegey, but then she must’ve said something wrong that night. Maybe she shouldn’t have told him about her parents. Maybe he couldn’t deal with them not being high school graduates. His parents were the kind of people who told him stories about magical princes and who thought going to college was, like, his actual job.
Plus, he was really into elves. He had that amazing girlfriend. He was getting to live the story, the right story, here in Bordertown. Why should he bother with her and her stupid dreams?
“Check, please! Hold the mayo!”
For once it was Trish who was serving Cam at the Hard Luck. It felt funny, but kind of nice. Cam and Seal sat at the counter, sharing a single milkshake with two straws. They were both dressed up to go out.
“The Dancing Ferret,” said Cam. “Come when you get off shift. You might miss part of the opening act, but the real show will be Spider’s band. He’s found this new guy to help Widdershins with tech. One of the noobs, but he’s super-nice. We want him to help us with special effects at Changeling, if we can pry him away from Spider long enough. They’ve been cooking up some secret wahoo for tonight they swear will blow us all out of the water.”
“I don’t really like loud music,” Trish said.
“Me neither,” said Seal, “but this is different.”
“Real music out of Elfland,” Cam cajoled, “but it has a good beat, and you can dance to it!”
“Okay, I’ll think about it. If I’m not too tired.”
Trish had no intention of going to The Dancing Ferret. She was saving her money and was not in the mood for a Saturday-night club crowd. Besides, she wasn’t dressed for it.
But when she picked up the glass, she found for her tip that Cam had left a red disk on a silken string. It was stamped with the words “Widdershins Guest Pass: Flashing Eyes, Floating Hair … and Others. Enter if you dare.”
She put the string around her neck. She dared.
* * *
I’m following Spider, Yidl, and the others into The Dancing Ferret when a bouncer stops me with a hand on my chest. “Where are you going?” she says suspiciously.
Okay, I don’t exactly look like the others, but before I can draw a breath to explain who I am, the Queen of Elfland appears and says, “Relax, Laura, he’s with the band. Let him in.”
I’m probably wearing a big, stupid grin, and I don’t know which one tickles me more: my second smile from the green-haired waitress or hearing those words: He’s with the band.
It takes us an hour to haul in the equipment, set up the spell and audio amps, cast the illusions, test the sound, and make sure everything is in the right place. Meanwhile the club is filling up. There are people here for the a capella set, and people here for a Widdershins stomp, and people here just because The Ferret’s the place to be on a Saturday night. The gig starts promptly by Ferret time, which means an hour later than advertised, and by then the place is packed and the bouncers are turning folks away at the door.
I’m so nervous I can barely sit still long enough to listen to the opening set. Althea Windbreaker is probably every bit as good as everyone says she is, and her backup singers, too, but I couldn’t tell you—I don’t hear a single note. I’m as restless as a tomcat.
Spider puts an ice-cold peri into my hands. “Relax, my friend. It’s going to be a good night.”
He’s not nervous at all. He’s enjoying
himself, enjoying the scene, enjoying the anticipation of making music. It’s all good to Spider, who must be the single happiest person I’ve ever met. Whoever said you have to suffer to make art clearly doesn’t know squat.
“Thanks for this,” I say, and take a steadying gulp of my favorite elfin brew.
He grins. “It’s not from me, dear boy. It’s from that green-haired nymph behind the bar. Like I said, it’s going to be a good night. Now pick your jaw up off the floor and pay attention to those nice ladies on the stage.”
* * *
The red disk was a magic token that let her sweep through the door of the club like a princess. The club was hushed; three women were onstage, singing so beautifully, their voices entwined, that Trish felt the hair rise on the back of her neck. She stood by the door, unable to move, as though the singing were a spell they held her in.
There was a long hush when they finished. And then the room broke into wild applause. There were encores, and flowers flung through the shifting club light, flying through the air like strange birds. At last the singers left the stage, and the crowd headed toward the bar. She wondered if the disk would get her a free drink, too, or if she’d have to use her tip money to pay for one. The place was so crowded there was barely room to stand. Trish couldn’t see Seal or Cam, or anyone else she knew.
Then, behind her, she heard someone cry, “Eeeew—monster!”
In the doorway stood the elfin lady, Anush’s girlfriend, magnificently dressed in a silver gown. But it wasn’t Anush beside her; it was Gurgi, shrinking from the staring eyes of those close enough to see.
The bouncer said, “You can’t bring that thing in here.”
“Oh, please,” said the elf, proud as Lucifer. “He’s with me.” As though that were enough.
The bouncer shrugged. “Can you keep him under control?”
The elf woman smiled a smile Trish did not like one bit. “Can I not? Come, my pet.”
Gurgi flinched but came in with her.
And then Trish knew.
She’d gotten the story all wrong.
* * *
It is finally time for the Widdershins set. As the band prepares to go on, I whistle for Rosco and head for the wings, double-checking the spell amp cables as I go. The house lights dim and the crowd begins to quiet, and I’m so excited that I’m almost feeling sick.
Spider now stalks to the center of the stage, a long-legged crane in a flapping velvet coat, with his krel (as I’ve learned the instrument is called) and his long bow in his hands. He starts, as always, in the traditional elfin manner: with a single long, low note that rises slowly, filling the room like mist rising. And indeed, there is mist rising; that’s one of our cool new special effects. It rises through the forest that now appears, with birds (improved) flitting overhead and animals (new) rustling in the undergrowth … and it’s all so real you can feel and smell and taste the magic in the air. This time I’m ready for the waves of emotion that the music of the krel stirs up in me: that rising, rising, the agonizing rising, bringing everyone’s emotions to a fever pitch … and then the break of the wave … and the joyous relief … and that sparkling feeling of lightness after. Now the drums, the fiddle, the other acoustic instruments, each weaving into and adding to the sound, forming a rich, dense tapestry of music, emotion, and illusion. And now this music, too, is rising, rising.… It will build up to another wave, sounding stranger and stranger, louder and faster, until the guitars come crashing in—but wait! Not yet! The wave will reach its crest, and then comes the effect that I have been waiting all night for.… Here it comes. Here it comes. I suck in my breath as the fiddle and the krel chase each other up and up and up and then … stop. And in that sudden shocking, sweet silence, Spider whirls, dreads flying, and holds up his instrument … and it turns into a flock of birds that lift and disappear into the trees.
At least, that’s what’s supposed to happen, and damn it, that’s very nearly what happens. But then the magic of the Border hiccups, sending ripples of disturbance so strong they probably reach all across the city. The spell gets stuck, the mechanics sputter, my fail-safes fail, and this is what happens: The illusion we’ve built is flickering in and out—flock of birds one moment, instrument the next—while Spider stands frozen like a rabbit in the headlights and the rest of the band falls suddenly silent.
Because it’s not just our spell flickering in and out, it’s every damn thing inside the entire club that’s been enhanced by some kind of illusion: blue and pink hair turns dishwater brown, curls go straight, tattoos disappear, skirts of fine elfin brocade turn to rags, and Faerie jewels turn into plastic and paste. Some kids stand practically naked as bits of their clothing vanish altogether. Even the drinks are affected, with elfin brews changing into water or sludge (I’ll never drink those particular brands again), and Farrel Din’s famous Realmwood bar is revealed to be made of cheap plywood. Things flicker like strobe lights back and forth between their enchanted and unenchanted forms, and people are laughing or crying or pointing or shrieking or doing all four at once. Spider is doubled over and laughing so hard there are tears streaming down his face, while the rest of the band looks on, aghast, at the chaos our spell has unleashed.
I run for the nearest spell amp, hoping I can do something to break the circuit, when suddenly Rosco starts growling and I turn and look behind me. And stop dead in my tracks …
* * *
At first it was kind of funny—all the people losing their clothes and their glamour. Then, behind her, Trish heard a scream of pure rage. “By the Apples of Death! Who dares to stand against me?”
The elf lady was magnificent in her fury. But Trish saw only the man at her side, a dark-haired man without a shirt who stared at his own smooth hands, amazed.
“Anush!” Trish cried. “Anush Gupta!”
He smiled at her. She ran to him and threw her arms around him. Because if his story was really Tam Lin, then she was Young Janet, and she had to hold him fast and fear not, while his lady worked more terrible transformations on him, until she won him free.
“Was it you who did this deed?” the lady cried, just like in the story. Trish shivered and held tight, and Anush’s strong arms went around her, too. “Have you no decency?” the lady raged. “No sense of personal property? Do you know who I am?”
“It’s not all about you, lady,” the bouncer said mildly. “Look around this room—”
“Collateral damage,” snapped the elf. “Proud mortal, how dare you?”
Everyone was staring at them. The lady lifted her slender white hands, and Trish prayed that whoever had worked Widdershins’ magic would know how to save them. She squeezed her eyes shut, and Anush clung to her—
And then there was fur all over her, and hot breath and a slobbering tongue on her face, but she held tight and tried to fear not—
“Down, Rosco! Down, boy!”
It wasn’t Anush; Anush was still holding her with one bare arm and trying to push away a dog with the other, a big black mutt jumping all over her like he was her long-lost buddy.
The bouncer was pinning the elfin lady’s arms to her side—but there was a sudden puff of fuchsia smoke, and the bouncer had hold of nothing.
“Out.” A fat guy was making his stately way through the crowd, which parted before him.
“I don’t like a fuss in my club,” said Farrel Din. The fuchsia smoke cleared, and a silver snake writhed on the floor at the bouncer’s feet. “Out, and regain your true shape on the other side of my door.”
Trish held on to the dog, who wanted to chase the snake.
And a big guy came rushing toward them, shouting, “Rosco, what are you— Oh my god. Trish!”
Who was this guy? How did he know her real name?
“Trish, it’s me! It’s Jimmy!”
“Jimmy?” She stared at the tall man in the Mr. Fix-It T-shirt.
“I’m Jimbo—your brother!”
How could it be Jimmy? Jimmy was her baby brother. This was a grown m
an, her age or even older, with a big, muscular frame and large, hard hands and long brown hair pulled back in a rubber band. He looked like a factory worker, like Dad or her uncle Al.
“And this is Rosco, Trish—remember Rosco, our puppy?”
The big hound licked her with a long pink tongue. And then she started crying. It was a good thing she had the dog to hold on to, to bury her face in while she sobbed for the lost years.
* * *
Anush looked helplessly down at the weeping girl and then at the big guy who was her brother. Not knowing what else to do, he held out his hand. “Anush Gupta,” he said. “I’m a friend of Trish. This is, um, what I really look like. When I’m not messing around with elves.”
“Nice to meet you.” The brother shook hands. “I’m Jimmy. She just calls me Jimbo. Nobody else does.” Anush heard the warning, and nodded. “Kind of a shock for her, huh?”
“Kind of.”
“I’m with the band. Special effects.”
“Really?” Anush was impressed. “Then I’ve got you to thank for helping me out. Indirectly. You must have blown every magic fuse in B-town.”
Jimmy ducked his head. “No big.” He glanced behind him at the chaos that still reigned. “Listen, I’d better get back there and try to fix things. But … could you look after Trish for me? I’ll talk to her as soon as I can. But meanwhile, tell her I’m here for her. Tell her it’s all gonna be okay.”
“Sure.” Anush nodded. “There’s just one thing—do you think you could find me a shirt?”
Jimmy grinned and untied the flannel shirt from around his waist. It was a little wrinkled, but at least it didn’t smell like wet dog.
Up on the stage, a tall, spidery guy with silver dreadlocks took the mike. “Folks!” he said. “Lords and ladies of Soho, please try to control your flashing eyes and floating hair—because the Show Must Go On!”
There were cheers and jeers from the floor.
“Elfies, halfies, and long-leggity beasties … you came for music, and music you shall have! After we—and maybe some of you—perform a few minor technical adjustments. Meanwhile, however, I am glad to say that we have with us in the house tonight, Soho’s very own harper of high renown, the Master of Melody, the Sultan of String, the great—though not the late—Mister Ossian Feldenkranz!”
