Touch: A Trilogy

by A. G. Carpenter

  I sit down, looking at Franklin. He leans back against the wall beside the door, arms folded across his chest. If he is uneasy, it doesn’t show.

  Mrs. Dihn returns with a leather-bound book under one arm and a roll of duct tape in the other hand. She sets the book down on the table with a thump, the metal locks on the cover chiming like bells. She peels a length of tape off the roll, bites down on the edge to tear it loose. “Mouth,” she says.

  “What?” I look at her uneasily.

  “The things in this book cannot be read aloud. Not here. Not even a whisper. You tape your mouth or you don’t read.”

  “Oh.” I pull my notebook and pen out of my satchel. “I need to—”

  “Copy, yes.” She nods impatiently. “That is fine. But not speak out loud.”

  “Okay.”

  “Bite your lips.” She demonstrates, and I imitate and let her tape my mouth shut.

  It’s not very comfortable, but I don’t intend to be here long. I open my notebook to a fresh page as Dihn unlatches the book and pushes it across the table toward me. She retreats to stand next to Franklin. I pull the book closer and lift the cover.

  It’s no wonder she took precautions. I don’t read any language other than English, but the letters on the page prickle against my fingertips—sharp enough that I look to make certain I am not bleeding.

  I turn the pages carefully. And quickly. Ancient language or not, every page makes promises to me. Some whisper, seductive—a crone seeing a beautiful reflection in the mirror or a queen surrounding by fawning suitors. Some shout—a black-clad knight clutching a bloody sword, a king seated on a throne that covers the world.

  My head aches with it, sweat dripping from the end of my nose, cold and hot, as I struggle to turn each page. Mere sheets of vellum, but they grow successively heavier ‘til it is like lifting gravestones.

  I reach the center of the book, and this is the most seductive whisper of all—the promise of life unending. It spreads across two pages, words and image woven together so neatly it is hard to distinguish one from the next. Beautiful for all that it is drawn entirely in shades of blood and ash.

  Franklin straightens and takes a half-step toward the table. “Delaney.”

  Mrs. Dihn grabs his arm, tight. “No.”

  I grab the edge of the page with both hands and pull. It resists at first, but I ain’t interested in eternal anything, and after a long moment, the book concedes, and the page drifts over light as a dandelion seed.

  The next few are quieter, and I turn past them as fast as I can. I may not know these old tongues, but I know what I’m looking for. I’ve seen that future, down in Daddy’s dirty cave, and though I don’t know the magic to make it happen, I know what it will look like.

  The illustration is horrific. Flames everywhere and two bodies—the bones tearing out of one, the flesh melting off the other like wax. I swallow hard and remind myself that I won’t feel any of it, pull my notebook close, and begin to copy the words and diagram off the facing page.

  The duct tape pulls against my skin as I instinctively try to sound out the unfamiliar words. I bite my lips harder and focus on the letters, writing them out as neat and quick as I can. The diagram is the trickiest part. The symbols are not in a familiar alphabet, but each curl and slash must be accurately recorded or the magic will not work as it is meant.

  The effort of it makes me sweat, and the tip of the pen digs deep into the paper. But, finally I finish. Compare my page with the one in the book one last time, then close both notebook and the Book of the Dead.

  Mrs. Dihn steps forward and closes and locks each latch, each chiming a different sour note as they snap together. She disappears back among the shelves, and I tuck my notebook into my satchel before peeling the tape off my mouth. The inside of my mouth tastes vaguely metallic, deep valleys left in the skin from my teeth.

  Dihn returns. “Are you done?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good.” She leads the way back up to the store, unlocking and locking the doors as we go.

  Mark is still sitting behind the counter, poking at something on his phone. He glances toward us as we push through the curtain, but says nothing.

  Mrs. Dihn turns and grasps my wrist hard. “Remember what you promised me, Power.”

  “I will.”

  She squints at me suspiciously. “Don’t come back.”

  I smile. “I don’t intend to. Thank you for your help.”

  She pulls the front door open, shooing me and Franklin out into the heat. The door shuts behind us with a jingle of the bell over the door, immediately followed by the click of the deadbolt. Dihn turns the sign around so that it reads Closed and pulls the blinds down.

  I look at Franklin.

  He shrugs. “She is not fond of Powers.”

  “Because of the Sisters.”

  “Among others.” He tugs his keys from his pocket. “I guess we’re headed to Atlanta next.”

  “Yep.” I follow him to the car.

  “I need to stop back by the house and pick up a few things.”

  I slide into the passenger seat, wincing as the heat from the vinyl soaks through my jeans. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

  “I know. But I’m not facing the Sisters unprepared.” He starts the engine. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”

  There isn’t much point in arguing—he’s the one driving the car. “Okay.” I press my hands against my satchel, wanting to take my notebook out and look at the copied page again. But, although my copy lacks some of the dark magic possessed by the blood and skin pages of the real Book of the Dead, it’s not a good idea to risk saying any of it aloud.

  I slouch further down in the seat, trying to soak up the warmth.

  Franklin glances at me. “Are you okay?”

  “Just trying to get warm.” I tuck cold hands against my chest with a smile that feels colorless.

  He pauses, sweat beaded on his own earthy skin. “Are you okay, Delaney?” he asks again, deliberate.

  “This flesh is failing.” I lick my lips, still tasting blood. “But it’s got a few days left in it.”

  Franklin reaches behind the seat, rummaging around for a moment before tugging a towel out from under a pile of empty water bottles and a pair of muddy shoes. “Here. It’s a little sandy, but better than nothing.”

  “Thanks.” I wrap it across my chest and tuck my knees up. So tired. My eyes slip closed, the sun shining red and gold through my eyelids as Franklin drives back to his house. My hands still tremble, anxious to be doing something. But there will be time enough for that soon. For now, I should rest.

  10

  The sun is sinking in the west as we get close to Atlanta, the traffic creeping in and out of the city as folks head home after work.

  Franklin has thumbed through the radio dial a few times, but it’s mostly commercials and pop artists who sing about love like it can be quantified. He switches the radio back off, and we sit in awkward silence as we slowly move toward the city.

  I pull the little book of poetry out of my bag and turn through the pages slowly. Stopping to examine the artwork or read a line or two. Anything to keep busy so I do not have to worry too much about what is coming.

  “What are you reading?”

  “Sonnets from the Portuguese.” I hold it up with a sheepish grin. “Mama Lettie gave it to me last night. Kind of sappy poetry, but I like it, I guess.”

  He nods. “Straightway I was ‘ware, so weeping, how a mystic Shape did move behind me, and drew me backward by the hair; and a voice said in mastery while I strove.—“Guess now who holds thee?”—“Death,” I said. But, there, the silver answer rang,—“Not Death, but Love.”

  I blink at him, surprised. “Yes.”

  Franklin chuckles. “I studied that in college.”

  “Oh.” I stare at the page, an odd mix of irritation and jealousy rolling around in my stomach. I have always loved poetry, but I’ve never had the chance to study it. Just read
the books in the psychiatrist’s office, and even that was difficult with the Magiprex scrambling my brain.

  “You don’t have many black folks go to college where you’re from?”

  My cheeks get hot. “Not many folks period.” I look at him. “But maybe especially not black folks.” I trace the edge of the illustration on the facing page, bleeding hearts in a style that is both realistic and intricately stylized. “But that’s not...” I shake my head. “What did you study? Besides these.”

  “They called it Classical Studies. Greek and Latin. Literature. Some music and art.”

  I tuck my knees up against my chest, watching him curiously. “How did that lead you to magic?”

  “It didn’t. That came later. After Laurel was...attacked. I meant to be a teacher.” There’s a wistful note in his voice, but whatever regrets he has, he shrugs away. “Came in handy though once I started learning magic. Lots of Latin and Greek involved.”

  “I guess.” Powers don’t need all the tools and materials that street magicians do. Our magic comes from our flesh and blood.

  “What about you? Before you were...separated from your bones.”

  I shake my head. “I was in an institution. I read books the psychiatrist gave me, but no one tried to teach me anything. Probably wouldn’t have stuck anyway. I was on meds.”

  “Ah.” He is silent for a moment. “I’m sorry.”

  I turn the page, staring blankly at the printed words.

  The first time that the sun rose on thine oath

  To love me, I looked forward to the moon

  To slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon

  And quickly tied to make a lasting troth.

  The lines ripple, and I slap the book shut and stare out the window as tears threaten to spill over. “I would have liked to study poetry. It always had a magic that I couldn’t touch—words and rhyme and meter.”

  Franklin laughs, dry. “There’s plenty of magic in your words, Delaney.”

  “It’s not the same.” I say it sharp and bitter. Too many things I should have had that I didn’t. Not things, like clothes or jewelry or a TV, but opportunities. The chance to live. Poetry is just the obvious metaphor.

  I rub away tears with the back of my hand. Take a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”

  “Nah. It’s okay.” Franklin looks at me, and for the first time, there’s sympathy in the lines around his eyes. “Maybe once you have your bones back, yeah?”

  “Maybe.” I know that my future doesn’t lead that direction, but there’s nothing to be gained in dwelling on it now. “Maybe.”

  11

  By the time we get into Atlanta, the sun is down—the sky overhead a murky grey as the light from the city washes out the color of night and hides all but the brightest stars. We wind along smaller roads, passing signs that offer new housing starting at half a million dollars. I wonder if maybe I have misread Franklin once again, but he turns down a series of side roads ‘til we reach a neighborhood that looks a lot like Crossing does.

  Old trees and a mix of houses built after the World Wars. A few garbage cans sit at the curb, white or black garbage bags peeking out from under the lids.

  Franklin flashes a tired smile. “Almost there.”

  The ornament hanging from his rearview mirror—a piece of quartz and copper wire, with hammered metal feathers on either side—turns in a slow circle, then spins faster ‘til the feathers whistle.

  “Damn it.” Franklin steps on the gas. “They’re already here.”

  I clutch at the door handle as he turns into a driveway in front of a faded blue ranch house, tires squeaking as he slams on the brakes. “The Sisters?”

  “Yes.” He’s already out of the car, opening the trunk and grabbing vials and charms. “Here.” He tosses me an aluminum baseball bat. “Don’t hesitate to hit any of them that get close.”

  I nod and follow him toward the house. He doesn’t head for the front door, slipping instead around the side of the garage to open a door with a key on his key ring. It’s dim inside, the glow from the streetlight filtering through the narrow windows in the garage door. But the garage itself is nearly empty, except for a small car parked in the middle. The driver’s side door is open, keys in the ignition and radio still mumbling softly.

  The muscles in Franklin’s jaw harden. “This way,” he says quietly.

  The door into the kitchen opens without a sound. There is a murmur of voices from down the hall, and Franklin moves forward—quiet, but quick.

  I wrap my hands tight around the bat and follow behind.

  The living room is a mess. All the furniture has been shoved back against the edges of the room, the carpet torn up, and a five-pointed star drawn on the floor and lined with salt. Franklin’s sister, Laurel, lies in the middle, leather straps around her wrists and ankles screwed straight into the floorboards to hold her fast.

  The Sisters each stand at one point of the star, singing the words that will drain Laurel’s magic out of her and into them. The melody is instantly familiar—the Book of the Dead sang the same thing to me when it promised eternal life. The salt-lines glitter, energy creeping along them as the various points connect.

  Franklin doesn’t hesitate. He pulls a vial from his pocket and throws it against the diagram on the floor. The glass breaks and dirt spills out, crossing the salt-line but not breaking it completely.

  The Sisters sing one final note, triumphant, and Laurel arches off the ground with a moan.

  Franklin pulls another vial from his pocket, but the Sisters are moving now—eyes bright with the magic siphoning from Laurel. One of them strikes him in the chest with her palm, and he staggers back, wheezing for breath.

  A Sister steps toward me, and I hit her in the shoulder with the bat. It shivers, and my hands and arms burn like I’ve stuck my fingers in an electrical socket, but she shuffles, momentarily off balance. Gritting my teeth against the coming shock, I hit her again, this time putting my weight into it and aiming for her head.

  She reels back, shuffling through the edge of the diagram. Salt scatters across the floor and the magic breaks—the explosion of air and energy knocking me back into the hallway. I’m aware of another one of the Sisters coming toward me, something glinting in her hand.

  The bat slips from my hand when I swing it, but not before it connects with her knee.

  In the living room, Franklin is yelling old words, and the air turns bitter with the scent of burning herbs.

  I push up onto my hands and knees, then to my feet. The Sister with the knife comes at me again, and I ball up my fists and hit her. A little blindly. Reminded that this body, although it is failing, is still far stronger than my own ever was. The difference between living and spending years locked up inside.

  When my knuckles hit her cheek, it’s like punching a cinderblock, but she still stumbles back, then turns and follows the others who are making a fast retreat out the front door. I snatch up the baseball bat and start after them.

  “Delaney.” Franklin shakes his head. “Let them go.”

  For a moment, I consider following them anyway, but he’s right. The Sisters won’t be in a mood to talk now. I shut the door and lock it.

  Franklin drops to his knees beside Laurel, fumbling with the leather straps around her wrists. He’s shaking, gasping for breath, with deep lines around his eyes that I don’t remember being there an hour ago.

  The drill the Sisters used is lying on the floor. I get it switched to reverse and start backing out the screws holding Laurel’s restraints in place. As the last one comes free, she curls up against Franklin, sobbing.

  “It’s okay. Shhhhh.” He wraps his arms around her, even though he’s shaking like a dry leaf in autumn.

  It doesn’t seem like a good idea to stay here, but neither of them seem capable of walking on their own. My own body is aching, but, for once, the distance between this flesh and myself is useful.

  I go back down the hall to the kitchen a
nd get a glass of water, take it to Franklin. “Here.”

  “Thanks.” He gulps a few swallows, then touches the glass to Laurel’s lips. “Have a drink of water.”

  She sits up and takes the glass in both hands, taking quick and nervous sips. Staring at me. Not like Franklin does, straight on and fierce. This is more like when folks see someone in a wheelchair. Glancing at me sideways while pretending not to look.

  “Can you get a blanket?” Franklin jerks his head toward the other hallway. “Bedroom is at the end. Whatever you can find.”

  “Sure.” I turn the lights on as I go, grab the blankets off the bed, and start back to the living room. As I pass by one of the other rooms, I catch a glimpse of my own face staring at me. I nudge the door open further.

  The room is empty except for a stool and a wooden box full of charcoal and pastel sticks. But every inch of the walls is covered in drawings. Some of them blend together to form other images, some are distinct. The largest and darkest is me. Not this borrowed face, but my own.

  My arms ache with the weight of the blankets bundled against my chest. I tug the door back closed and return to the living room. Hand one blanket to Franklin, the other to his sister, then settle on my heels, arms resting on my knees, chin resting on my arms. Look at Laurel in what I hope is a friendly way. “I knew you had the Touch. I didn’t realize you could see the future.”

  Laurel takes another sip of water, looking at me more directly. “Isn’t that why you’re helping me? So that I can guide your way forward?”

  12

  Franklin shakes his head. “Delaney’s deal is with me, Laurel.”

  She looks at me, sharp, and I nod. “Franklin and I are helping each other.”

  “Helping you do what?” She grabs my wrist when I do not immediately answer. “Helping you do what, Delaney Green?”

  “To get my bones back.”

  Laurel turns to Franklin. “Is this true?”

  “Yes.” He takes her hand, reassuring.