by Ana Mardoll
"That's plenty," he says a moment later. His eyes release my gaze, dropping down to the vial he still holds against my cheek. "Press with your hand there to stop the flow," he orders quietly. I press a thumb to the cut on my mouth, pulling sluggishly away from his draining touch.
"Should it look like that?" Lavender asks, sharp worry in her voice.
The stuff in the vial isn't quite clear and isn't quite milky; I have a vague recollection of separated paint that needs remixing, or milk shot through with egg white. A tiny thread of pink runs through the substance, a drop of blood that crept into the sample.
Joel replies only after he's stoppered the vial and shaken it experimentally a few times, his words confirming my fears. "It doesn't usually." I feel my shoulders sag as hope drains away.
Celia is the one who breaks through my melancholy. "Rose, this boy here is covered in solid silver. Milk in your lips instead of blood isn't even close to the weirdest thing I've seen today. Wait until Joel has had a chance to study it properly." She jerks her head at us. "Now I'm going to get some ice water for him. Lavender, you come help. Rose, you stay here and stop bleeding. Joel, go ahead and wake him up so you can take your sample from him. Then we've got to do something about that silver."
She strides out of the room in the direction of the kitchen. Lavender follows her after a quick backward glance at me, and I'm left alone with the sleeping silver man and a poisonous healer who sends shivers up my spine.
Chapter 8
Joel stares at me after Celia and Lavender leave the room, his eyes lingering intently on my lips. "Keep pressure on it," he rasps. I mumble something unintelligible and press my thumb with renewed force into the cut on my mouth.
I don't want to think about the white fluid in my lips, so instead I look at Clarent. He's breathing more steadily now, peacefully sleeping. "What does Celia mean, that we'll do something about his silver?" I ask. "You're not going to cut it off, are you?" I don't like the thought of Joel slicing away all of Clarent's bright skin to be stored in vials.
"No." He shakes his head gravely. "I would if I could, but his metal is as much a part of him as your green veins are of you. Only a faery could restore his flesh now." He puffs an unhappy hiss of air. "The best we can give him is privacy. He should have crafted a shroud when he passed over. Celia will have to help him create one when he wakes."
"A shroud?" I ask, startled by a word my memory associates with death. "Do you mean a disguise? That didn't fix when you healed him?" I screw up my eyes again, hating the unfocused feeling. My sharp green nails recede into blunted ovals; Joel's patchy skin evens out to the color of old leather. Clarent is still bright silver, distractingly abhuman.
"Shrouds, veils, cloaks—call them what you like," Joel whispers in his papery voice. "We craft them to hide our deformities from human eyes." His hungry eyes flick back to me, a collector assessing a rare specimen. "He's lucky you two found him. If you or I had come through without a shroud, its absence would have been merely inconvenient. Your pink hair is odd, but as long as you had clothes over those veins, you wouldn't attract much attention in the city. And while they would stare at my vitiligo, I wouldn't have been picked up for questioning."
At the mention of his skin condition I realize I have been rude, staring as intently at him as he has been at me. My gaze drops to my feet and my cheeks burn. "But Clarent?" As I ask the question I realize how foolish it sounds, but it fills the awkward silence. "They'd pick him up?"
"Wouldn't you, if you were them?" His whisper is a flat deadpan. "I would."
I look up at him, blinking at what sounds like an unexpectedly earnest attempt at a teasing tone from the withered old man. "Because he's silver or because he's naked or because he's...?" I leave the sentence unfinished, searching for the right word. As alien as he seems, coated in metal and devoid of hair beyond his fine eyelash filaments, Clarent is still painfully beautiful.
The silence stretches between us for longer than my question would seem to warrant, before the corners of his mouth quirk up into the tiniest hint of a wry smile. "Here, girl, help me with this," Joel whispers softly. He draws a plastic bag from his pocket, the other hand still clutching his penknife. He's wiped the instrument off with a handkerchief, a cleaning method which strikes me as dubious. "Getting his blood is the highest priority."
"Shouldn't we wake him first, like Celia said?" I protest. "We need to talk to him, to explain the situation properly. He doesn't know us. If I were in his position, I wouldn't want my blood taken while I slept." It had been hard enough to give my sample with Celia and Lavs there to reassure me.
"Healer's orders," Joel insists, a little petulantly. "I need a sample as quickly as possible, before any lingering poisons have a chance to dissipate. Here, give me a hand— no, not the knife, girl!" He yanks his hand away as I reach for his penknife, his other hand shoving the plastic bag at me. Our limbs tangle for a moment, and I feel a shock comparable to numbing ice water dousing my skin.
"Sorry!" I dance back from his leaching touch, fumbling to keep hold of the plastic bag. "Are... are you okay?"
His piercing blue eyes soften slightly. "I'm fine, girl. Are you okay? My touch burns, I know." He heaves a hissing sigh. "The price we pay for healing."
"I'm fine," I answer quickly. It's almost true; the feeling is already returning to my ice-burned hands. Then I hesitate, wary of all his talk of slow-acting poisons. "I think I'm fine?"
He smiles at the question in my voice. "You are or soon will be," he whispers, turning to bend over Clarent. "My touch burns magic as a catalyst for the healing process, but if I don't burn too much, you replenish yourself naturally." His fingers brush the inside crook of Clarent's elbow, the silver skin bruising under his draining touch. "I don't know if we could cut him otherwise," Joel mutters, angling the knife in to slice his skin. "It's a strange metal; softens at the touch, almost like melting solder."
I feel an unexpected rush of pity for the older man. His talent is like mine; he's unable to turn it off. I step forward, holding his plastic bag and trying to look helpful. "That's good," he whispers. Liquid metal bubbles out of the tiny knife wound and I kneel on the carpet beside the couch to catch the flow, bracing at the unexpected heaviness in my hands as the molten silver pools and collects.
After a moment, however, the bag feels lighter. I tear my eyes away from the fresh silver stream to stare at the collection of blood I've caught. "It's turning red," I blurt out in surprise.
"What? No!" Joel's whisper is a harsh rasp of frustration. He snatches the bag from me and I pull quickly away to avoid touching his burning hands again. "No, no, no," he repeats, poking at the bag with a bony finger. The liquid inside swirls in spirals of half-silver and half-red, continuing to change as we watch.
Glancing up at Clarent, I see his blood is still flowing from the cut on his arm, staining the couch. I press my fingers to the wound, exerting pressure to stop the flow, and he stirs under the force of my touch. I find myself looking up into silver eyes, flecked with the prettiest specks of gray.
He blinks at me with a soft expression, showing none of the fear I had expected. He seems entirely at ease here, lying on a strange couch in a dark house with a pink-haired woman staunching his bleeding arm with her bare hands. "Hello, Clarent," I whisper softly, not wanting to startle him.
"Rose." His voice is like a warm spring breeze whispering my name, and suddenly his free hand is reaching out to my face to cradle my cheek, brushing dangerously close to my lips. I pull my face back in alarm, tensing to leap to my feet.
Celia chooses that moment to stride into the room with a glass of ice water, Lavender trailing behind her. Her dark eyes take in his extended hand, my wary crouch, and the blood seeping into her sofa. Stalking forward, she takes his offered hand firmly in her own, her grip strong enough to cut through his hazy distraction.
"Celia," she says by way of introduction, shaking his hand. "This here is Lavender, and over there is Joel. You've met Rose." Her voice ha
s taken the stern tone she uses at gatherings to remind everyone to behave themselves. "You're used to touchy greetings?" she observes. "Handshakes and kisses? I can understand that. But I'm gonna have to ask you to dial back the kisses and touching without asking first," she says firmly. "Rose here has a thing about people touching without permission, and she's not the only one. Unless it's a medical emergency," her eyes flick to Joel in exasperation as he wrestles with his bag of blood, "you be sure to get clear consent from folks around here before doing any of that, you hear?"
Her intense eyes hold his gaze for a long moment before letting go of his hand with pointed deliberation, clearly expecting him to withdraw the offending limb and keep it to himself. He meekly does so, his expression confused but subdued, and she nods her approval.
"Good. Now, first things first; excuse me." Her eyes flick to the withered healer still muttering obscenities at the plastic bag which is now entirely devoid of silver. "Joel, you doing okay?" she asks calmly, unperturbed by his quiet fury.
"I am not," he hisses, prodding angrily at the bag. "Celia, his blood turns! It won't stay metal! He's one of those whose magic doesn't sustain out here once it's been separated from his core." He's fuming now, though he stuffs the bag into his pocket regardless of the color of its contents. "Like that petal-fingered one out in Briar. She pulls them off and they revert right back to boring normal fingernails—useless as specimens!"
Celia nods briskly, looking unconcerned. "Well, he'll be easier on the septic tank if he's not passing ingots, Joel. Thank heaven for small mercies."
"Wait, stop." Lavender interjects from the kitchen doorway, balancing water glasses in her hands and watching me with worried eyes. The sharp scent of pepper fills the air around her, tickling my nose. "You said he was immune to poison because his blood is metal. Does this mean Rose isn't poisonous, if his blood is really the regular kind?"
"It's not regular blood inside of him!" Joel explodes in a furious whispered hiss. "It only becomes regular blood when I draw it in order to see if we can learn anything useful from it, that's all. Her poison wouldn't be—oh, god!"
His hands fly frantically to his pockets, digging out the vial he took from me; his tense posture only relaxes once he's held the glass up to the dim light to verify that the sample is still white. "Well, at least hers doesn't change," he says, sagging with relief. "Though I'll have to test her sample from scratch if I can't use his metal blood as a comparison point."
"Well, you knew you'd have to run more than one test," Celia says mildly, before giving him a sudden sharp look. "Just don't run them on yourself, Joel. That's what the rats are for."
"I know, I know," he grumbles. "But someone may have to kiss her at some point to be sure." He passes a weary hand over his eyes. "Go on, Celia, give him his shroud. I'm done with him."
Celia nods curtly, and turns away from Joel to hand Clarent a glass of ice water. "You're thirsty," she says simply. "Sip on that. Rose, can you sit down for this? Lavender, you too."
I've been quiet through the discussion of my poison, trying not to get my hopes up at Lavender's question or to let old fears rear up at the prospect of further experiments. At Celia's prompting I rise from my kneeling position on the carpet, only to realize that there aren't many places available to sit. Joel has collapsed in a petulant sprawl on the only easy chair, and Clarent still lies across the full length of the couch. The blanket covers him from the waist down, but I doubt that Celia expects me to sit on him.
Less hesitant than I, Lavender pushes his feet unceremoniously aside so that she can perch on the armrest; an act which Clarent accepts with aplomb. After a moment's hesitation, I sit on the edge of the couch beside Clarent's leg and try to ignore the feeling of cool silver skin seeping through the thin blanket that separates us. Celia leans against the wall, watching all three of us with intense interest. "Clarent, right?" she begins, her voice softer than before. "Rose and Lavender brought you here to get patched up; you weren't doing too well. On the run from faeries, right?"
His face clouds over, his hand beneath the blanket clenching into a tight fist."Faeries—yes. But I-I wasn't running." His rich golden voice struggles to find the right words. "I was being carried somewhere. Then there was a sharp shift, and I was alone and human again." He looks up at me, his gray eyes soft and warm. "I saw color and stumbled towards it. Thank you, Rose."
Beside me I smell a hint of bright marigold, and I sympathize with Lavender; it really is impossible not to be fond of his gentle politeness. "You don't have to thank me," I insist, my eyes dropping away from his warm gaze. Now when I'm no longer focused on saving his life, I'm suddenly very aware of how naked he is under his blanket. "Lavender helped too. We all help each other out; ask Celia."
Clarent looks between the three of us, unsure how to respond. "Well, I'm grateful you were there to help me, Rose—and Lavender." His eyes flick to Celia and then back to me. "I'm sorry about the kissing. I'll ask next time."
I feel my cheeks burn at the idea of a next time, but I'm saved from answering by Celia. "Glad that's settled," she says in a brisk tone. She peers at Clarent with renewed intensity. "Now, you say you were carried through the portal? You weren't actively trying to escape?"
He frowns, working through the words. "Yes, I was being carried. I-I wasn't thinking very clearly at the time. I'm sorry I can't tell you more."
Celia gives him a sharp look. "That's... unusual," she replies, "but it does explain the lack of a veil." She studies him for a moment longer and then brushes her hands together. "Okay, I'll explain. You came over in a portal; that's what all that mist was that you and the girls saw. Portals require magic to power them, which usually includes an element of intent. In order to cross from one world to another, you need to want to leave. Most altereds have an idea—if only a subconscious one—of what's on the other side and what they should look like."
She runs a hand over her long braid. "That self-image is crafted from an unconscious image of what you were before, bits and pieces of your memory that the faeries couldn't burn away. When you walk through a portal, you shape that veil around yourself as you pass over to earthside." She gives him another sharp look. "If you were carried through, it seems you skipped that step. Which means we're gonna have to make a portal here in the living room to take you halfway over and bring you right back."
The rush of lemon-tart fear hits me almost as soon as Celia's words do. "You can't be serious!" Lavender protests, hopping down from the armrest.
I reach out instinctively to take Lavender's hand. "Celia, there could be anything on the other side," I point out, trying to sound reasonable despite the rush of emotions. "It's not safe, surely."
"There could be," Celia agrees calmly, unperturbed by our outburst. "But it won't matter. I'm not going to make a full connection between otherworld and earthside. I'm only going to take him halfway, just long enough for him to form the intention of crossing back." Her dark eyes study us seriously. "I know what I'm doing," she says, her voice gentler now.
I look at Lavender, who still grips my hand tightly. Her lemon scent is fading reluctantly, souring to a softer worried clover. Her green eyes meet mine with the air of an uncertain shrug.
I've never known Celia to lie to us. I've trusted her once already today, letting Joel take a sample from my lips over my misgivings. Now she says she knows what she's doing when it comes to portals. We can either trust her or leave. And then what happens to Clarent? I glance down at him and realize he's staring at Lavender and me, as though waiting for our decision. We're the ones who saved him, I realize; as far as he's concerned, we're the experts and Celia is the stranger.
"Celia takes good care of us," I tell him gently, wanting to be honest with him. "If she says this is safe, then it probably is." Lavender squeezes my hand at this, nodding slowly in agreement. "We have to do something; you can't walk around looking like this."
He nods seriously, turning to look at Celia. She strides forward to take Clarent's hand in her o
wn. "Hold still," she murmurs as a bubble of mist springs up around us. I have just enough time to shoot one last glance at Joel, who is watching us with a bored expression, before thick fog cuts off the living room and we are lost in a tiny world of white.
"We're in portal-space now," Celia says softly, her voice tight with concentration. "I want you to choose to come earthside with us now, Clarent. Look at Rose and Lavender. Relax your eyes. See how they look? Concentrate on looking human, as they do. Come back with us."
His soft gray eyes stare up at us from where he lies, watching our faces. I shiver at the sensation of magic building in the air, a feeling of static electricity that itches at my nose. Unfocusing my own eyes with effort, I watch and wait for the disguise to build.
Color begins to seep into Clarent's face, a warm tan that spreads from the center of his brow. Warm sandstone pigment replaces the smooth silver on his head and arms, real human skin with rough texture rather than impossibly smooth metal. Pores erupt; lines appear in the whorls of his fingers and strong hands. His knuckles and elbows become dusted with a network of dry cracks, the arms of a man who works hard for a living.
I see his body spasm with the effort of concentration. With my free hand, I reach out to grab his. He blinks up at me in surprised gratitude, and I grit my teeth in a determined smile as his hand squeezes mine painfully. "It's okay, you're okay, it's gonna be okay," I whisper fiercely at him, trying to soothe him with my voice.
Lavender gasps in sympathy as another spasm wracks through his body. Painful memories rush unbidden into my mind, tearing my breath away and causing my heart to pound in a panicky staccato rhythm. His thrashing resembles the death throes I've witnessed so many times before. I don't want to draw attention to myself—Clarent and Celia are concentrating on their own magic, and Lavender doesn't need to see me cry—but the tight constriction in my chest is making it hard for me to breathe.