Verity looks to the side, but she only sees Sanna’s hunched shoulders; the little girl is still turned away at the edge of the light.
So Verity tells the boy, “If you play with Sanna a little, carefully, he might let you touch him again later.” She is being daring—she feels the snake nip at her wrist—but the shadow-creature’s touch is light and no teeth break her skin, so she thinks she has done well enough. She adds, apologetically, “We should find Colin now.”
The children’s disappointment flashes in little lightning strikes of regret, which Verity blinks through in order to cast one more glance at the girl. She sees Sanna turn toward one of the tiny sparks.
Saying nothing, Verity hitches her bag up on her shoulder and continues down the hall. She hears the whirring of the top start up again behind her. Ouroboros slides back up her arm, winding itself to her shoulder and perching there, cool and nearly insubstantial. “I’m still not afraid of snakes,” she observes, but the snake only darts its tongue perilously close to her ear.
The hall is dark for perhaps ten feet here, a spill of shadows that leads to a renewed flurry of candles and glowing lamps. Here, the furnishings, such as they are, seem more modern, or at least the scratched old coffee table that houses the first candle collection might easily have come from a recent garage sale. A broken recliner comes next, its footrest apparently caught at a crooked, half-extended angle, the right side higher than the left. A spring is visibly eating through the worn seat.
Ahead, Verity hears moaning, and then a scream. A hint of stale tobacco in the back of her throat speaks to a man’s voice stretched thin. She can hear a number of groans now rising to blend together, as though triggered by the first. Sound whispers and ripples around her, agonies breathed as discordantly as the wheeze of an off-key organ.
Light blooms to life somewhere deeper in the dusty length of the hall. It is pure and achingly sweet. The screaming stops, though the whispers remain.
The snake raises its head alertly, watching.
Verity walks forward and sees the first of several narrow beds lined up against the side of the wall. Like the rest of the furniture, they are haphazardly eccentric: an army cot, a mattress on the floor, a sleeping bag on a foam pad. Each is occupied by a huddled figure covered in blankets. Verity does not make out faces as she passes, but she is aware of a pale hand that extrudes from wrinkled sheets and plucks spasmodically at the edge of its own flannel sleeve.
She walks toward the light as though she were following a star.
As she grows closer, she sees that Colin is a constellation unto himself; brilliance spills from his skin, the trinity of glowing face and hands, all else blocked by the thick coat that cloaks him. One of his hands rests on the brow of a mountainous man lying prone on two mattresses, one makeshift bed piled on the other and both bowed beneath the weight of their occupant. Colin’s other hand grips Santiago’s sleeve; the dusky man in black is nigh invisible in the dim hall, but the angel’s light gleams in the wild whites of his eyes.
If Verity were uncomfortable or afraid, there in the shadowed interior of the impossible wall with groans echoing around her, she could not sustain discomfort with Colin’s glow reaching out for her. When she is close enough for his power to illuminate her skin, she feels the warm caress of his care. When the angel is there, she is safe.
She is perhaps five paces away when Colin grunts, his light glittering. He sags, going dull—the barest memory of power glows in him, like the afterimage of a bulb just gone out.
Verity quickens her steps, but Santiago growls, “Don’t,” and scoops the angel into his arms. In the sudden dimness, he is shadow against shadow, though there’s still a lantern burning low in a wall sconce. He lifts his armload of tattered grace as though it weighed nothing, and Verity thinks that nothing about Colin suffering should be beautiful or reassuring, but the angel’s lashes flutter gracefully against the fragile bones of his face. His skeleton hand clutches and releases at his coat collar.
A distant part of Verity feels pity, and still all she wants to do is touch. She curls her hands into fists and shoves them deep into the pockets of her coat, feeling the remnant of bliss sleek and glistening in her throat.
Santiago says, “Wait.” His gaze momentarily reflects a candle flame, gleaming gold as the snake’s, and then he turns away. The next cot against the wall is empty—a spare military affair, or perhaps leftover camping equipment, with a small flat pillow and a blanket folded at one end. The magician bends and sets the angel down; Verity catches a glimpse of broken feathers beneath the wrinkled coat before Santiago pulls the blanket over. His voice is cool when he says, “Give him a minute. You need something?”
The snake is still wrapped around Verity’s shoulders. It makes no move to return to its master, and she touches a light finger to its scales as she looks for words. “There’s a girl in the market. Privya.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Santiago’s teeth flash as he grimaces. It is remarkably similar to his smile. When he straightens, he too looks tired, fine lines threatening at the edges of his eyes. “Colin said. Should’ve told you to stay away from her. She doesn’t strike me as all that stable.”
“Jihan drove a knife into me,” murmurs Verity, not entirely without asperity.
“Okay, point. Privya’s different, though. I think she wants a war.” Santiago nudges past Verity to check on the massive man now silent beside her. “Most of us aren’t very good soldiers. Have you met Matt? This is Matt.”
“Hello,” says Verity obligingly. Matt, in turn, lifts his right hand and waggles his fingers listlessly in the air as Santiago tries to take the pulse at his wrist. Up close, the stranger is even more imposing, his form dominating the mattresses on which he lies. His skin is the shade of burnished walnut, smooth and shining. He is hairless. The edges of his eyes narrow to sharp points, and he seems to want to look at Verity, but his gaze rolls helplessly beneath flickering lids.
“It’s okay, man,” says Santiago, calmly. He’s lying, and Verity does her best not to choke on it, though she can’t keep her fingers from curling against her throat. She feels the snake flex around her shoulders and thinks it is an apology.
The magician adjusts the blankets as the other man’s hand falls back to curl over the mound of his stomach. “Matt just arrived from London,” adds Santiago. “He came by plane. He’s an insurance broker. Managed all right with cars and computers. Has a passport photo. His whole life, though, he’s been diagnosed with allergies—to cats, dogs, latex, strawberries, dairy, dust … I can’t remember what else you said?” Matt’s hand waves again, weak but dismissive. “Yeah,” agrees the magician. “Everything. A few years ago, they told him it was cancer, only they couldn’t figure out what kind. Upshot is, he’s like a lot of us now: this world has been killing him in increments.”
“Thanks,” grunts the man on the mattress. “That’s very encouraging.” His accent is marked with smog and the sort of history that gathers in ancient stones. There’s a rasp in his throat that keeps his words at a whisper. His sarcasm makes Verity shake her head quickly, in a vain attempt to dislodge the scrape across her skin.
“Sorry,” says the magician, who isn’t, because the word threatens to creep tangled and thorny down Verity’s throat. She edges a step to the side.
“Stop it,” mutters Colin, from beneath his blanket and the shroud of his coat. “You’re both hurting her. I can feel it from here. C’mon over, Vee.”
Verity hesitates, but Santiago steps aside, shooting her a warning glance as he presses closer to Matt’s mattress. He gestures her toward Colin—a magician’s graceful stage presentation, awaiting applause—but his gaze is flat. Verity only shakes her head, shifting past, careful not to step in the puddle of red sarcasm still wriggling on the floor. She almost walks into a low coffee table; the knock of her shin sets a light tilting dangerously. She feels Ouro slide from her arm, quicker than any reptile should move. The snake wraps itself around the teetering candle in less than an instant
, steadying the flame. Its coils stripe the translucent glow of the yellow wax, leaving bands of dim light below the fire’s shine.
Verity says, “Thank you.” Ouroboros looks up at her with bland reptile eyes. She takes a moment to get her bearings, then takes two certain steps to the left and rests her fingertips against the shoulder of Colin’s coat. The fabric is heavy and coarser than she expected. His bones are razor thin beneath.
“Take my hand.” Colin’s fingers flex invitingly against the flat pillow. The blankets partially obscure his face, but the messy fall of his hair gives off its own moonlight sheen. One white-lashed eye peers up at Verity, filled with a swirl of starlight.
“No,” says Verity. “It hurts you.”
The angel smells of stale vomit and the crisp perfection of a spring breeze. His grin is both bitter and fragile. “So does your pain,” he says, hopelessly, but he wraps his hand around the pillow instead, clutching it close to his face. “Nice to see you. Surprised you’re here. Where’s her majesty? Not giving you any trouble?”
“She went outside. I passed her on my way in. I’m not sure she knew me.”
“She left? Christ—” Colin’s fingers flex convulsively before he starts to shift, one wing flailing outward beneath the blanket as he pushes himself up. Black feathers escape the worn grey flannel and the coat beneath, shining green and gold before they are eclipsed by a larger darkness and Santiago pushes Verity aside, moving to press the angel back down.
“Lie there,” he says, without apparent sympathy, though Verity notes the speed of his intervention. She wonders how much time the magician must spend tending to the wounded. She inhales the wood dust of the air, and it tastes of cemeteries and mould.
“Not if she’s wandering around—”
“She’s probably outside Vee’s place again.” Santiago jerks a thumb in Verity’s direction. “Sorry,” he adds to her, and though his tone is flat, he does mean it this time. It’s a velvet caress on the inside of her wrist.
Verity blinks. “She’s stalking me?” She is abruptly cold.
“Don’t think so. We would’ve warned you. Ouro’s managed to follow her a few times; mostly, she stands on your steps and your boyfriend talks to her. Or at her. Maybe he needs a warning.”
Verity doesn’t feel any warmer. She crosses her arms, rubbing her hands up and down her biceps, and she’s quiet for long enough that the angel’s eyes flare bright with glittering power. When Colin would stir again, she lifts a hand, palm out. Santiago, too, is watching her.
“Privya,” she says, swallowing back the sick taste of betrayal—is it betrayal? It isn’t surprise. Ginger and bitterness. “She says you want to ... find a way out? That you need me for that?”
“Do we?” Santiago sounds genuinely surprised. “Yeah, though. That’s what Alan’s saying. If we hang in, maybe Princess Chuckles can get us the hell out of here.”
“When? Is it March 5th? That’s Privya; the new posters are hers.”
“What is she even—Lansdowne is a dead zone.” The magician spreads his hands. “Why would she send everyone there?”
“That’s the million-dollar question,” mutters Colin into his pillow. “Jihan’s not much for talking, and you may’ve noticed Privya hates me.”
“Jihan’ll open the door,” chimes in Matt unexpectedly. His voice is a whispering reed. “She’s the one who’ll take us home. I heard stories, when I was a kid. Now the old man says she’s the one. Thanks, mate—I can breathe again. You all right?”
“I’ll live. Give me a minute.” Colin burrows deeper under the blanket, for all the world like a teenager who doesn’t want to get up in the morning. Verity can see the white bone of his wrist.
“What does it mean?” she asks. “That someone could take you ‘home’?”
Santiago is the one who answers. “Don’t know. Seems like anything’s better than here.” He steps back from both cots, giving Verity a clear berth as he leans against the opposite wall, near the table where Ouroboros still wraps itself around the candle. “You should talk to the old guy. He says he recognizes Jihan. Who knows? She stares through him like she does everyone.”
“It’s all rumour,” says Colin, pushing himself up on his palms. “Folks are getting excited. I’ll admit, I’d love to believe it myself. Problem is, we’ve lost so much of what was. I’m thirty-two. Stefan’s twenty-eight. We’re old for what we are, but not old enough to remember whatever came before.”
Thirty-two, the boy says. Verity looks at the fragile lines of his hands as he sits up, settling his feet on the floor and his fingers in his lap. His shoulders are stooped like a very old man’s. She knows he speaks truth, and his bruised eyes are a punch at the centre of her chest.
Those same eyes flare as she drops her gaze.
“Don’t,” says Colin. “Don’t pity me. You feel bad, and then it pulls me, and all I can think of is making it better, which makes me sick, which makes you feel bad. It’s a shitty cycle.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, either.” The angel is half rueful and half irritated. Even his annoyance is gentle. “Seriously. I’d appreciate it.”
Verity makes a concerted effort to ignore the slight figure in front of her; she focuses instead on the faint glow resurrecting in his skin, and the way it sends motes of pleasant humming dancing across her toes. She looks down at her sneakers and contemplates the drift of divinity over snow-stained canvas.
“Thanks.” Colin stretches, the long bones of his wings shifting beneath the coat, then he rests a hand on Santiago’s extended forearm and rises. He grasps at the magician, finding his balance. Santiago stands stoic, though his face is stern and disapproving.
“Thanks,” offers Matt again, still unmoving. “Feels a little easier now.”
“Great.” Colin stretches his other hand to touch Matt’s toes where they poke up beneath the blanket. “Hang in there.” He straightens then and lets go of the magician, swaying as he scrubs a hand through the mess of his hair. “Is that it for now?” He surveys the wall and the line of makeshift beds where ragged forms toss and groan. He sighs; the lights flare in his eyes. “Christ. Get me another beer?”
“Fresh out.” Santiago manages to sound mildly apologetic. It stains the blackness of his shirt as Verity watches, dripping down the fabric and leaving a darkness as impenetrable as the fine line of Ouroboros, still encircling the candle. The magician’s eyes are as flinted as the snake’s are bright. They both look hard as diamond.
“Hell,” is Colin’s verdict. “Right, well. When you can.” His hair is a soft feather down, in static disarray. He steps unsteadily past Verity and pats at her arm—not touching her skin, but only the worn wool of her coat. “Come on and talk to Alan. I’d like to know what you make of this. Tell us whether it’s real.”
Verity finds her fingers have lifted of their own volition, reaching toward the faintly glowing skin, the angel’s pulse beating just at the base of his throat. He pauses, turning toward her slightly, his chin lifting to expose the delicacy of his Adam’s apple, and she understands that he will not stop her.
Still, she curls her nails into her palm, feeling the sting with the sudden directness of the clarity that even the brush of Colin’s light brings her. His breath sucks in at the same time as hers; though her hand is an inch away, she knows that she has taken from him. She drops her hand, feeling a flush of warmth spread across her cheeks and savouring, despite herself, the silence of it. Around her, the dim hall settles into a ghost of clarity—it’s ephemeral, only for that lungful of air as she sighs it slowly out.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”
“There are a lot of damn apologies going around here today.” Colin just sounds tired. He takes two limping steps further, then leans to pluck his cane from where it’s been leaning forgotten against a crack in the wall.
“There are forty-six lives in these walls,” says Verity, in the moment before the certainty leaves her. Even as she speaks, she c
an feel reality slipping back into chaos around her, the sense of individual lives dissipating beneath yellowed candle wax and the weight of her own words. The air tastes of sweat and despair. “What comes next?”
“We keep as many alive as we can.” Santiago’s voice is overcast velvet, edged with disapproval.
“Alan has them buzzing in the hall, but the truth is, we’ve never had a plan. We have survival. Plans were for a hundred years ago, maybe, or five hundred, or a thousand. Before we had to hide in walls.” Colin’s hand is white-knuckled on the handle of the cane, the ivory shade of bone leaking through the papier-mâché of his skin. “I don’t mean to snap. I did say to stay away from Privya, though. She’s dangerous. This about her?”
“Maybe.” Verity fidgets with the strap of her bag; she has a hard time holding herself still as the hall trembles and resettles around her. Matt coughs, and the sound settles in tiny sparks that burn the skin just beneath her left eye. “I want to help.”
“You are helping.” Santiago’s irritation has apparently relented now that Colin stands alone. The magician touches his fingertips lightly to the low table, so that Ouroboros can slide off the candle and vanish into his sleeve. “You’ve sent seven people here, by my count. If you’d like to help more, we could use cereal and toilet paper.”
“Also some gummi bears, and a six-pack.” Colin thinks about that, then amends, “All right, probably toilet paper first. Look, Privya—I don’t know much about her, except that she’s old, and angry. I’ve only met her once.” Stars glitter and dance in his eyes. “A few of us have seen her around lately. A few more have joined her.”
Santiago nods. “She watched one of my shows a while back. She dropped a twenty in the hat and told me it was better to fight for dignity than to dance for change on the corner. I’m still not entirely convinced she was wrong.” His voice is wry; there’s chlorine in it, but his hand is already half-raised against Colin’s look.
Verity says, “She knows Jihan.”
“They knew each other back in the day. They weren’t friends. I don’t know much.” Colin sighs, blowing fine hair from his face in the process. “I knew they had power once—maybe still do. Real power. Not the ghosts of it that haunt this place. If something’s coming, they’ll be at the heart of it. And if Jihan actually can ... take us ‘home,’ whatever that means—if she can take us anywhere else—I’d really like to know about it.”
In Veritas Page 17