The Turn

by Kim Harrison

  Kal watched her go, not liking the gray and red colors of her dust. “Do you have a car?” he asked Saladan, not believing the man was lighting up again.

  “No, why?” Saladan asked as he gestured for Kal to go first.

  “Because we have to get to the police station and I’m tired of dodging Weres. That’s where Trisk is, and where Trisk is, Daniel will be. We’ll shove a tomato down his throat, and it will be done.”

  Saladan’s steps were eerily silent behind him, and Kal grimaced when the smell of the dead man grew strong. Muttering about the stench, Saladan took a long drag, the glow of his cigarette bright in the gloom. Outside, it had gotten dark, but Kal was confident that with Saladan beside him, he’d reach the station without being caught. “Orchid!” he called as Saladan looked out at the empty street, but she didn’t show.

  “Where is your pixy?” Saladan said, and Kal felt his face warm.

  “She’s probably running vanguard,” he said, knowing Orchid would find him when she got over her tiff. He couldn’t wait here for her, though. She’d have to catch up.

  29

  “Stop making that face. You’re giving yourself creases,” the woman sitting before Daniel said, but the perfume in the makeup was tickling his nose and the light touches on his neck itched. With a sudden spasm, he sneezed.

  “Whoa, back up,” Phil said as he leaned out of the way, and Thomas, sitting on the edge of his cot, exchanged a nervous look with Betty. It made Daniel wonder what he looked like, but the little compact mirror was out of his reach.

  “Hold still,” Betty demanded again, and Daniel forced himself not to move as the older woman in her tie-dyed poncho and army boots leaned in and patted on some more. There were six compacts and eight eye shadows arrayed on the cot beside him, but none was the right color. The only other option was the red pen Thomas had, stuck in one of his books, and even Daniel knew that would look suspect.

  “I don’t have the right products,” Betty said, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening. “If I was at my studio . . .”

  Thomas made a rueful sound. “If we were at your studio, we wouldn’t have to do this.”

  Betty stopped dabbing, frowning as she leaned back. “That looks like cat barf,” she said sourly. “It’s only fifteen minutes to lights out. Let me ask around tomorrow. Someone might have something in their handbag. We’ll get you out then.”

  Daniel’s brow furrowed. His face felt caked and uncomfortable. How can women wear this stuff? “Tomorrow is too late,” he said, fighting the urge to touch it. Last time he had, he’d gotten his hand smacked.

  Head down, Betty began collecting the compacts into her poncho. “I’m sorry, but that looks awful. Go wash it off. I’m embarrassed.”

  Daniel reached for the compact, starting when he saw his reflection. He moved the mirror around to get a better idea, but even seeing only tiny bits at a time, it was obvious it was a bad job. The overall complexion was too red to look convincing, and the dots of color that were supposed to be blisters looked fake. I can’t sit here and do nothing. “It’s fine,” he said as he set the mirror down. “I’ll just stay wrapped up in a blanket. They aren’t going to look too closely if I’m sick, right?”

  Betty looked old as she stood, the makeup held tight to her chest. “Go wash it off.”

  “She’s right,” Phil said. “It looks like shit.”

  Desperate, Daniel looked at Thomas, but the big man shook his head. “Wash it off. Lights out in ten minutes. You want to be back here by then.”

  Ten minutes. Daniel sat, frustrated. He’d wanted to be covered in pox and carted out as sick on the hospital’s evening truck. But no one was saying anything as they looked at him, and so he finally stood. “Excuse me,” he said stiffly as he wove between the cots, embarrassed at the obviously fake blisters and rash.

  But as he made his way to the locker room, he realized something had changed among the people here. They were meeting his eyes now. It was more than them knowing who he was and what he was trying to do. There was hope again. Even as they cared for the last of the people dying from his virus, they believed there would be no more, that they had a way to fight it. He could see it in the way they held themselves. The heartache and pain were still there, but the hopelessness and abandonment were gone.

  He couldn’t fail them.

  Stiff-arming the locker room door open, he went to the rows of sinks, leaving his glasses on the shelf before turning on the water and bowing his head over it. He hit the soap dispenser, appreciating the grit as it helped to scrub the makeup off. He was alone this close to lights out, and the ratcheting of the cotton cloth he pulled from the cycling roll echoed in the hard space. Depressed, he dried his face with the rough fabric before pulling a clean section out for the next person.

  “I have got to get out of here,” he whispered as he leaned toward the mirror and eyed his reddened skin. Tomorrow would be too late. Who knew what they were railroading Trisk into?

  A familiar, distinctive clatter caught his attention, and his eyes darted to the corner of the room through the mirror. “Orchid?” he whispered, then ducked to look under the stalls for legs.

  A tiny harrumph pulled him up, his head almost smacking into the tiny woman hovering at eye height. “Do you think I’d be in the men’s locker room if there was anyone in here but you?” she said tartly, a faint pink dust of embarrassment slipping from her.

  He fumbled for his glasses, shocked to see her. “What are you doing here at all?” he said in a harsh whisper, and then his expression hardened. “Are you spying for Kal? Going to go back now and tell him the poor human is stuck with the sick and dying?”

  Orchid dropped in altitude, brow furrowed. “I nearly froze getting here, and you think I’m spying?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “The last I knew, you and Kal were like peas and carrots.”

  With that, her expression fell, her tiny hands wringing the hem of her gossamer dress. “Kal is a moss wipe,” she said, her dust shifting to a bright red to match her face. “I’m not with him anymore. I thought he was trying to prove Trisk’s research was dangerous so he could help his people, but he thinks he can make a profit with it now, hide that it was his fault your virus made her tomato toxic. He said the enclave has to kill you so the elves won’t be blamed, and I—” Her words cut off as she lit upon one of the sinks, slipping on the wet porcelain and catching her balance.

  Kill me? Well, that might be why she was here, and Daniel shifted to get between her and the door in case someone came in. “Are you hungry?” he asked softly.

  “No, thanks,” she said sourly, a hand to her middle. “Halloween is tomorrow and the kids have candy.”

  His eyes widened. “You haven’t been . . .”

  She laughed, the tiny chiming sound going with the sudden silver dust spilling from her to the floor. “Letting them see me? No.” She coyly swung back and forth, playing with her dress. “But I think one of the girls heard me. She left some milk out for me on the bleachers. I’m going to go get it once the lights are out.”

  Daniel’s lips pressed. Children talking about fairies in the bleachers could be rationalized away, but it still made him uneasy. “Maybe you should leave,” he said as he used his sleeve to try to get the makeup off from behind his ears.

  “I don’t want to leave,” she said petulantly as she took to the air again, hovering so she could watch. “And you can’t make me. Kal is an ass. His need to succeed has gone beyond the bounds of you and Trisk and him, and he hurt the world. It was my fault. I could have stopped him. But I didn’t know it would be this bad, and now he’s trying to make a profit on it. Besides, there are kids here.”

  He started when she landed on his shoulder, bringing the scent of wildflowers to him. “You missed a spot,” she said, lifting off and hovering backward when he carefully cleaned it.

  “Thanks.”

  “Betty was right,” she said, hands on her hips as she hung before him, watching. “That stuff looked li
ke cat puke.”

  “Thanks,” he said again, more dryly. But he couldn’t help but feel special having her with him, like a powerful secret. “I have got to get out of here,” he said softly as he ran the water and tried to scrub the makeup off his sleeve. “You’re small. I bet you know all the ways out.”

  “For me? Sure,” she said, inspecting the other side of his neck and giving him a thumbs-up. “For you?” She shrugged. “Hitching a ride on the truck headed for the hospital is still your best bet.”

  “Not if I look like Frankenstein’s monster,” he muttered, eyeing his smooth face. He’d shaved only an hour ago so Betty would have an even surface to work with. Luxuriating under the locker room showers had been a welcome relief—until he realized he had nothing to put on but the same tired clothes, worn from surviving exploding trucks and hopping a train.

  Orchid’s wings hummed an odd sound. “Do you trust me?” she said suddenly, and he raised an eyebrow. “Oh, don’t be a stick in the mud,” she cajoled, making him smile as she hovered before him, twin pixies facing him in the mirror. “I can help.”

  Images of Kal waiting outside to kill him so they could blame him and Trisk for the plague drifted through his mind. Trisk was probably in jail, waiting for the same fate. He had to get her out. “I trust you,” he said warily, and she clapped her hands, her wings shedding a sudden gray dust that she waved into his face.

  “Hey!” he said, coughing as he stumbled backward, eyes tearing and waving the dust away. “What am I supposed to do now?” he said sourly as he looked at her through his watering eyes. “Think happy thoughts and fly away?”

  “You’re such the smart-ass when you’re depressed, you know that?” she said, apparently pleased with herself. “Give it a minute.”

  “Give what a minute?” he said, then rubbed his neck where his collar met his skin.

  Smirking, Orchid hovered right before him, a sassy half smile on her face. “If you take your shirt off, I can pix your back and chest, but seriously, you might want to just stick with your face. It looks like you might be sensitive to it.”

  Daniel brushed the last of the dust off. “Sensitive to what?” he said, but the back of his neck was itching, and he rubbed the sensation away.

  “Pixy dust,” Orchid said proudly.

  He looked at her, then his reflection. There was a faint rising of skin where he’d scratched it. “You’re joking,” he said, angling to get closer to the mirror.

  “Nope.” Orchid laughed. “Betcha didn’t know that we can change our dust. I can put out fires with it, or make them more intense. We can even pix people coming near our homes. It’s one heck of a passive deterrent. Most people think it’s poison ivy and never come back.” Hovering beside him, she slowly landed on the glass shelf under the mirror. “Most times,” she said, clearly remembering something sad.

  Daniel drew back, concerned. “Your family?” he asked, and she shrugged.

  “It happens,” she said. “You can’t pix a bulldozer.”

  He ran a finger down the faint red patch, shocked when a series of swellings popped up. He couldn’t help but wonder if things would be different if people knew of pixies, if that would stop a bulldozer or money-hungry developer. Probably not. Knowledge never stopped them from destroying beaver dams or wildflower banks that fed bees, not to mention polluting streams with frogs and trout. But if the wildlife had a name, perhaps, and could smile and sing. And cry.

  He looked at Orchid, not seeing the harm in people knowing about her. Maybe it would make a difference. Maybe bands of people would unite together. Flower power, they could call it.

  “Go on, give it a good rub,” Orchid said as he gingerly touched the faint welts. “See what happens.”

  Giving in to the faint itch, Daniel used his nails. Head down, he scrubbed at his neck and jawline until the initial relief slowly turned into something almost painful. Exhaling, he swung his head up, hands on the sink as he leaned in and looked at his reflection.

  “My God, it’s almost perfect,” he said as he turned his head one way and then the other. It was beautifully ugly, even if it was starting to itch again. He didn’t look like he had the plague, but it was vastly better than the makeup. “How long until it goes away?” he asked as he and Orchid looked at it together, a new hope filling him. He would not let Kal get away with this.

  “If you’re sensitive to it, it can last for days, but if you leave it alone, morning?”

  “Fantastic,” he whispered. “Orchid, you are amazing,” he said, and the tiny woman blushed. “This is going to work. Can you come with me, or should you stay here with the warmth and a food source?”

  “I’m coming,” she said as she rose up to find a perch on top of a stall. “Besides, I haven’t found a husband yet.”

  He strode to the door, hesitating. He didn’t have a hat to hide her, and there was no guarantee that one would stay on his head if he was playing sick. “Ah . . .” he hedged.

  “I’ve got this,” she said as she hovered near the ceiling, waiting for him. “You lunkers never look up.”

  “If you’re sure,” he said as he opened the door and the sounds of the arena slipped in to draw him out. He went back to his cot with a new sense of hope, nodding at everyone who met his eyes. Thomas, Phil, and Fred were all there, their heads together as they talked in urgent tones. Thomas noticed him first, and he drew himself up, his expression pinched with worry.

  “Daniel, I don’t . . .” Thomas hesitated, his eyes lingering on the welts. “Good God,” he said, and the two men with him turned to see. “What happened to you?”

  Daniel grinned, the satisfaction almost unbearable as their frightened expressions turned to wonder, then relief. “I think I’m allergic to something in the soap,” he lied.

  Thomas stood, using a finger to shift Daniel’s chin and carefully eye the welts. “They don’t look exactly the same,” he said as he let go and dropped back, smiling. “But this is a lot better than what we were going to do.”

  “Which was?” Daniel looked across the arena to the clock. It was almost time.

  Phil chuckled. “Beat you up so bad they’d have to take you to the hospital in the morning. It’s too late for the regular run. If you want out tonight, you have to play dead and try for the morgue.”

  Daniel laughed, then sobered when he realized they were serious. “So now what?” he said, nervously fidgeting. Orchid would find him. She was a clever woman.

  Phil gestured grandly at the cot. “Your chariot awaits,” he said, and Daniel settled on the bed, feeling awkward as he took his shoes off and set them beside the pair of loafers already under there. “I’ll go get ’em,” the young man added cheerfully, then jogged across the arena to the communications desk, weaving between the cots as if they were the back streets of his town.

  “The morgue,” Daniel said, not looking forward to trucking out among the dead. But for Trisk, he could do it. It felt as if he was starting on a trip, and he scratched his neck as he settled back beneath the blanket to play dead. “Thank you for everything,” he said, staring up at the blue canopy. “If this works and I get out of here, I’ll put an end to this. I promise.” Seeing Thomas’s worry, he stuck his hand out and the larger man took it. “I’ll try to find you when this is over. We can have a beer.”

  “I’d like that,” Thomas said, letting go and moving to shake his pillow free from the case. “I just wish you could have stopped it before it started. Here they come. Take off your glasses and try not to blink when they uncover your face. Shallow breaths. If they don’t get you on tonight’s truck . . .” He hesitated, his pillowcase in hand to drape over Daniel’s face. “You’ll get on tonight’s truck. It always comes after the hospital van.”

  But it wasn’t a sure thing, and Daniel tucked his glasses in his pocket and closed his eyes, trying to hold his breath as the case settled over his head. He could hear Phil coming closer, the man jabbering about how he wanted the cot sterilized.

  “I’m telling yo
u, that cot is cursed,” Phil said loudly. “That’s the second man to die in it in two days. Can I have a new assignment? I won’t be able to sleep beside that. No way!”

  Daniel forced himself not to move when someone shook his arm and then pulled the shroud off. “Sir? Sir, are you awake?”

  “He’s dead,” Thomas said bitterly. “Could you do us a favor and take him before his bowels let go?”

  “Good God, yes,” a higher voice said. “Rob, run back and keep the truck from leaving.”

  “You got it,” a third voice said, and then there was the sound of sneakers on the court.

  Daniel let his arm sag as they picked him up using the blanket he was wrapped in, and he figured it was Thomas who tucked his arm back, giving it an encouraging squeeze.

  “What about me being moved?” Phil questioned.

  “You’re lucky you’re even in here,” one of the men carrying Daniel said. “Shut up, or we’ll put you in with the women.”

  “That’s okay with me,” Phil said, his voice going distant as the rhythmic thumps spoke of Daniel’s passage through the arena. “They don’t fart or spit or snore.”

  Daniel stifled a nervous smile, hyperventilating while they were moving so he could hold his breath longer when they were not. He listened to the silence spread out from them as they passed through the compound, and he stifled a shiver, wondering how many more “new” cases might crop up tomorrow in an attempt at freedom. He’d given them hope, and his heart swelled. They had something to aim for, something to strive toward, and he was proud of their resilience.

  “Hold up,” one man said as they stopped, and then louder, “Rob! Some help here?”

  “Just a sec!” came a distant voice, and then the rapid patter of footsteps. “I got the truck to wait, but he says he won’t take him,” Rob said, and then came the squeak of the gate opening. Again they moved forward, and the fence clanged shut. Never would Daniel have thought that bars meant to keep people out would be used to keep them in, and he fought to remain slack and passive.