American Goth

by J. D. Glass

  “Just a moment,” I called back. I grabbed the discarded sweats from the floor and tossed a pair back to Fran, then quickly rummaged about for some T-shirts.

  I wiggled into my clothes and after quickly checking over my shoulder to be certain she was dressed, I crossed the floor to the door, Fran right behind me, her fingers laced through mine.

  Elizabeth wore a grim expression as she faced us from the hallway. “Francesca,” she began quietly, “your father is on the phone—pick it up in the library.”

  Fran hurried down the hallway and I would have followed, but Elizabeth gently restrained me.

  “I’m sorry, Annie. You were right,” she said in the same serious tone.

  I shook my head in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  She patted my shoulder gently through the sleeve of my shirt, and for just a second, between the emotion that waved from her and that which flashed through the overbright eyes she shone on me, I thought she might cry.

  “Cort always tells me that I forget, you’re not like the other members of the Circle, and until you know how to establish your own,” she groped for the word, “perimeter, as it were, proven yourself, there is no doubt, none whatsoever, that those you are close to and those close to them are in danger.”

  My skin tingled when Fran’s agitation bled back through me and my stomach tightened when I felt the sharp fear that knifed through her.

  Whatever else Elizabeth was about to say fell unheard because I bolted along the same path Fran had taken, her pain tearing through me as if it were my own heart that would break.

  I caught myself on the door frame and took a breath, just in time to see Fran place the phone back in its cradle.

  Even as she turned to face me with tears streaming down her cheeks I already held her in my arms and I shared her fear and anguish as she clutched at me and sobbed against my neck.

  “There was an accident—Gemma—I have to get to Milan—a car will be here in about an hour. My father,” she gulped and caught her breath, “arranged it.”

  “Tell me all about it,” I asked softly as I guided her to the settee with me. “Start from the beginning.”

  The details were a bit sketchy, but from what I could make of it, the family had been enjoying a late-night cappuccino at an outdoor café when a driver apparently lost control of his vehicle and plowed onto the sidewalk, scattering chairs, tables, and a few people along with them. Mrs. DiTomassa had suffered a fractured wrist, but Gemma’s skull had been fractured; she was in critical condition in San Rafael Hospital.

  “When did this happen?” It was a little after midnight in London.

  “About an hour ago, maybe a bit more,” she answered. “It’s bad enough that Gemma’s so hurt—but my father is using this as campaign publicity,” she said indignantly as she sat up and wiped her eyes. “He has a press conference scheduled for ten in the morning.”

  I remembered quite well the man who made a speech at my father’s funeral, then had a great photo op next to me and Uncle Cort as I was handed the flag that had been draped over the casket. And as I felt through the image, I could see him, read him, clearly.

  He’d been at a loss, hadn’t known what to say or do for such a young person, especially one he’d almost literally watched grow, facing something that made him ache for his own children, so he did what he could—he was a politician, and hoped that he could make a difference.

  “He’s scared, Frankie,” I said, “he’s scared, and he’s doing the thing he knows how to do.” I knew he had issues with his son and his daughter being gay, but he did love them in the way he could.

  “Wish he’d learn something new,” Fran said bitterly.

  I didn’t blame her for feeling or saying that.

  “What time is your flight?” I asked quietly.

  “Three thirty. It’s a little more than three hours long, and my father said it would give me time to be presentable before his little circus.”

  A buzz ran through me, the beginning of something more than concern for Fran and her family. I wanted…I wanted to hold her hand when she visited her sister, I wanted to cheer her smiles, hold her like I did now when she was scared, and shield her from anything, everything, that might bring pain to her heart or tears to her eyes. I mutely held her closer and the buzz beat through me, the muted start of warning. “We have to get your things.”

  She shivered against me and took a deep, shaky breath. “Yes.”

  I knew one thing: there were no accidents.

  Elizabeth had kindly started the job of packing Fran’s things, and on top of her suitcase, she’d placed the peacoat Fran always wore. Fran sighed when she saw it. “I can’t take that, you know,” she said.

  “Of course you can,” I disagreed then smiled. I put my arms around her, kissed her forehead, kissed her cheek. “It’s always looked better on you than me anyway.”

  “You think so, huh?” she asked as her hands rounded my waist.

  “I know so.” I hugged her to me. “We don’t have a lot of time,” I reminded her. “You’re going to want to shower, dress, before your flight.”

  “Oh man, where’s my head? Yeah,” she agreed and stopped short. I knew what she was wondering about.

  “Go, I’ve got clothes you can wear, don’t worry,” I assured her as I went to the bureau to get my own things together.

  She headed for the door, and hesitated before she stepped through. “Will you be here when I’m done?”

  “Yes.”

  *

  We decided to wait in the library we’d spent so many hours in together until the arrival of the car that would take her to London’s Gatwick Airport for her flight to Milan’s Linate. If it wasn’t for the tearing sensation in my rib cage, my heart would have swollen in gratitude for the crackling fire Uncle Cort had once again taken the time to set up, and for the quick fix of sandwiches and tea that had been laid out on the desk.

  “You’ll get hungry on the flight,” Elizabeth said, encouraging us both to eat something.

  Fran gamely tried to take a bite, but quickly put her sandwich down, and Elizabeth took her hand in both of her own.

  “Your sister,” Elizabeth said, “was willing to fight and move across the ocean to be with her brother—she’s a natural warrior. It’s okay to be worried,” she said gently, “but to give her strength, you’ll need your own. Please eat?”

  “I’ll eat with you,” I volunteered and it would of course figure that Elizabeth knew what she was about, since as I swallowed food and tea I felt my own internal tensions ease just the slightest bit.

  “You know,” Uncle Cort said as he walked into the study and took a seat directly across from us, “that you’re always welcome, wherever any of us are, whenever, for however long. We are family.”

  Fran glanced up at him with an expression that made me want to weep. “Thank you,” she said, “I feel the same way.”

  Elizabeth stepped over then reached down to hug her. “Of course you do,” she said as Fran returned her hold. “We’re all part of and sealed to the same Circle.” She kissed the top of her head. “You’ve a home here, always, and I’m certain you’ll be back before you know it.”

  She sighed as they released one another. “You’ve a little while,” she said, and glanced over and caught Cort’s eye, “so we’ll leave you to chat.”

  He came over and crouched down to look into Fran’s eyes, then took her hand in his. “Whatever happens,” he said solemnly, “she is Wielder and your chosen Champion, and nothing can change that. Courage and faith, Fran, and we’ll see you soon.”

  She nodded as he gave her a quick hug as well and when he stood, he and Elizabeth left us alone to our own good-bye.

  Once they were gone, the same sense of wrong came back, was an alarm in my head, had grown from a shake in my gut to a repeated thump that I couldn’t ignore, and it combined with the frantic sense that I had to tell Fran, tell her that I—

  I needed to do something, something tangible to le
t her know that even if she wasn’t with me… Inspired, I fumbled a moment with the clasp behind my neck until I got it loose and I held the ankh in my hands to drape around her.

  “Here,” I said, “I want you to hold on to this, to have this.” I smoothed it along the soft skin where her collar left her neck bare even as her eyes widened at me.

  “You, you can’t do that—it’s yours, part of you and—” she tried to protest.

  “It’s part of both of us,” I corrected her quietly. “It holds both of us.”

  It was appropriate—the symbol that promised me to life worn by the woman who had grounded me back in it, had willingly bound herself to me and me through her to the Material. The metal lattice not only charged with energy, the pure energy of the Light, translated through me, through her, it also literally carried the essence of us, our intents, even our feelings toward each other.

  It was a powerful charm and if Fran kept it, not only would she carry a part of me with her, but in a very real way, she’d carry the Light, a shield, a very direct protection that I…I didn’t need anymore. I had it melted into my skin.

  What I didn’t know then, would come to learn later, was that her wearing of it, that symbol and especially that specific charm, older than even I could have guessed at the time, marked her as directly under the watchful eye of the Inner Circle—on every possible level. That had been why Cort had bade me not to take it off before I’d been sealed; it marked and protected me until I was one with the Circle, with the Light, and could take care of myself.

  Fran stared at me wordlessly through eyes that threatened to overflow, and I kissed the beginnings of her tears as she cupped my face. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, Frankie,” I told her through the salt taste on my lips and held her against me. I could feel her breathe, her heartbeat against my chest. “Everything’s going to be fine—go see your sister, and when she’s better…”

  I couldn’t help it; I ran my fingers down her back, across her arms, trying to memorize the feel of her as I covered her lips with mine to lose myself, just for the moment, in us while we still had it, which was insane, because there was no reason to think she wouldn’t be back soon.

  “Samantha,” she said softly, and the sound of my full name from her lips made my eyes smart, “I’m going to miss you—maybe you can come to Milan and—”

  “One step at a time,” I said, “we’ll be okay.” I covered the ankh with my palm, felt the fierce thump under my hand. “We’re still together, we’re always together.”

  And yet maybe…maybe now was the time, maybe there would never be another… “Frankie,” I breathed quietly against her. “I’m…you know that…that I’m in…” The words caught in my throat hard, burning, hurting, as she turned lambent eyes on me, eyes that told me she knew what I felt, what I wanted to say, what she wanted to say, too, and even if I wasn’t certain that she could read the same from mine, I hoped she did, even as the warmth of it, the reality of it, wrapped around and filled the spaces between us.

  “Don’t,” she whispered even as she nodded that she did know, and placed gentle fingers against my mouth. “If you say it,” she told me, “I will, too—and then I can’t leave.”

  She was right, and we both knew it as we wrapped around each other on the settee, holding each other so closely, so tightly, with so much to think and say and yet almost everything already said and felt, known between us. As the light from the fire flickered on the hearth and we simply listened to each other breathe, waiting for the inevitable, the lines of possibility and probability grew, stretched and shaped before my eyes, flashes of potential, flashes of the future. There was a quick but clear image in my mind, a sending through the Aethyr, a slip of the sphere projection-reality of time that made my pulse jump.

  “Promise me something?” I asked softly against the hair I’d buried my face in.

  “Anything, Sammer. Everything.”

  “If your father asks you to go back to the States with him, will you do it?”

  She stirred in my arms and kissed my neck. “I want to come back for Christmas, celebrate the Solstice with you.”

  “I want that too,” I answered, “but would you? Please?”

  She moved her head to gaze into my eyes even as her fingertips measured along my face, trying to memorize me the way I did her. I didn’t know if she could see what I did, but she easily knew what I felt.

  “You’re scared.” It was a statement, not a question and I nodded, knowing it was useless to deny it to her when she lived under my skin too.

  “Yes.”

  “For Gemma?”

  I could only bite my lip and shake my head. “For you.”

  “Okay,” she said finally with a soft exhale. “I’m not going to make you ache it out. I love you, I trust you. I will.”

  “Thank you,” I told her and we pulled each other in again, waiting, waiting, for the sound that would make us part.

  When Uncle Cort and Elizabeth came to the doorway we knew it was time and he carried her bag down the stairs as we followed behind.

  We stepped out into the frigid air and I helped her into the black car her father had sent. “Hey, if your dad asks you what I’m studying,” I began in an attempt to be lighthearted, “you can tell him—”

  “Alchemy?” she supplied and grinned.

  I chuckled. “Yeah. Sure. Something like that.”

  And then it was time, one last hug, one last kiss, one last feel of the grounding fit of her body against mine along with the mute promise of soon as everything I felt burned through my skin, and then she absolutely had to leave. “Call me when you land,” I asked. “Don’t worry about the time, call collect if you need to, okay?”

  “I will,” she promised, “as soon as I can, and then right after I’ve seen Gemma.”

  “Yes, good.”

  My chest tore open when the door slammed shut, and when the car pulled away, the pull of some vital part of me with it was a physical ache as I forced myself to watch and wave until I couldn’t see it anymore.

  My eyes stung as I stared at the semiquiet street, and still I felt the drag, my edges raw, exposed, and empty. Uncle Cort patted my shoulder with bracing roughness. “You’ll freeze, come on.”

  I’d forgotten it was cold. I followed him inside and up the stairs. Neither he nor Elizabeth knew what to say to me and we paused, all facing each other in the silent hallway.

  Elizabeth’s eyes were large on me and I watched as Uncle Cort noted the charm missing from my neck. “You okay, dear heart?” he asked, gentle gruffness in the last words.

  I was relieved to hear it because between the expression Elizabeth wore and the concern they both couldn’t help but show, any other tone from him would have probably brought me to tears, and that was something I didn’t want.

  “Fine, I’m fine,” I said and nodded at each of them past the sudden thickness in my throat. “Just gonna clear the library, play a little bass, is all.”

  “I’ll help you,” Elizabeth offered.

  “Nah, ’sokay,” I said and tried to grin. I think I failed. “I got it.”

  The fire still burned on the hearth while I cleared the detritus of the half-eaten food and as I carried the tray to the door, I paused—there, on that very settee, I’d held her, felt her heart beat against mine, could still feel the embrace of her body everywhere.

  My room was even worse, because she lingered there even more strongly in my mind as well as the Aethyr, was a bodily flood of physical and emotional memory, and I pulled out my bass and slung it over my shoulder, hoping the vibration of it through my frame would still the thrumming pain that raced through me, would force me to center and still, to empty my mind. What the hell was wrong with me? I was caught between hurt and a panicky edge that swore to me that more was coming, the green sky threat of twisting, howling winds.

  Oh dammit, playing wasn’t working and I put the instrument down. I couldn’t focus, couldn’t rid
myself of the waves of tingling pressure that rode up and down my skin, nor the ripping that cut through me.

  This was ridiculous, I couldn’t possibly allow this edgy hurt that scathed and tore and swam, it had to stop. For the first time since the summer, I rummaged into the bottom of the second drawer of my nightstand until I found it: a pack of double edged razors. I sat on the edge of my bed and pulled one out, contemplated its steel edge.

  This can’t hurt, I can’t hurt like this, this is insane, I thought, and grasped the blade between my thumb and forefinger.

  The tremble grew in my body, a bag of worms tumbling under my ribs as I pushed my sleeve up and stared at the unmarked skin above my wrist, the skin I hadn’t touched—yet.

  This I could control and if it didn’t hurt, nothing would, nothing could hurt me more than I could. I can’t cry, I thought and dispassionately drew a red line diagonally across my forearm. Blood for the lie I’d told, as if that could wash it away, blood for the lie based on the vision I’d had, the lie I sensed Fran knew anyway, and had been good and kind and brave enough to leave alone, blood for the tears, for the words, I couldn’t, I wouldn’t let go.

  It didn’t hurt at all, not really, anyway. The pain was a distant reality, a sting that had no deeper meaning and I fell into that same distance, from my head, from my body. Nothing hurt.

  That’s so odd, I observed with the same detachment. The blood welled up, but even as it ran, it thickened quickly, turned almost jellylike. I’d noticed that the first time I’d slashed my wrist those months ago. I’d had to repeat and repeat the movement; the initials I’d drawn, the cut across my palm during my sealing, they too had only bled for moments before the blood had thickened in the same way. I wondered what it meant as I brushed at the stuff on my skin and right then I heard pounding at the front door.

  The sheer panic that radiated from it made me fly down the stairs, Elizabeth and Cort seconds behind me as I unlocked the door and swung it open without thinking.

  Graham. It was Graham, dressed in his shirtsleeves, tears in his eyes, and fear billowing from him like smoke from a fire.