Toil & Trouble

by Jessica Spotswood

  “No more fear,” he says. “Only obedience.”

  I shake my head. But my Lady, these souls aren’t yours just yet. The dark vines of dread pull taut. If I’m right, then give me your gifts to set them free.

  It happens in an instant. With one hand, I seize hold of the pulsing mass of souls, gripping it like a tangible thing. The light compresses in my fist, warm, screaming. The energy fuels me; it propels me forward. And in my other hand, I unsheathe my knife.

  Savannah lunges forward, her glamour dropping, and pounces on him. He throws up his arms to block her, but the Lady guides me: I slash open his cheek. He turns to fend Savannah off, but it’s too late. The Lady’s got him now. I’ve got him now, with the ritual I perfected. The one he corrupted. With my other fist wrapped around his minions’ souls, I take hold of his and move to block his exit.

  His soul trickles toward me as his scream dries out. “Stop,” he wheezes. “You can’t do this. I carry out her will!”

  I shake my head. “No. I do.”

  I thrust my left hand forward, releasing the knotted strands of souls as Savannah weaves a quick air spell to wrestle him to the ground. The souls slam back into their bodies, some screaming, some crying, some simply looking around dazed; slowly, I can see the light coming back into their eyes. They’re safe from Xosia for now.

  “The High Warlock’s gonna have a good time talking to you,” Savannah says, grinning, as she draws on elemental spells to bind the boy’s hands behind his back.

  “Just kill me,” he sobs. “Let me be with the Lady, at least.”

  I stand over him. “The Lady deserves better than the likes of you.”

  * * *

  Savannah and I take him to the holding cells in the jail, attached to the Capitol compound, as I pull his strings. Once he’s in custody, I release my hold on his soul. The High Warlock can deal with him as he wills.

  Savannah and I stop off at Jenny’s for some pancakes before she takes me back to the morgue. We’re quite a pair, her all disheveled in her evening wear and me scuffed up and battered from the long night, but we both dig in to the pancake stacks. I keep expecting her to lecture me, or blame me somehow for what the student did. But when she finishes up, she just wipes the syrup from her mouth and regards me with a smile.

  “You did all right,” she says. “The High Warlock will be very pleased.”

  “You don’t think he’ll blame me? Blame all the Dark Lady’s followers?”

  She shrugs. “Some people will. But you were right, you know—what he was doing, that ain’t the Dark Lady’s way. I’d say as servants go, you’re about the best she could possibly ask for.”

  I shove another bite of pancake into my mouth to hide my smile.

  “I’m sorry for the way I acted back in school. It’s true, how easy it is to be scared. Plus, I think something about being a wizard just makes you feel better than everyone else. Not the best combination.” She lowers her gaze. “We need all kinds to run the Sawtooths right, though. You don’t have to stay away from the Capitol if you don’t want.”

  “When the Lady needs me to speak for her at the Capitol, I’ll speak. You don’t need me for the day-to-day.”

  It’s only back at the morgue that I let myself slump forward, heart aching. Maybe that’s the worst of it—not the fear and suspicion the boy’s actions are sure to spark. No, the worst is that I feel for him, at least somewhat. On dark nights, in cold rooms that echo with too much quiet, I’ve thought the same as him.

  But I know my purpose, and the Priests all know it, too. Bones speak the truth, but the living—they’re the ones who need to hear it. I was given the Lady’s blessing to speak those truths, and protect every last one of us from the likes of him. The Lady has no use for a life that hasn’t been lived in full.

  So I’ll serve her—and all the Sawtooths—in mine.

  * * * * *

  THE TRUTH ABOUT QUEENIE

  by Brandy Colbert

  SOMETIMES IF YOU pretend like a part of you simply doesn’t exist, you can will it away.

  I’m not talking about physical attributes, like my eyebrows, which are a bit too thick for my liking. I mean on the inside. Like how I’ve been scared of tall staircases and sky-high balconies my entire life, but last year, I hiked to the top of a steep, narrow trail with my field hockey teammates without launching into a full-blown panic attack. Maybe part of it was because it was too late to turn back, but I like to think it’s because the whole way up, I repeated out loud that I was no longer afraid of heights.

  I’m pretty sure my best friend, Webb, is one of the bravest people I know. He’s a skateboarder; he went pro last year, when we were fifteen. Webb has been banging around on his board for as long as I can remember, his long limbs always sporting bruises and gross scabs and a fresh wound or two.

  The first couple of years after he got a board he messed around close to home, practicing tricks in our neighborhood. But the more courageous he got, the uglier and more dramatic his falls became, and neighbors started to complain about watching his stunts go down in front of their houses. He moved his operation to the skate park, and I went with him a few times a week. I felt like I was living vicariously through him, like his fearlessness rubbed off on me as he sailed through the air on his board.

  Now I barely see him. He travels so much that his parents had to hire a tutor.

  My sister and I are sprawled out in the family room, doing our homework after dinner, when my phone buzzes with a new text. I put my finger on the paragraph I’m reading and glance at my phone.

  I smile as soon as I see who it is. I sit straight up when I read it.

  Coming home for a few weeks, back Sunday

  Sunday. That’s only three days away.

  Nia looks up from her laptop where she’s furiously typing an essay on James Baldwin. Her temporarily idle fingers twirl around the end of one long cornrow as she squints at me. “Why do you look like that?”

  “Like what?”

  But I can’t stop smiling, and before I know it, Nia is leaning over my shoulder, staring at the screen.

  She shakes her head as she retreats back to her laptop, as if the effort wasn’t worth it. “You are so in love with him.”

  I know what she really wanted to say. She thinks I’m wasting my time missing him when I could be having fun with guys we see at school every day.

  But the truth is, none of them measures up to Webb, and no amount of distance between us can change that.

  * * *

  I wake at six-thirty on Sunday morning.

  It’s way too early for the weekend, but it’s like my body knows something exciting is happening today. I check my phone, but there aren’t any new messages. Webb is probably still on the plane. He didn’t give me any details, just said that he’ll get ahold of me when he lands.

  It’s strange being best friends with a famous person. Well, famous-ish. He’s well-known in the skating world, but he’s not a household name. Not yet. It’s weird thinking he used to just be the quiet kid with an Afro who’d rather fool around on his skateboard for hours than hang with the kids from school.

  He doesn’t post a lot of pictures or videos himself, but he’s always showing up in photos with celebrities and other skaters and fans. Webb has fans. He had a decent following before he went pro, but he has a legit fan base now, and I’m still not used to it. Once, I spent a whole afternoon reading posts online from people who were crushing on him.

  My life is so normal. I live in a normal house with my normal parents and my normal sister in Pasadena. We try so very hard to be normal it hurts.

  I flip to the photo album of Webb and me on my phone. Nia thinks it’s creepy, but now I can go to one place to look at the two of us when I’m missing him. Which seems to be more and more often, because he’s gone longer and longer each time he leaves. I guess I should be us
ed to it by now.

  I scroll through the pictures a couple of times before my eyes start to get heavy. Eventually I doze off, and then I guess I completely fall back to sleep, because I wake up to a hand shaking my shoulder. I swat it away and roll over, feeling my phone lodge under my ribs.

  Then the covers vanish from my body. My eyes fly open. I yelp, ready to scream at Nia, when my gaze lands on him.

  “Webb, come on. It’s cold!”

  “It is not cold. It’s April in L.A. and it’s seventy degrees outside.”

  “I’m always cold,” I mutter, grabbing the blankets back from him.

  “Good morning to you, too,” he says with the grin that shows his dimple. I always feel validated when I see him in photos that aren’t showing his dimple because it means that he reserves his real smile for people who know him. He once said he thinks it makes him look too young. “What kind of welcome is that?”

  I sit up and rub my eyes. “Welcome.” I yawn, then remember I’m still wearing my satin sleep cap. Oh god. I touch the edge where it meets my ear and cringe, but Webb doesn’t even mention it. “What time did you get in?”

  “Just now. I had the car drop me off here from the airport.”

  I raise my eyebrows, trying to ignore the way my stomach jumps. “You didn’t stop at your house?”

  He’s only a couple of blocks over, but I know how much his parents miss him, too.

  Webb shrugs and then smiles again. “I wanted to see you first.”

  I busy myself with pulling the covers up over my legs and pretending to search for my phone because I am embarrassed by how happy this makes me. My cheeks burn.

  Suddenly Webb backs up and takes a running leap onto my bed, crashing just a few inches from me with a huge thud. He bounces up and down a couple of times on his butt, like a little kid.

  “Where are we going for breakfast?”

  I look at my phone. “It’s eight-thirty.”

  “Exactly. Have you heard of breakfast? People usually eat it before noon?”

  “I hate you.” I shove him away, but Webb wraps his arms around me in a bear hug. He pushes his nose into my neck and exhales a long whoosh of breath. Webb being so close to me warms me from the inside out, and I am so glad he’s here. Giving me shit in person and not over text.

  “Come on, Your Highness. I’m hungry. And I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

  Your Highness. That nickname used to annoy me—I get plenty of teasing with a name like Queenie; I don’t need it from my best friend, too—but now I crave it. I allow myself to relax in his arms for a moment, even though it probably doesn’t mean the same thing to him. Even though it’s just a reminder that if I told him how I felt, maybe things could be different with us.

  But I don’t think I’d ever be that brave. And besides, what if I did tell him and it changed things for the worse?

  “Fine,” I say. “But you’re paying.”

  * * *

  We drive to our favorite family-run Mexican restaurant because Webb says it’s been nearly impossible to get good Mexican food on the road. The place has only three booths and a single table in the middle, and it smells amazing, like fresh tortillas.

  We order our usual: chilaquiles for me and huevos rancheros for Webb, mango agua frescas for us both. Then we slide into the free booth by the window.

  Webb leans his head back and groans. “Fuck, I’m tired.”

  “Still can’t sleep on planes?”

  “Nah.” He cracks his knuckles. “And I only got, like, two hours of sleep last night. There was this party at the hotel—” He stops, like he wonders if he should be telling me this.

  I stare at him. “Yeah?”

  “It just got kind of weird. Paolo invited all these girls, and some of them were serious fans and, like, crying because they were in the same room with him. They wouldn’t stop taking pictures of us. Then some of them got wasted and started doing body shots. It was...intense.”

  “Body shots?” I seriously can’t believe I’m talking to the same Webb. He used to be so shy, and the couple of times he’s tried alcohol, he said he didn’t like the way it made him feel out of control. Those rules don’t seem to apply when he’s on the road. I always wonder if he’s hooking up with any of the girls he meets, but I never ask; I have a feeling I wouldn’t like the answer.

  “Yeah, well. That’s what ends up happening when Paolo’s around. What’s going on here?”

  I sip my agua fresca, pretending to think. “Nothing, nothing, and nothing.”

  “Come on, Queenie. You gotta have something going on.”

  But I don’t, really. Nothing as exciting as what he’s doing. I shrug. “It’s pretty much been school and family. And field hockey back in the fall.”

  “You still killing it out there on the field?”

  “Killing it might be an overstatement.” Coach likes me, but I think it’s mostly because I can run fast and think quick on my feet. Which is kind of a requirement when you’re a midfielder. “We did all right this year, though. We got to the play-offs, so Coach was happy.”

  “How’s your grandma?”

  “She’s good. A lot better...thanks.” I give him a small smile. “She’ll want to see you before you go again.”

  “Damn, I just got here, and you’re already talking about me leaving?” Webb shakes his head, but he grins back at me.

  “Always.” I look away. It’s harder to stare in his eyes and act like I don’t care about how often he’s gone.

  “Of course I’m gonna go see Ms. Armstrong.” He pauses and I know what he’s going to say and I wish he wouldn’t. “Any more...instances?”

  Instance. Such a generic word for something so big. It’s so big that I don’t like to think about it, let alone talk about it.

  “Nope.”

  “I just thought...since she’s better...and you said Big Queenie was around...”

  My shoulders tense. “Big Queenie has been gone for almost two months.”

  “Okay, okay.” He holds up his hands as if in surrender. “But if I came from a family of witches, I sure wouldn’t be hiding it like you do.”

  I kick him under the table just as a guy our age brings breakfast over. Webb stares at me with a fake-wounded look as he rubs his shins. “These legs are precious goods.”

  “Can I, uh, get you anything else?” the guy asks, wiping his hands on the towel hanging from his belt.

  “Nah, man, we’re good, thanks.” Webb rubs his hands together in delight as he looks at his plate.

  The guy is still hanging around, though, and when I look up, his neck is turning red. He’s staring at Webb. “You, uh...you’re Webb Johnston?”

  I see the change in Webb’s face. It’s subtle, but almost like he slips on an invisible mask—something to shield him from the public.

  “Yeah, man.” He nods at him. “What’s up?”

  “Uh, big fan of yours. I, ah, used to watch you at competitions around here...before you went pro.”

  “Hey, thanks. What’s your name?”

  “Miguel.” He pauses and the color on his neck darkens, traveling up to his face. “Think I could get a picture?”

  “Yeah, sure. Of course.”

  Miguel pulls a phone from his pocket and snaps a few shots of them himself, then asks me to take a couple. He does one of those complicated handshakes with Webb, then says, “It’s real dope to see more brown skaters out there.”

  Webb nods and gives him his public smile. “Appreciate that, man. Thanks for the grub.”

  Miguel retreats to the kitchen, and Webb immediately stuffs a huge bite of egg and tortilla into his mouth. I take a tentative bite of my chilaquiles, waiting for him to bring up our previous conversation. But he’s fixated on the food now, already eyeing mine. The routine is that we each eat half of our meal and then switch plates.<
br />
  “Fuck, this is good. I missed this,” he says after a few moments, pushing his plate away so he won’t devour the whole thing in one go. He looks at me with a lopsided smile, dimple in full effect. “Missed you, too, Queenie.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say before I take another bite, pretending his words don’t make my heart crack wide open.

  * * *

  After breakfast, Webb says he needs to go home and sleep. I drop him and his bags off, then hop on the freeway and head to Hollywood.

  Relief ripples through me as I spot Grandma Anita working in the flower beds that border her porch. She’s been well for a few weeks now, but I never know what to expect when I come to see her. A part of me still worries she’ll get sick again. I can’t deny that my aunt, Big Queenie, has a gift, but I know better than anyone that having a gift doesn’t mean you’re infallible.

  “Hi, baby,” Grandma Anita says as I walk up the front path. She’s wearing a big straw hat to shield her from the sun. Beautiful, brightly patterned head scarves have been her go-to for the past six months or so, but ever since her soft curls started growing back, she’s been wearing her short new ’do with pride. She does whatever she can to protect her skin, though. It’s a gorgeous deep umber, completely free of wrinkles.

  “Hi, Grandma Anita.” I bend to kiss her on the cheek, steering clear of the hat’s wide brim. “Want some help?”

  “Like I’d let that brown thumb get anywhere near these beauties.” She shakes her head. “No, baby, I’m just finishing up. Go get something to drink.”

  I’d be offended by that comment if it weren’t true. I’ve lost count of how many plants have died on my watch. Which I maintain is further proof that my “gift” isn’t really a gift at all.

  I love my grandmother’s bungalow. It’s small, but the perfect size for her. The stucco is painted a cheery vibrant blue, and the front porch is a colorful array of hanging and potted plants with a white wooden bench near the door.

  Inside, the windows fill the rooms with sun. My feet creak along the familiar hardwood path to her kitchen, where I’ve spent hours watching her cook and bake. For a while, this room felt off-limits, because she was too sick to leave her bedroom. Meals came from our house or her friends and neighbors; her kitchen was used only to heat up the food that she couldn’t eat.