by Dia Reeves
Where did she want to go? Home? After the way they'd treated her?
If I only had a heart…
“Nettle! I was just about to call you. Hi!”
“Hello!” Nettle laughed, a sound that always tickled Rue’s ears. “Are you in? Are you safe? I saw the pictures you send. The house look so creepy at night!”
“It looks creepy now, in broad daylight. Rainlight?” Rue looked back at the plantation. “Strange shadows in the windows. Dogs howling and roaming the property. Not now, but at night; they unleash the hounds at night.”
“Like a horror story.” Rue heard the happy shiver in Nettle’s voice—she loved horror stories.
“How are things at home?”
“Boring as always. I never have adventures like you. Unless curling up to sleep is adventure.”
Rue imagined her family in their house in the dark park, that section of the Piney Woods that Porterenes rarely visited and, if they did, rarely escaped. She could almost hear the slip and slide of blankets across the floor as the family arranged their pallets side-by-side to share body heat as they slept.
She moved briskly, traveled under the trees as much as possible to keep the drilling rain off her skin. It had been foolish to run out without her coat. A coat that wasn’t really hers. Nothing really belonged to her. Except Nettle.
“You could be as adventurous as you want. I’ll teach you.”
“Teach me in Paris. We can still go to Paris?”
“Sure, Nettle. In six months.”
“Make sure to get enough money for museums, train rides, hotels. And the pretty clothes we will use to lure throbbing foreign boys into our clutches!”
“I can earn enough. Paris, Prague, Saint Petersburg: we’ll take the continent by storm. They’ll beg us to stay. They’ll adopt us and make us honorary Europeans.”
“But I don’t want to be European,” Nettle said, and then added, in that reconsidering tone Rue had learned to dread, “You think they will force us to stay?”
“I was teasing, Nettle.”
“It’s too strange, I think. Strange and lonely in Europe where there is no one like us.”
“There’s no one like us anywhere.”
“Better to stay in Portero where everyone is strange, where it’s easy to blend in.”
“Who wants to blend in? Being an aberration’s never stopped me from having a good time. So don’t worry, little sister. I’ll shield you from any humans who try to convince you that you don’t exist.”
“Better to stay in Portero, except…”
“What?”
“Joining.” Nettle’s voice always carried a note of anger whenever the subject of joining came up.
Rue had almost joined with Dodder, a dull as dirt boy her family had pushed on her last year. Rue had rejected him immediately and, to put an exclamation point on the rejection, mated with his older brother Heath, who at least knew how to read. Rue’s family hadn’t spoken to her for a month. Except Nettle. Part of the reason Rue had rejected Dodder was because she’d known it would please Nettle.
Rue was the pleased one now, warmed by the idea that her family was working so diligently to bring her back into the fold and with such subtlety. “Who do they want for me this time?”
“Not you,” said Nettle, spitting the words. “Me.”
Rue stopped, disoriented. Found she’d wandered to the kennels. Three dogs stood beyond the fence staring at her, as if waiting for her. Strange dogs that looked like Dobermans, with their slick black coats and small heads. But their hind legs were scaly like a lizard’s. Rue didn’t question it. In Portero sometimes things became altered.
She turned away, walking into the wind, hugging herself to keep warm.
“You’re a baby.”
“It’s just talk.” So upset Nettle didn’t even object to being called a baby. “Talk I don’t want to make anymore. You talk now. About your adventures in the plantation.”
Rue told her everything that had happened since she’d arrived last night, speaking words she couldn’t hear over the cacophony of her own thoughts.
They wanted Nettle to join. With a man. To make a family.
Nettle.
Not Rue.
“They know you are heartless?” Nettle was screaming in her ear. “You tell them this?”
“Westwood saw the slit in my chest, saw the claws. It made him happy. He said so.”
“Humans say things always and don’t mean it. They lie even to themselves! Don’t trust a person who can tell his own self a lie and believe it.”
“Did they say who?”
“To join with? No. There was a big meeting. And talking and talking. And nobody even ask me what I want.”
“Of course not. They won’t.”
“It’s so unfair.”
“At your big meeting, did the family ask about me? About where I am or when I’ll be back? Anything?”
“Ask why? You chose.”
If Rue threw the phone it would shatter against one of the laurelcherry trees, or drown in a puddle, and Westwood might not buy her another.
“And only one day isn’t enough time for them to beg your return. A month, three months, something like that.”
“I don’t need begging. An apology would be nice though.”
“They say that about you.”
“I’m not going to apologize for being me. For doing something they can’t do. For living my life my way. It’s my life!”
“I know.”
“I don’t mean to yell. I want us to be happy. I thought this was a good place for us, but we can’t stay here.”
“Why is it bad?”
“There’s a door. To another world.”
“I don’t like doors.”
“I know.”
“But you can close it.”
“What if Westwood says no?”
“Get rid of him and then close it yourself. And if those twins continue in their hateful way, rip open their chests. And when every heart is dry and empty, we will have the house to ourself.”
“It is a nice house,” Rue agreed.
“I have to go now.”
“Already?”
“You hear my teeth knockknockknock together? And all of the family is calling me inside. The floor is too cold for them to sleep without me. I hate winter!”
“You still have to sneak out of the house to talk to me?”
“You know how they are.”
“So do you.”
Rue abandoned the attempt to hug herself warm and, instead, raised her body temperature. Let Nettle be the good girl, shivering alone outdoors in a bid to conserve energy; Rue would rather be warm.
“I guess I will stay here, and as soon as I can, I’m moving you in with me. You won’t have to sneak out of the house to do anything. I’ll call you later. And Nettle? I love you. Don’t let Mom or any of them talk you into doing anything foolish. ‘No’ is always an option.”
“Okay. I love you, too.”
Rue went back to the plantation and found Frida huddled miserably on the patio, rain streaking her glasses.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’ll go inside when you do. Or when the bugs are gone.” Frida shuddered. “I mean, if someone like you is scared enough to run—”
“I’m not scared. I’m disappointed. And confused.”
“It’s not that bad here.” Frida’s attempt to clean her glasses only made them wetter. “The staff don’t have any family, so we’re each other’s family, you know? If somebody died or got lost through a door, you’d still have a lot of people left over.”
“I don’t want leftovers. I want my sister. I miss her, and I hoped…”
“Is Nettle your sister?”
Rue nodded.
“Charms make it easier.” Frida pulled an ornate brass key from her pocket. “Charms and keys. I found this yesterday. Thought it was lucky, and it was. For me. Poor old Shirley. If she hadn’t sent me upstairs, I’d be the dead one. The only thing
that stands between us and oblivion is luck. Your Nettle has to roll the dice, same as everyone. With or without a door in the house.”
The knot inside Rue relaxed. So did her expression, melting back into its human-friendly contours. Frida was right. It was silly to expect guarantees, especially from something as oily and slippery as life.
“Let’s go inside before we freeze.”
“You’ll kill the bugs?”
“Why does it have to be all or nothing? Why can’t you find a way to live with something even if you don’t understand it?”
Frida adjusted her glasses, as if Rue had gone out of focus. “I’ll go find some Raid.”
Chapter 4
“You can’t leave ’em in the common room,” said Frida, rummaging through the cupboards. “That’s the one place we can relax.”
“What’s relaxing about a chopped up dead guy on the wall?” Rue washed the slime from her hands at the sink while Frida ransacked the kitchen.
“It’s just George. He never makes anyone nervous. Not even when he was alive.” She opened a cupboard and bluish-green leaves spilled forth. A tree framed by sleek cabinetry. A creature perched on the spiraling trunk. Bluish-green like the leaves. Hard to see until it lunged at Frida, who had stood too long in confusion over the lack of plastic-ware she’d been expecting. Bared fangs, sharp talons, lightning reflexes, but Rue was faster. Before the creature could land on Frida’s face, Rue booted her aside and swung the frying pan she’d found near the sink. Smashed it back through the cupboard. It was still falling, screaming, snapping branches on the way down when Rue slammed the cupboard shut.
“Sorry about that,” she said, helping Frida stand.
Frida rubbed the hip Rue had kicked. “Better a kick than a face full of teeth. I guess.”
After sixty seconds—Rue counted carefully—she opened the cupboard. Only plastic-ware now, but a waft of warm rich earth and the sweet tang of unfamiliar fruit still hung in the air as Frida removed a large container with shaky fingers.
“This is beyond irresponsible. If Westwood has no plans to close the door, why am I here? Does he expect me to stay forever, fighting this never ending battle?”
“Yes. Westwood doesn’t let go too easy. People come here to work…and never leave.”
“I don’t want to leave, but that door. I have to convince him to close it.”
“He won’t. Not until he’s done.”
“With what?”
“The project. The one the mister’s been working on for years. What about the hall closet on the second floor?”
“Not big enough. The ballroom, though, that’s huge. What kind of project?”
“The mister uses that space, likes to show it off to visitors: history buffs and architectural students and the like. No one will want to tour the ballroom if you trash it up with roadkill.”
“What kind of project?”
“The secret project. Don’t ask me. Nobody tells me anything.”
“I have to store dead things somewhere while I figure out how to dispose of those poor dead pupae.”
“Poor dead pupae?”
A man had entered the kitchen. Claimed the space. Didn’t seem particularly thrilled that Rue and Frida had invaded it. He wore a black butcher apron over a shirt tight on his arms, and pants tight on his legs. His curly blond hair was in a low ponytail and he was pale, as though recovering from an illness; at full health, he would be devastating.
“Why are you in my kitchen?”
“Sorry, Drabbin,” said Frida, pouring a bowl full of organ meat into one of the containers. “We’re just getting food for the dogs.”
“That’s not her job.” Drabbin had an English accent, but not a nice one like Mary Poppins. “Unless you’re taking her out there to kill ’em all.”
“No, sir.”
His sea-blue eyes stuck to Rue the entire time. Sticky as flypaper and twice as unseemly.
“You’re supposed to eat with the kids in the dining room. They’re out there now.”
“I have to take care of the poor dead pupae first. But I don’t know where to store them or how I’m supposed to dispose of them.”
“How about the root cellar. That’s dark and private-like.”
“Sounds great. Where is it?”
He put his hand on her hip. “I’ll show you.”
“Don’t trouble yourself.” Frida snapped a lid on the last container. “I’m off to feed the dogs anyway.” Frida grabbed Rue’s elbow and hustled her out the back door before Drabbin could protest. Once outside, Frida huddled with Rue against the wind and said, quite low:
“You want to be careful with that one, Rue. Don’t let him lead you anyplace ‘dark and private-like.’”
Rue waved away Frida’s concern. “The last man who tried to rape me is now paralyzed below the waist, but it’s sweet of you to worry.”
Frida parked Rue in front of the root cellar doors near the side of the house, hidden behind tall shrubbery, and went off to feed the dogs while Rue threw open the doors and descended the uncertain cellar steps. Found a switch that didn’t work. The early evening gloom from outdoors was barely enough to light the way, but she was able to pick out myriad shelves full of canned food and water. Electronic equipment. Emergency supplies. The shelves were flush with the walls leaving plenty of floor space. Only one thing, far back in the corner, encroached on the storage capacity. Westwood, recognizable by his glossy wingtips and starched pants, lay on the floor with…someone? A mysterious pale someone that glowed in the dark and radiated the cold of a thousand graves.
Westwood moaned and Rue recognized the sound. The sexual tone.
Unscrambled the puzzle.
“You’re mating! With a succubus! Oh dear.”
Rue rushed forward and slashed the pale figure across the shoulders.
The succubus didn’t rear back in pain. Didn’t scream. Didn’t bleed. Only tossed her hair, exasperated.
“The hell is your problem? Can’t you see we’re…” The words trailed away.
Rue thought the pain must have caught up with her, but no. She was just staring at Rue. Mesmerized.
Westwood said, “Grissel, this is Rue. The one I told you about. Rue, this is my sister-in-law.” As if they were casually introducing themselves in the parlour.
As Westwood uncoupled from Grissel, the scant cellar light reflected off Grissel’s eyes, the sea-blue tint gleaming like eyeshine in the shadows.
“Are you a succubus?”
“She’s human.” Westwood grabbed a first aid kit off one of the shelves. “A little harder to injure than most, as you’ve learned. Although I have to say, haven’t you ever heard of a killing blow?”
“I wanted to talk to her. Not kill her.”
“You’re not being paid to talk. In this house, we kill first and ask questions later.” He checked his fancy watch. “You should be having dinner with the twins.”
“I had breakfast with them.”
“And now it’s dinnertime. The best way to get to know someone is over a meal. That’s why dinner dates are so popular.”
As Westwood bandaged Grissel’s gaping, bloodless wounds, she continued to stare at Rue, rapt.
“How she shines. Like a star.” Grissel had the same accent as Drabbin, brimming with ice rather than sleaze. She was the glowing one. A creature that had been fished out of such deep, sunless ocean waters, she had learned to produce light within her own flesh, from chemicals and gases and sexual energy.
“Is the part of you that isn’t human a succubus?”
“We’re busy, Rue.”
Now that Grissel’s wounds had been tended to, Westwood seemed eager to begin their mating ritual exactly where they’d left off. “Why are you even down here?”
“I need a place to store dead things until I’m able to dispose of them.”
“You may use this place,” said Grissel, reattaching herself to Westwood but focused solely on Rue, an unwholesome tone souring every word. “And feel free t
o feed any corpses to the dogs. They’ll eat anything. Or use the incinerator.”
“There’s an incinerator? Where?”
“Come close, and I’ll whisper in your ear.”
“Leave her alone, Grissel.”
“But she’s so—”
“Leave it. The incinerator’s just past the patio. Now go away. I don’t have much time, and I refuse to waste it talking to you.”
“What about the door?” said Rue, raising her voice—Grissel was a bit noisy once she got going. “The one that opened just now in the kitchen. Frida was nearly attacked. Things like that will keep happening, creatures will keep popping through, until you shut the door to your lab. Permanently.”
“This is Portero. The whole town is riddled with doors—what’s one more?”
“This one is in your house.”
“Let me worry about what’s in my house, Just Rue.”
“I’m in your house.”
“To do a job. If something gets through take care of it. That’s what I’m paying you for.”
“But—”
“Take. Care of it. And get out of here.”
Rue went to the cellar steps. Paused. Tried on her please-pity-me expression, even though Westwood wasn’t looking at her. But if she did it right, he would hear it.
“Can I please not eat meals with your children anymore? They don’t even like me.”
“You can’t make them like you from the cellar. We don’t run from problems in this house. We face them.”
The wailing increased as she climbed the stairs.
“Are you sure you’re not being murdered? Maybe I should stay down here and protect your—”
“Go to dinner!”
Rue hurried out of the root cellar.
Chapter 5
After killing the majority of pupae, Rue had tried dumping some of the insect corpses in the kennels where Westwood kept his strange dogs, but they wouldn’t come within ten feet of the pupae, let alone eat them.
