by VK Fox
“But you don’t have any magic. Sister Mary told me you don’t link people from your orders. How can this be fixed without powers?”
“Jane, we do have power—it’s called faith. Sometimes it comes from God and then it’s called miracles. Let’s hope for one of those.”
Great. It probably made her a bad Catholic, but hope for a miracle sounded like a terribly desperate plan. Jane gripped her teacup. It burned a little. “What about Ian?”
Father Gentle’s expression was soft and knowing, too old on his boyish face. ”I wish we had influence with Sana Baba or favors to call in. As it is, I will pray.”
“I want to help, but I don’t know what I should do.”
“Keep taking the next step. It’s all any of us can do, and it’s all we are asked.” He smiled and left Jane with her tea and her stone friend.
The Human Relations office had coffee and a muffin bar in the waiting area before noon. Jane selected blueberry and worked on glaring the intern into action.
“I did have an appointment. You must have known I was coming.” Being kept waiting after all of the nervous bravery it took to get there was leaving Jane jittery and impatient.
“I’ll page my manager again. It’s been a busy few days. We’ll be right with you.”
Where was Ian? What was going on? Could she shake answers out of this acne-splattered teenager? Jane sighed and ate around the edge of the muffin top. She paced the room and fingered through a disappointingly mundane copy of Vanity Fair.
“I’m going out to smoke.” Jane strode back through the double doors and turned the corner to a grassy rectangle framed by small palms and a few chairs. Lavender hit both nostrils a second before bumping into Everest Lovecraft hard. He didn’t move as she kind of bounced off of him. He wasn’t a big guy, but he was tall and Jane was… well, really sick of fish and protein shakes. He looked terrible: covered in scrapes and bruises, but his eyes told a more painful story—bloodshot, exhaustion bruised, and restless.
His voice was miles calmer than he looked capable of. “Hello, Elizabeth.”
“Jane.”
“Hello, Jane.” He took out a joint and lit it, blowing smoke away from the pair of them as Jane scrambled for something to say. I’m sorry I let the man you loved die? I didn’t know? I can’t save everyone? It all sounded awful. She couldn’t speak those words. Lovecraft continued after only two breaths, “Is Dahl alright?”
Thank God. Something to talk about. “I don’t know. He’s petrified and Mordred’s trapped. I can fix the petrification, but we still don’t have a good Mordred solution.”
Lovecraft nodded, “But he’s whole?”
“He lost an arm. I can’t fix a missing limb.”
“Right or left?”
“Right.”
“That’s something.” Lovecraft took another puff.
Jane lit her cigarette, “They make you come into work the day after a shit show like the Neon?”
“Debriefing. It’s my last day.” He considered her in glances, fleeting eyes through heavy lashes.
“Where’s Ian?”
“He’s in the hospital. He was treated for injuries and is being monitored during active side effects, but physically, she’s seen a lot worse.”
Lovecraft paused for a heartbeat, “At the Neon I was wearing a wire.”
“What?” The bottom dropped out of Jane’s stomach. They knew. They knew her name and her powers. They knew Ian had lied. Jane started shaking.
“Ian’s going to get through it. I did that for you.” He turned to her and locked her down with his mismatched gaze, “I. Did. That. I made that happen, do you understand? For you.”
Jane swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. Her face burned. “Now in return, you will make them believe Mordred is gone. I don’t care how. If they think he is in a statue, they will find it and grind it to dust. So you need to tell them what they want to hear and you need to make them hear it. Do you take my meaning?”
Her mouth went dry, “Yes.”
Lovecraft narrowed his eyes, “Don’t disappoint me again.”
What did Jane’s face look like when she wasn’t lying? That might be a good place to start. If she could memorize her natural demeanor and mannerisms, she could hide behind them. The trouble was, as soon as her efforts turned towards memorizing her natural ways they instantly became self-conscious. Was she wearing her natural face now? Jane touched her cheek, trailing her fingers along her jaw and trying to memorize the expression in the large mirror wall behind the heavy desk. The woman who was speaking, Allison Card, paused mid-word to raise her eyebrows. Yeah, so this was probably not the most natural face.
“Are you in medical distress?” The question was issued with a touching level of concern. Card’s bare tanned feet were on the desk, but she tensed in case she needed to spring into assistive action.
“No, I’m good. Just out of it. Sorry.”
“I’m sure. Well, if you can tell me about what you witnessed at the Neon we can be done in no time.” Card smiled generically, and Jane put herculean effort into looking relaxed. Should she try to distract herself and lie while her brain pondered the mundane?
Card was toying with a silver necklace. Jane liked her hair, bold and low maintenance, although shaved sides would have to be cut weekly to keep them neat. The woman across the desk didn’t look like a Card. Why had she chosen that name? Maybe people didn’t always look like the books they liked, but Ian being a Sendak and Dahl being a Dahl was natural, like it fit how they looked. Did the whole staff wear button shirts and slacks to work? If you worked for a multi-millennia old cult it seemed like the dress code could be more exciting.
“Jane?”
Oh shit, she was supposed to talk at the same time. Jane opened her mouth and closed it again. Fucknuggets, now anything she said was going to sound like a lie because she’d waited so long. How was she screwing this up so badly? Her face was hot. Oh no. Not blushing. Jane “deer-in-the-headlights”ed her own reflection again. Bright fucking crimson. Fuck this mirror! Who put a mirror like this in an office anyway? The only place she’d ever seen anything similar was in interrogation rooms on TV when a one-way…. Oh shit. Oh no. That’s what was happening. That’s where she was!
“Jane?”
“No! Hang on! Can we start over?”
“We haven’t started the first time.”
Jane was sweating. Not a healthy glow, but rivulets trickling from her armpits along her rib cage and beads on her forehead. She crossed her arms to clamp against her flannel and stem the ticklish stream. Grabbing a tissue from the box on the desk, she mopped her forehead before sweat dripped down her face too, attempting to cover it with a blowing-her-nose gesture—kind of generally rubbing her whole face as a diversionary technique. Oh, boy, Lovecraft had bet on the wrong horse. Again. Couldn’t he see the future? What in God’s green earth made him think she could pull this off?
Tell them what they want to hear, and you need to make them hear it.
What the fuck did they want to hear? What did Sana Baba even want?
“I’ll work for you.” The words were out before she could smother them with her dreams of personal liberty.
“Come again?” Card was still giving her a level stare. Mildly interested, disclosing nothing. She’d be a great liar.
“I’m not going to answer any questions about the Neon. I don’t owe you a report. But Mordred has been imprisoned and the Sisters of Perpetual Help are working on destroying him. I will work for you until they’ve done their thing and he’s dead or banished or whatever. I’ll help you as a sign of good faith, as long as you keep your grubby paws out of their business.” Jane gripped the arms of her chair, crushing the tissue.
Card nodded, “I’ll take this to my supervisor. Anything else?”
“I’m not your agent, and I don’t want a W-2 and a stylist. But I’ll work with Ian or I’ll help out here or in DC. Got it?”
Both women stood—Card first and then Jane, b
ecause she didn’t want to be left out. Card extended a hand across the desk, and Jane shook it with her sweaty palm. “I’m sure we can work something out.”
“But what does it mean in a day-to-day sense? Sure it’s a title change, but is there a practical difference?” Jane couldn’t sift the technicalities.
Ian gazed at the clear blue sky for a few seconds as they ambled up Blue’s front steps. Ian limped along on his injured leg, and Jane squashed the five hundred and eighty-two thousandth impulse to heal it. The smell of chocolate chip cookies wafted through an open window. He paused, leaning against the railing without approaching the door, “It means I’ll have different kinds of missions. Cleaning up problems. Working with partner organizations. My role within Sana Baba has changed.”
“Does that matter?” Jane talked around a bite of protein bar, trying to breathe in chocolate chip scent to cover the vitamin-rich flavor.
Ian adjusted one of his lapis ear gauges. His voice was soft. “It does, but I am trying to be thankful for it. It was a gift. Lovecraft could have looked the other way and things would have been… Well, you know.”
“Did you talk to him?”
Ian shook his head, unfocused, “He won’t speak with me. I was instructed to not attempt to contact him. He’s cutting some kind of deal with management, and they were firm about toeing the line. Whatever he reported cleared me of the worst, but it’s not like life can go on as before.” He paused, lips moving silently for a few seconds before continuing, “Jane, I know losing the tablet made a difference as well. My feelings are complicated—I don’t know if I can explain my bond to something that ancient and magical. I wish it wasn’t gone, but I’m grateful for the second lease on life. “
Jane nodded and picked at the curling edge of one of her Band-aids.
“Anyhow, we’re working together.” Ian stretched out a huge hand to squeeze Jane’s shoulder, “Who could ask for more?”
Jane tried for a smile. It would be nice to be with Ian while he was working instead of a thousand miles away riddled with worry. It would have also been nice if she hadn’t needed to enter indentured servitude to do it.
The quicker the sisters got their asses in gear, the quicker she’d be free. They had a whole month before their first mission while management got organized and Jane worked with a nutritionist to “achieve field ready condition.” She was also scheduled to undergo basic training, which she very much hoped would be more like Men in Black and less like GI Jane. Sana Baba was very clear that time spent training and conditioning did not count towards her debt, and she would have to put in an additional month at the end of her contract. She and Ian were scheduled back in DC early in the week, and Dahl would stay with Blue while the sisters worked on a solution.
Jane finished her protein bar and followed the far more promising smell to the kitchen. Blue’s hair was in a kerchief knotted on top of her head, and she had donned a ruffly apron. She awkwardly pounced with a sheet of aluminum foil towards an exuberant two-quart Tupperware golem sporting new legs, superglued masking tape, and a big red bow.
She waved a floral oven mitt at Ian and Jane, “No! Go away! I’m working on your wedding gift and it’s not ready! Go visit Dahl!”
Jane grinned, partly because of the touching gesture and partly because she saw eggshells in the sink and knew she was going to get to eat the whole batch. Ian allowed himself to be shooed out of the kitchen towards the back of the house. Jane nudged him in the right direction.
Dahl and Mercy stood side by side, looking at home among the odd antiques. Ian silently touched his stone face, trailing fingertips along his chin and staring with large, dark eyes.
Watching him, Jane’s voice grew scratchy, “I talked to him. Last night while you were gone, I sat up and told him we were working on it. Then I told him like forty knock knock jokes. It’s not my fault if he remembers some of them. I had Blue play music this morning on her boombox. She didn’t have any metal, but we found an alternative rock station.”
Ian covered his face, one hand lingering over the rough, shattered lump of Dahl’s right shoulder. “Why did it have to be like this? Why was this his plan?”
Jane spoke calm words over her flash of anger. “Limited options. He tried to tell me, Ian… last autumn. He was trying to get the message out. He couldn’t tell you. He needed you too much.”
“It should have been my job to protect him. Not the other way around.”
“Don’t start.”
“I should have…”
“Nope!” Jane’s voice was so definitive it made Ian jump. “You did everything you could for him. Every time he let you in, you helped. Sometimes bad shit happens. It doesn’t have to lay at anyone’s feet.”
Ian gave Dahl a final pat on the back and turned, gathering Jane in his arms. “Thank you, sweet girl.”
“Anytime. But maybe not too often.”
“I found a flight with a layover.”
“Um, I’m pretty sure you’re doing air travel wrong.”
Ian kissed the top of her head, “DC by way of Chicago was difficult to book. We will have some time to kill in Illinois if you would like me to meet your family.”
Jane’s heart leapt into double time, “Really?”
“Yeah. I can’t wait.”
Epilogue
The best moments were ones when the crowd came to a consensus about how to act: a group awakening. Everest could play their mood on and on, becoming the soundtrack to life for five minutes or so. In his personal darkness the fiddle sang out, almost exactly matching their hope, wonder, longing, despair, curiosity, intoxication, and levity. The limit was his skill with the instrument, but he was improving. Playing for hours a day over months paid dividends.
He never used a sign for his act, preferring to let people puzzle it out. He would sit silent and still during long stretches when no one thought of the solution, a wound-down toy standing in a performer’s circle, fiddle at rest. More people gathered until the spark of inspiration pulled someone from the faceless mass and a hand pressed on his bare shoulder, roughly on top of the red handprint he painted there each evening he played, both in utility and to honor Adam. Then under his blindfold he could open his second eye and let feelings pour in where their skin touched and pour back out again through his fiddle bow.
For someone who hated physical contact, this was decent therapy. When he’d gazed into the repellent void inside of himself after the fight at the Neon this was a tangible, manageable item he could change. It would make him happy to heal a wound inflicted all those years ago.
Tonight’s crowd was exceptionally interested, and he’d played for hours until someone pushed his mind over a cliff and he fumbled the bow. This person’s feelings were like shadows in firelight: objects distorted to such a degree Everest only knew they existed because of context. He took off his blindfold. Owen London was faking an easy grin. Everest brushed his short hair out of his eyes, his hand slipping when he missed the length. He faked it back.
“Hey boss. I thought we could get something to eat. When you’re done here, anyways.”
“I’d like that.” Everest was surprised how happy he was to see London. He wasn’t there to drag him back to work, so the situation was low stakes. Now he could have a visit with his friend.
Packing the fiddle, his backpack, and the mostly empty coffee can he used for tips, Everest almost missed the heady scent of pipe smoke as it washed over him. He adjusted his tank top strap under the backpack and pulled a joint.
“Not doing well on tips tonight?” London was mulling him over, eyes roaming. Everest enjoyed the fact he presented an intellectual puzzle.
“Maggie’s at the end of the walk, so no one tips.”
“The sweet little twenty-year-old with no legs?”
“Yes. When tourists walk down the street they don’t tip, so they can see all the performers before parting with their singles.”
“Of course. Then they get to Maggie at the end and she’s the best of the lot
: no legs and dancing her heart out while bravely waving the American flag. They know they’ve seen all the other acts, so they turn out their pockets.”
“All because she figured out the positioning had the good luck to be born without legs.” Everest almost kept the pettiness from his voice.
“That bitch.”
Everest lit up, wandering the street alongside London. They ambled in silence for a few minutes before London broke it, “So how’s life among civvies in Vegas?”
Culture shock didn’t cover it. A few months ago he’d been outside of Sana Baba’s insular ethos exactly twice, and both outings were fieldwork, not a deep dive with the natives. A lot of what he naively had never bothered to scrutinize was, in actuality, not normal on the outside. A few nasty, narrow scrapes had taught him what years of reading couldn’t: humility and caution. But London didn’t need the details, “It’s a learning experience. Turns out I’m something of an oddity. Most people in Vegas are, though.”
“Working for tips is an interesting choice.”
“Sana Baba froze my assets until a time I chose to return to their employ. It doesn’t matter to me: I find the bottom rung of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs a comfortable challenge right now.”
“If you’re trying to scrape together food and a place to sleep, you don’t have to think about love and loss so much.”
“Correct.” Everest took a drag and, after a few seconds, blew the cloying smoke back out.
“Congratulations on kicking heroin.”
“For the first time.” Everest absently rubbed a hand over his face.
“Your hair’s shorter. It looks like you struggled with that.”
Everest cleared his throat, unsure if London was referring to the struggle change caused or the uneven cut. Waist-length hair was a ridiculous impracticality for someone who was never sure when their next shower would be. He wished he could have kept it, though.
