She watches their eyes. Even when their mouths twist in revulsion or disbelief, their eyes reveal the truth. A glint here, a shimmer there. Hunger. They’re waiting for her to slip and open a vein. They come for the shock factor, but it’s not what they really want to see. They’re vultures, waiting for her to fall so they can pick at her bones.
For several long moments, the red dripping down onto the white is the only sound. Then someone exhales loudly. A grey-haired woman in the front holds her mouth tight, but she can’t lie away the excitement in her eyes. Olivia meets her gaze, and the woman looks down. Another woman, younger, with flushed cheeks, covers her mouth with a hand.
Olivia switches the blade to the other hand and slices a twin cut on her other arm. Two more cuts and she can hear whispers, voices too low to decipher into words.
A man in a suit shoves his hands in his pockets, his eyes revealing disbelief, perhaps a touch of disappointment at Olivia’s lack of response. She’s a sadist’s worst nightmare.
None of the reactions surprise her. At this point they’re a guarantee, made mundane by their predictability. What she notices most are the empty eyes. The blank canvases that say nothing. She’d like to chip away their façades and peek inside. She’d like to break them into pieces.
She makes another cut, then she sees the woman standing in the back. Twelve years have added grey to the hair and lines around the eyes and mouth, but the face is immediately recognizable and far too like Olivia’s own for her liking.
Olivia makes another cut and another, until her arms look like railroad tracks. Her mother doesn’t blink, doesn’t move. All the years she watched Olivia, she never did a damn thing. Somewhere inside Olivia there is a little girl who wants to throw down the razor and scream, who wants to know why. Why didn’t her mother understand why Olivia did the things she did? Why didn’t she know that all Olivia wanted was one reaction, one fucking reaction, to let her know she cared?
Why didn’t her mother stop her?
Olivia clenches her jaw, tugs her top aside to reveal the scar on her chest, and draws the razor down to reopen the half-healed wound. From the gap, she wiggles a quarter free, breaking the tenuous grip her flesh has on the metal. She turns it so the lights reveal the tarnish of time beneath the slick of blood.
The crowd doesn’t understand the significance, nor do they need to. It’s another macabre parlor trick and gauging by their smiles, one they like. But her mother’s face pales and, finally, she breaks free from the crowd and heads out the door without a glance over her shoulder. Olivia’s own shoulders sag, and something inside her crumples, like a paper cup beneath a boot heel.
A woman near the front sways. Silence shatters into murmurs of concern, a bit of laughter from the unbalanced woman. Olivia curls her fist around the coin and gives a small nod.
Yesterday’s Girl is over.
When the applause fades and almost everyone is gone, she plucks the ends of thread from her lips and wipes away the lipstick smears. Some of the blood has already dried on her skin, but instead of cleaning and disinfecting the cuts, she wraps her arms in gauze, shrugs on a jacket and jeans over her costume, and slips out before Trevor notices. She knows he’ll be upset; they usually get something to eat after an exhibit, but she doesn’t have the heart for it. Not tonight.
Across the street, she sees a figure standing beneath the yellow glow of a streetlamp. Olivia pulls the quarter from her pocket and bounces it on her palm. Such a small, insignificant thing. Such a heavy price.
Heads, she’ll cross the street. Perhaps they can have coffee at a diner. Maybe her mother will finally tell her why.
Tails, she’ll head home. Sketch a new exhibit, something less extreme. Let the cut on her chest heal for good this time, throw the quarter in a fountain, a gutter. Give herself permission to let everything go.
She stares into the shadows for a long time, waiting, hoping her mother will walk away, but she doesn’t. She stands and waits.
Olivia touches the cut above her heart and flips the coin.
Paskutinis Iliuzija
(The Last Illusion)
Andrius Kavalauskas, the last magician of Lithuania, closed the door and rested his head against the wood as the nurse’s footsteps faded away. He smelled cabbage and pork cooking from the apartment across the hallway and knew that in a few hours he would find a plate of food sitting by his door. Daina was a good neighbor, a good friend.
He headed back into the tiny bedroom at the back of the apartment. Laurita was a still and silent shape beneath the threadbare blanket. Far too still.
He froze in place. Stared at the blanket. Heard neither breath nor whisper. No, no. Not yet. Please, not yet, he thought.
Then, the blanket moved up and down. Laurita raised her head and smiled. He exhaled, the sound harsh in the quiet.
“Papa, was I a good girl for the nurse?”
“Of course you were. Miss Ruta said you were very good.”
“She had a sad face. I thought…”
“No, no, you are always a good girl. Always.”
“When I feel better, I should pick flowers for her. Would that be okay?”
Andrius’s chest tightened. For a moment, the words caught in his throat. He nodded. “Yes, it would be very nice.”
Outside the window, storm clouds gathered and thunder rumbled in the distance.
“Is Perkūnas angry?” Laurita asked.
He laughed. “Maybe he is.”
She gave him a small smile. “Papa?”
“Yes?”
“Who makes the snow?”
He tapped his chin. “I wonder. Is it Perkūnas?”
She shook her head. “No, he makes the thunder.”
“Jūratė?”
Another shake. A small giggle. “No, she lives in the sea.”
“Ahhhh, I know,” he said, raising his hand. In his palm, a white ball of snow shimmered in the light. “I make the snow!” He tossed it up in the air. It broke apart, and snowflakes fell down around her, alighting on her lashes and nose. The room filled with the smell of pine and cinnamon.
She gave a weak laugh, her breath emerging in a vapory plume. As the snowflakes melted, he could not help looking over both shoulders. No one could possibly have felt such a small magic, and the curtains were shut tight, but still…
“You have the best magic in the world,” Laurita said.
He kissed her forehead. “I have the best daughter in the world, but now, you must go to sleep.”
“Okay,” she said, her eyes already half-closed.
He pretended not to notice the pale cast to her skin. The shadows beneath her eyes. Her frail limbs. The breath wheezing in and out of her lungs. Just as he pretended not to see the soldiers outside. It was
safer
better that way.
§
Andrius tossed and turned in his own bed, hating the way the space beside him felt like a country he could only dream of visiting. Wind rattled against the glass, and a boom sounded in the distance. Maybe Perkūnas was wielding the bolts of thunder and lightning. Maybe not. He was also the god of war, yet he seemed in no hurry to strike down the invaders. Perhaps he didn’t care at all.
The rest of the world was far too busy watching Paris fall to the Germans to worry about Andrius’s country and the suffering of its people. There were whispers of ways out, of soldiers who would look the other way for the right amount of money, but he did not have the money, and Laurita was not strong enough for travel.
He scrubbed his face with his hands. A trace of magic lingered on his skin, giving his palm a luminescent appearance. Such a small thing. Such a huge risk. But it was all he had.
Saulė had always loved the snowflakes, too.
He rolled over to the empty side of the bed and buried his face in her pillow. He could still smell the scent of her skin. Tears burned in his eyes. He inhaled deeply, pulling in her scent as far as he could.
She would still be with them if he hadn’t let her go out
on her own. He’d known it was dangerous. But she’d smiled and said she’d be right back, she was only going to the market, and he’d kissed her on the cheek and said, “Okay.” He should’ve said no, it was not okay. He was supposed to protect her.
He punched the mattress and sobbed into the pillow. It was all his fault and there was nothing he could do. He could only pray they took her to Siberia. At least there she would have a chance. A tiny one, but better than the alternative.
“Oh, Saulė, I miss you. I miss you so much,” he said, his voice muffled. “Please forgive me.”
He should’ve done something. Anything. He cried until his throat ached, then clasped his hands together and prayed. He prayed Ruta made it home safe and sound. He prayed for his country. He prayed for Saulė. And last, he prayed for a miracle for Laurita. He wished with all his heart she would see her seventh birthday. Surely the gods could grant him that.
§
Coughing woke him in the middle of the night. He stumbled in the darkness, banging his shin on the doorframe. Laurita was hunched over in the bed, her hands cupped over her mouth. The coughs came out ragged and thick. He rubbed her back and held a cloth to her mouth until the coughing subsided.
After he wiped the blood from her lips, he tucked the cloth away before she could see it and measured out a spoonful of the medicine Ruta, his wife’s best friend in the time before fear and soldiers, had risked her life to bring. It was not a curative (those medicines belonged to other countries, countries without soldiers and tanks invading their lands) but would make it…easier for her.
Laurita made a face. “I don’t like medicine.”
“I don’t either.” He smiled. “Here, let’s make it taste better.” He waved his hand. The liquid turned amber; the sweet smell of flowers wafted from the spoon. She swallowed it down and smiled.
“Will the medicine help me get better?”
“Yes, it will.”
“And when I am well, will Mama come back?”
He swallowed hard and forced his lips into a smile. “I’m sure she will finish her work and come home soon.”
A little lie. Just like the taste of honey in her spoon.
“I wish the soldiers could find someone else to help them. I miss her, Papa. I miss her so much.”
“I miss her, too.”
“Magic me a story, Papa.”
“I wish I could, but you know it would make the soldiers angry. I will tell you a story instead.”
“Okay.”
“And what story do you want to hear?”
Her face brightened. “Jūratė and Kastytis.”
He smiled. Saulė had told her the story time and again. He always thought it too sad for a small child, but it was Laurita’s favorite. He readjusted the curtains, fluffed Laurita’s pillow, and pulled the blanket up to her chin.
“Once upon a time, there was a beautiful mermaid goddess who lived under the sea in a palace made of amber. Her name was Jūratė, and she had a long tail with scales the color of the sky just before the sun sets.
“And there was a handsome fisherman named Kastytis who would come to the sea every day to catch fish, but one day, while Kastytis was in his boat, Perkūnas was angry and made a big storm.”
Andrius let a little magic slip free. Just a touch of the salt tang of the Baltic Sea and a darkening of the air near the ceiling to resemble a storm cloud.
“Kastytis fell into the sea. Jūratė saw him fall and rescued him from the waves. She took him home to her palace, and they fell in love.
“But this made Perkūnas very angry. He didn’t think Jūratė should love a mortal man like Kastytis. He wanted her to marry Patrimpas, the God of Water. In his anger, he sent a lightning bolt from the sky through the water.”
Andrius made light flash in the air, one quick snap of soundless bright.
“The lightning hit Jūratė’s palace, shattering it into thousands and thousands of fragments, and poor Kastytis was killed.
“Perkūnas punished Jūratė by chaining her to the ruins of her castle. And now, when storms strike the sea, you can hear Jūratė crying for Kastytis, and you can find her tears washed upon the shore.”
He held out his hand and opened his fingers, revealing a tiny piece of amber that Laurita took and held up to the light. It glowed with a secret fire, then it winked out of sight. She put her hand down and looked at him for a long time without speaking, her mouth set into a frown, her eyes filled with a seriousness far too advanced for her years.
“Perkūnas should have not made the storm and the thunder. He should’ve protected the palace instead, and he should’ve left Jūratė and Kastytis alone.”
“It’s just a story, little one. Only a story.”
But the frown did not leave her face.
“Papa, why does the magic make the soldiers angry?”
“I don’t know,” he lied.
§
From his bedroom window, Andrius could see the edge of a striped awning at the end of the street. A theater, its stage now silent and dark. He’d performed there a long time ago, but he still remembered the heat of the lights and the gasps of surprise from the audience.
The best magicians could make the people forget they were seated indoors, could transport them to another time, another place. Lithuanian magic was no mere sleight of hand or game of misdirection, but a gift from the land, born from the spring breeze and the winter chill, the fir tree and the rivers.
It could create lions from shadows and birds from candleflame. Could send snowfall on a summer day and turn tears into rain. Even if you were not in a theater during a performance, you could stand outside and feel it in the air, a silent music pulsing from the magician’s fingertips. It was power, but not of control or destruction. It gave hope. Happiness. Strength. All the things the Russians wanted to take away.
Saulė had not wanted him to stop performing, but life on the stage belonged to a man without responsibilities. He’d traded the theater for small magics to make her smile and later, to calm their infant daughter. A choice he never regretted.
And if he had he not made that choice… He closed his eyes. He’d heard whispers that even the old magicians who’d lost their magic to disease or dementia had disappeared.
How he had escaped notice, he didn’t know.
§
“I don’t want to eat, Papa.”
Andrius set the bowl down and smoothed her hair back from her forehead. “But you must. You need your strength.”
She shook her head. “I will eat it later.”
“But the rabbit might eat it first.”
“The rabbit?”
“Yes, the rabbit.”
He cupped his hands together, blew into them, and opened his palms to reveal a tiny brown rabbit, its nose wiggling, its ears twitching. He placed the rabbit on the bed. It hopped once, twice, three times, and Laurita giggled and clapped her hands.
“Can we keep him?”
“Only for a little while,” he whispered.
He guided the rabbit over to Laurita’s bowl. It dipped its head in.
“No, rabbit, that’s my food.”
“Okay, you eat it then.”
She took several spoonfuls, watching the rabbit jump around on her bed. When the soup was gone, the rabbit turned translucent, shimmering at the edges. Then it disappeared.
“Can you bring it back?”
“No, it’s too dangerous. I will tell you a story instead.
“Once upon a time, the Grand Duke Gediminas went on a hunting trip and made camp atop a high mountain. That night, he dreamt of an iron wolf on the mountain. The wolf howled and howled and howled and sounded like hundreds of wolves.
“When he woke, he told the priest of his dream. The priest said it meant that Gediminas was to build a city on the mountain. The city would be as strong as iron and stand tall for hundreds of years.
“Gediminas had his castle built, and it still stands today, here in Vilnius.”
He held out his ha
nd. On his palm rested a miniature version of the circular castle, the striped flag of Lithuania flying strong and proud.
“I think you would build a better castle, Papa. A bigger, stronger one to keep everyone safe.”
Andrius bent over the bed to adjust the blankets. “Everything will work out fine, little one. I’m sure of it.”
He hoped his voice sounded convincing.
§
Andrius was sleeping in a chair in the front room when footsteps thudded in the hall. Coarse voices spoke in Russian. He sprang up from the chair and ran into Laurita’s bedroom. She was sleeping soundly. He closed her bedroom door, his mouth dry, his palms sweaty.
His hands twisted. Maybe the soldiers would not check the rest of the apartment. He stood up straight, took a deep breath, and waited three feet away from the door.
Someone shouted. A soldier laughed. A woman screamed. He covered his mouth with his hand and cast a gaze toward Laurita’s door.
Please let her sleep through it, he thought.
More footsteps. Closer now.
Prašau, prašau.
He dropped his hands at his side. He would not let them see that he was afraid. A thump. Another laugh. A sob. A child’s cries.
Prašau.
Then the footsteps led away. Away. His shoulders sagged. He could not hold in his tears.
“Ačiū Dievo,” he whispered.
They were safe. This time.
“Papa?”
He rushed into the bedroom.
“I heard voices.”
“It was just the neighbors. That’s all. Go back to sleep now. Everything is fine.”
“Okay.”
He sagged against the doorframe. No more magic. It was too dangerous. And what good was it? All the magic in the world couldn’t make her well again.
§
A soft knock sounded at the door just after the sun rose. Andrius opened it a crack, saw Daina standing in the hall, and ushered her in.
“They took Gedrius and his whole family,” she whispered. “But I saw one of them visit Raimondas’s apartment after they took them away.”
Sing Me Your Scars (Apex Voices Book 3) Page 5
