Dreams of Shreds and Tatters

by Amanda Downum

  “Yes.” Lailah joined her at the window, a line of warmth down her back. “Something that’s slipped through the cracks from the dark places. Don’t worry—they can’t come in unless they’re invited.”

  Rae’s eyebrows twitched. “Like vampires?”

  The taller woman chuckled. “Actually, it doesn’t work on vampires. Only things that were never human.”

  Rae hugged herself tighter. “Good to know.”

  Lailah shrugged. “This is as safe a place as any.” She reached out and tugged the curtain shut, leaving only a narrow stripe of light.

  “What now?” Rae asked, her voice fading to a whisper.

  “First, get cleaned up. I’ll find you something to wear. Then you can tell me a story.”

  RAE’S BLOOD ITCHED.

  She paced the living room of the cabin, this cottage by the sea with its bland, expensive furniture, so clean and unscuffed it could have been new. Borrowed clothes hung heavy on her limbs. Lailah’s clothes—a black sweater that fell to her thighs, its sleeves rolled in fat coils above her wrists. The pants were too long as well, hems folded thick, and sagged off her hips. Everything clean, but Lailah’s scent lingered, metallic and bittersweet in the folds.

  Above the expanse of black water, snowlight paled the sky. Night had come on while she distracted herself with a shower and tea. It had taken even longer to get through her story. The bones of it, at least: her friendship with Alain and subsequent introduction to Rainer and the gallery; Rainer’s magic; Jason’s growing involvement with Stephen York; the shapes she glimpsed in shadows.

  “You should rest,” Lailah said as Rae reached the end of the room and started back. It was the first time she’d spoken since Rae finished talking. She leaned back on the sofa, legs outstretched. Lazy as a lounging panther, and just as dangerous.

  “I’ve rested long enough. I feel better.” She did, mostly. The wound on her side had bled a little after her shower, leaking red and sticky between the stitches, but now it was only a line of warmth across her ribs. The warmest thing in the chilly, empty house.

  What would it have said, Rae wondered, if the dead man had finished what he started?

  Her circuit took her past the sliding glass patio door, and she paused to stare at the grey world beyond. The sky was the color of a mourning dove’s belly, and fat flakes of snow spun past the edge of the porch light, turning the trees into spun-sugar fairy castles. How long had it been since she’d seen a sky unstained by streetlights? Since she’d tasted clean snow?

  “Don’t,” Lailah said as Rae reached for the door.

  “Why not?” The wind that whistled past the eaves sounded like starsong.

  “An open door is an invitation.”

  “Oh.” She peeled her hand off the cold metal handle. She saw nothing but snow and trees and water outside, but who knew what waited in the farther darkness.

  “What’s happened to me?” she asked, settling onto the far end of the couch. What was still happening? She lifted her left hand, studying the map of veins beneath the skin. Only blue lines now, that would run red if she opened them.

  Lailah reached out and took her hand, callused fingers nestling cool against her pulse. Rae shivered. “I don’t know,” the other woman said. “But you’re lucky. We’ve been keeping an eye on mania for a while now. This isn’t the first place it’s shown up. It used to be just another drug, not much worse than smack or meth. It might have let people see things they weren’t meant to, but who believes a junkie?”

  Rae bit back a reply. She didn’t have much use for what she was and wasn’t meant to do. “Used to be?” she asked instead.

  Lailah shrugged and let go of Rae’s hand. “At the beginning of the month something happened. Something changed. We felt ripples of it all through the city, weird shivers we didn’t understand.” She grimaced. “Magic is full of weird shit I don’t understand. But whatever it was, it affected the maniacs most of all. Drove them crazy. Drove them... wrong. Killed them, sometimes—sometimes it didn’t.”

  “Like the man in the alley,” Rae whispered.

  “Yes. We’d seen those shadow things before—nightgaunts, some of my people call them—but now they’re worse. They’re hunting something. Maniacs, as far as I can tell.” For an instant her dark eyes were soft with sympathy, before she drew on her cool mask again. “You’re the one who’s been taking this stuff. What do you think changed?”

  “I don’t know.” Rae rubbed her arms. Lailah was right: something had happened at the beginning of December. That was when the stars had begun to call her. “There was... a door. A door opening.”

  “I know Morgenstern did something at his cabin, weeks ago. It went wrong and people died.”

  “Alain—” She turned sharply. “What do you mean, people? Blake is still alive.” Wasn’t he?

  “Gemma Pagan. Robert Files. Didn’t you know them?”

  Rae’s mouth dropped open and snapped shut again wordlessly. “But they...” Had vanished, hadn’t they? She hadn’t seen them since Halloween. Which wasn’t strange, because they weren’t the sort of people she hung out with—artists who weren’t starving. “I told you, I wasn’t there that night. I don’t know what happened.” Jason had complained when he’d learned something happened without them, trying hard to hide the sullenness that would only have proved Rainer right to exclude them. If they had gone, would they be missing too?

  “They died. Died badly. I think the gaunts got them. Morgenstern called in my people to clean up the mess.”

  “Your people? Rabia and Noor?”

  “They’re part of it. They don’t usually do the heavy lifting, though.”

  “You’re... what? Cleaners? Hitmen?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Silence settled between them, like an awkward date who didn’t know what to do with his arms. Rae stared at the toes of her boots, yellow-eyed daisies painted on scuffed black leather—the only thing of hers to survive the alley.

  Behind the feather-soft sky, the stars wheeled closer to dawn. Her blood tingled with their tides. She glanced up to find Lailah watching her sideways. There was less space between them on the couch, and she wasn’t sure who had moved.

  Rae tilted her head to study the other woman. She reached out, slow and careful, and touched Lailah’s scratched cheek. “Sorry about that.”

  Beneath the nail wounds lay older scars: a rough indention the size of a dime on her left cheekbone; a crescent tracing the curve of her chin, pink and pale against deep olive skin. A shade darker than Rae’s own winter-sallow tones, skin that had seen the sun. Fine lines fanned from the corners of Lailah’s dark eyes. More tiny scars scattered across her temple, half hidden by her hair.

  “What happened?” Rae asked.

  Lailah caught her hand and pulled it down. This time she didn’t let go. “An IED.” Her eyes were darker than ever, black as the maenad’s eyes in Rae’s dreams. She smelled of musk and metal, warm skin and, incongruously, sweet shampoo.

  “You were a soldier?”

  “I’ve been a lot of things.” Their eyes met, and again Rae saw a luminous orange flash in the depths of Lailah’s pupils.

  “Are you—” The word caught in her throat. “Human?”

  “I was once. Lately I’m not so sure.” Lailah’s pulse leapt in her throat. “Rae—”

  She read the shape of her name; she couldn’t hear the sound over the bacchanal cry echoing in her ears. Her veins were full of stars. Lailah tried to speak again, but Rae kissed her before she could.

  Blood and flesh, a voice sang in her head. Yours for the asking. Take it, take her. The way opens and we are coming.

  Her mouth on Lailah’s neck, salt musk on her tongue. Her fingers tangled in Lailah’s hair; Lailah’s hands slid beneath her sweater, tightening on her hips. Rae’s teeth sank into the join of the Lailah’s neck and the other woman moaned and arched against her. The taut resistance of skin and muscle, the give of flesh and the heat of salt and copper. Lailah’s thigh gro
und against Rae’s pubic bone as they moved and she whimpered.

  Take it.

  “No!”

  Rae threw herself back, out of Lailah’s arms, and sprawled hard on the floor. The fall knocked the wind out of her. She lay trembling and gasping, blood pounding under her skin. Through the tangled ribbons of her hair she saw her hand clawing at the carpet, veins black as molasses in sallow flesh.

  Then the pain came, the dull ache of jarred limbs and a hot knife twisting in her side. Her pulse beat in her lips and the taste of blood and skin filled her mouth. Lailah crouched beside her, calling her name. Rae’s lip quivered at her touch, and it was all she could to fight back tears.

  “Hush.” Lailah’s arms circled her, lifting her carefully back to the couch. “It’s all right.” Blood feathered across the skin of her throat, seeping into her collar.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “It’s all right.” She touched the bite and stared at the red stain on her fingers; her throat worked. “What happened? Besides—” She broke off, a flush rising in her cheeks.

  “I don’t know. The way is opening. The door. They’re coming.” She stared at her hands, knotted in her lap: normal now, and trembling.

  “Who is?”

  “The twins. The king.” Rae shuddered, trying to untangle the images in her head. “The door is opening.” The star-tide still moved in her blood.

  Dark eyes narrowed. “Can you help me find it? This door?”

  She hesitated, listening for distant music, feeling the ebb and tug inside her. “I think so.”

  Lailah grinned, sharp enough to remind her of the maenads again. “Then get your coat on. We’re going hunting.”

  13

  Poison Gifts

  SUNDAY CAME WITH a heavy smothering sky, perpetual twilit grey. Liz welcomed it. She would have wrapped the gloom around her like a blanket if she could—anything to hide the stars. To hide from them.

  Chills and fever rode her in turns, and she wasn’t sure if they were the work of her hand—a sickening pulse of pain, the bandage spotted with rosettes of rust and yellow—or of what she’d seen. Where she’d been. Her head felt soft and swollen, like something overripe and rotting inside. Blood stained her pillow, crusted in the fine hair above her ear and itched inside her nostrils. She wanted to scrub herself clean down to the bones, but the urge to remain small and silent and unnoticed held her.

  Alex came and went, not quite in sync with her clarity. She’d expected recriminations, lectures and hospitals, but there was no trace of last night’s argument in his face today. She almost preferred it to the sick worry that had taken its place. His long face was thinner than usual, hollow cheeked and hollow eyed.

  She swallowed the chalky antibiotics when he pressed them on her, but couldn’t stand the thought or smell of food. He spoke, and she wanted to answer, to reassure him, but the words were lost, drowned deeper than her voice could reach.

  She was alone in the bedroom when her phone rang. The buzz and rattle stripped away the layers of fog and cored into the chewy, pain-filled center of her skull. She waited for it to stop, but it kept on, shaking itself across the nightstand in its impatience. Finally she thrashed free of the blankets to reach it.

  Unknown caller , the screen read. But she thought she knew, even as she pressed the button. “Hello?” Her voice cracked and she had to repeat the word. Unthinking, she brushed sweaty bangs off her forehead left-handed and swallowed against a spike of nausea.

  “Liz?” Rainer’s voice was nearly as ugly as hers. She hadn’t given him her number, but that was insignificant compared to all the other things she had to ask him. A long pause followed, until she thought the line had gone dead. “I need to talk to you,” he said at last. He sounded as bad as she felt. “About Blake. Please.”

  Something sick and desperate in that please. Something helpless. She looked down at her bandaged hand, wiggled stiff and swollen fingers. It was dangerous, and stupid, and she didn’t want to face the darkness or the stars. But he’d said the magic word. “When?”

  “Tonight, after seven. There’s a party at the gallery.” His breath echoed through the connection. “Thank you.”

  She was still staring at the phone when Alex returned, a brown paper Tim Hortons bag tucked under one arm and a cup in each hand. He opened his mouth when he saw her, but what came out was a cough.

  “How do you feel?” he asked when the spasm passed.

  “Better.” It wasn’t exactly true, but it seemed the safest answer. How bad did she look, to warrant the concern on his face? She took the cup of tea and bagel he offered to make it more convincing. She breathed in peppermint steam until her stomach calmed.

  She concentrated on the food to avoid Alex’s expression. Caution and pedantry she was used to; anger and condemnation she could withstand—but there was nothing she could do against his naked concern. She couldn’t promise the things he wanted to hear.

  “I’m going back to the gallery tonight.” She said it fast, like ripping off a band-aid. She set aside her half-eaten bagel. “Rainer wants to talk to me. You don’t have to come.”

  Alex frowned and coughed again. He glanced toward the window, quick and distrustful, as if he feared the sky as much as she did. Then he crouched in front of her, laying a hand on her knee. “I don’t think party separation is wise, under the circumstances.”

  Relief pushed the air out of her lungs. She couldn’t find the words to tell him how much she needed that quiet phlegmatism right now. Instead she smiled, threading her fingers through his. “Thank you.”

  Then she stood, forcing her legs to hold her, and stumbled toward the bathroom. She had to find another mask to wear.

  THINK OF IT as another faculty party, Alex told himself as they climbed the gallery’s marble stair. The landing was warm with body heat, the air heavy with brittle laughter and the smell of alcohol. If the university’s history department were filled with drug dealers and cultists, the resemblance would be uncanny.

  And now that he thought of it, could he really be sure it wasn’t? Cultists couldn’t be any worse than Oxfordians.

  “What is the plan, exactly?” he asked Liz as they faced the crowd. Her good hand was cool in his, but he could feel her trembling.

  “I’m going to find Rainer. You can mingle, if you like.”

  Her voice was light, carefully nonchalant, and he wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she acknowledged the gravity of the situation. His free hand tightened and he shoved his fist into his pocket.

  “We can’t trust them, you know.” He lowered his voice, though the chatter drowned them out. “We can’t trust anyone here.”

  Her smile vanished, eyes becoming cool and unreadable as agates. “I know. I’ll be careful.”

  Before he could think of a response, Antja slunk through the press to greet them. Her maquillage was even more cunning than Liz’s; one wouldn’t imagine she did anything but host parties, let alone that she’d nearly been killed the day before. The high neck of her burgundy sweater hid her throat.

  “Quite a crowd,” Alex said, a sacrificial offering of small talk. As if this were nothing but another social function.

  Antja rolled her eyes. “They’re here for the free food.” Her face might be flawless, but her voice was still husky and strained. “Rainer planned this party months ago. Before...” She lifted one hand in a shrug.

  “Where is Rainer?” Liz asked.

  Antja shrugged, dark hair sliding like a veil across her shoulders. “Hiding somewhere. Probably in his office.” She gestured toward a hallway on the other side of the stairs. A man greeted her in passing and she turned to smile at him, a dazzling expression that vanished as soon as she looked away. “I have to keep mingling. If you want out of this mess, you can go upstairs.”

  Because that had worked so well last time. Alex rolled his shoulders against a creeping chill.

  “Let me talk to Rainer,” Liz said after Antja was gone. She squeezed his hand. “Th
en we can leave.”

  He looked down at her hazel eyes, searching for something to say, searching for his Liz beneath her brittle veneer. But he didn’t find either, and then she was gone, swallowed by the crowd. Alex stared after her, a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. When she was out of sight, he went looking for a drink.

  Armed with a glass of Chardonnay, he retreated to a dim corner to watch the festivities. If he didn’t concentrate, the noise washed over him, bright and meaningless as birdsong. Most of the guests passed him by without a glance. The wine, while nothing to rave about, was a notch above the Chateau Screwcap usually served at university functions. If Liz didn’t come back soon, he might have a second glass.

  He watched Antja work the crowd, playing hostess. She should have been a politician. He would have believed her brilliant smiles, but for the ease with which she discarded them. Her shoulders slumped when she thought no one was looking.

  The crowd seemed ordinary enough—broken into cliques and clusters, swirling currents of conversation. Doubtless full of the same name-dropping and backstabbing and bed hopping as any other group. And maybe some of them enjoyed chemical diversions and gruesome art. Maybe some of them were jealous or vicious enough to shove two men into a freezing lake. But none of that explained the monsters in the shadows, melting corpses and that terrible red sky. Nothing explained any of it, except madness, or the walls of reality shifting around him. And no matter how he might wish otherwise, Alex felt all too sane.

  He was on his third glass of wine when Antja passed him again. She nearly walked on as obliviously as the rest, but stopped with a double-take.

  “I didn’t expect you to come back tonight.” Hard to tell through her cool facade, but she didn’t sound unhappy about it.

  He shrugged and looked down at his glass. “I’m here with Liz. She and Rainer are having a tête-à-tête.”

  She frowned, nostrils flaring. Alex drained his glass and marshaled his nerve. “I think we need to know what the hell is going on around here.”