Inked

by Karen Chance

My grandmother flinched. “How?”

  “A woman named the Black Cat.” I watched carefully for her reaction. “Seems to come right down to her, though I don’t know why or how.”

  But I thought my grandmother might. She closed her eyes, rocking back on her heels. Then, without a word, turned and walked away. Demons slipped into the shadows. I gave Raw my teacup.

  And I followed.

  6

  WE did not talk. Not even when her Raw appeared from the shadows with a cream-colored silk scarf, which she passed to me. I wrapped it around my head, with special care to hide my face. Best if no one saw us together. It would be hard to explain where her twin had been all this time. Maybe the boys could find me eyeglasses or a wig—though that sounded stifling.

  No one else was out. I remembered my grandmother reminding the children about a curfew, but except for a distant scuff of boots, and low drunken laughter, I saw no soldiers, no one at all positioned to enforce that rule. I felt the oppression, though—worse than the heat. There had been life in the streets earlier, but now it was just ghosts and a hush that was as heavy and suffocating as a plastic bag pulled tight over the mouth of the city. Life, choked out.

  And hiding. Quivering. I thought of Winifred Cohen, and her presence behind that closed locked door. Like a mouse. Same now, but deeper. The fear and weariness of the people hiding behind the walls of their homes had bled into the air. Each breath made my skin prickle. My sweat felt like the product of poison, or fever.

  We walked only five minutes before we reached a long street lined entirely with row houses. My brief impression was of large arched windows and gray brick; laundry lines sagging with holey shirts and underwear; and one light burning from a first-floor window. Every other was dark.

  We entered a place of oppressive silence and climbed a set of rickety wooden stairs to the third floor, where my grandmother unlocked the last door at the back of the landing. Hot, stifling air rolled over us when we entered. I smelled mildew, so strong I choked, and tried to breathe through my mouth. We were in one small room with wooden floorboards, cracked walls. Not much furniture. Just a long, lumpy sofa, two battered chairs painted red, and in the far corner by the window—which opened out onto a glassed-in private balcony—a white porcelain sink that had been bolted into the wall, rusted piping trailing free from the bottom like a naked spine. A tin bucket sat on the floor, with washrags hanging over the edge, and a hose coiled from the faucet.

  “Don’t drink the water,” said my grandmother suddenly.

  I unwrapped the scarf, pushing sweat-soaked hair away from my face. “Don’t touch the food, either?”

  “Be careful,” she replied testily. “Better if you only eat what the boys bring you. There’s not much food here anyway, but what’s available is usually spoilt rotten.”

  “No one at your restaurant seemed to notice. Especially the Nazis.”

  Her mouth tightened. “Locals usually only order drinks, but the Japs allow in special shipments of fresh fixings to keep the Krauts happy. They’re the only ones who can afford those meals. We get a couple of them every week, crossing the creek to Little Vienna because it reminds them of home.”

  The disdain in her voice was biting, even hateful. I marveled at her acting skills in front of those men. “Your American accent doesn’t bother anyone?”

  Her dark eyes glittered. And then she spoke a stream of what was probably invective—and that sounded perfectly, flawlessly German.

  I raised my brow. “I see.”

  “I doubt that,” she muttered. “If you are from the future, then how does this war end?”

  “Well. And that’s all I’m going to say about it.”

  She gave me a cold look. “I don’t like this. I don’t even know if I should believe it.”

  “You’re a spy,” I said, matching her tone. “You should be used to a lot of things you don’t like or believe.”

  She stared. And for one moment stopped being my grandmother, becoming simply, Jean: a young woman alone, with her whole life ahead of her. Dangerous, maybe—but vulnerable, too. Flinching, as Dek and Mal freed themselves from my hair, slithering down my arms.

  Her gaze hardened again, though. I would have been worried for myself if I had been anyone else.

  “Be careful where you say that,” she said, her voice deathly quiet.

  I tilted my head. “You use those children to help you?”

  Her hand balled into a fist. Before she could reach me, both Zees tumbled from the sofa, standing in her way. She stopped. I did not move a muscle. Still as stone, radiating calm. Maybe I was as good an actress as she.

  Around us, shadows moved, glinting with sparks of red. Aaz appeared—mine, I thought, though I could not say why. He carried two plates filled with a delicate shrimp salad. Raw swung a basket of rolls and butter.

  My grandmother and I stared at the food, and then each other.

  “Don’t think this is any less bizarre for me,” I said quietly.

  She looked away, and reached up as if to rub the back of her neck. Except her hand was still balled into a fist. She uncurled her fingers, one by one, so stiffly I almost rubbed my hand in sympathy.

  “Well,” she said in a low voice, and took the proffered plate of salad. “Come on.”

  I did not move. “My name is Maxine.”

  Again she flinched, swearing softly to herself, and then sat down hard on the sofa. Dust particles flew into the air around her, and I backed up a step, trying not to sneeze, watching her through watering eyes. Her head remained ducked, shoulders bowed, toes turned inward toward each other. Like a kid.

  I hesitated, took my own meal from Aaz, and perched gingerly in one of the red chairs. Raw placed the basket of rolls on the floor between us.

  My grandmother picked at her shrimp. Seemed like a crime to eat so well with people starving around us, but I forced myself to take a bite. Tasted good, but not enough to distract me from watching the play of emotions across her face. Anger, still; and grief.

  “Hey,” I said softly.

  “Maxine was my mother’s name,” she whispered, and shoved a forkful of salad into her mouth.

  I had to call her Jean. Grandmother was out of the question. She had not asked how many generations removed we were, and I did not want to tell her. Less I talked the better.

  “I was almost eight when we left the States,” Jean said, over an entire apple pie, still warm and placed on the spare chair, which we had dragged close. Each of us held a spoon, taking turns digging directly into the tin. The crust was buttery and flaky, the apples full of cinnamon. Guilt and odd circumstances aside, it had become a lovely meal.

  “It was after the market crash. I don’t know why we left. But we landed in France, traveled through Germany, and then took a winding path through Yugoslavia, Greece, down into Turkey. Finally ended up in Iraq. I was thirteen by then. My mother had never been to China, but she made friends with people who had family there. Sephardic Jews, big-business types. By then, there were rumbles coming out of Germany. My mother remembered the first war, and wanted us far away from it. She thought China would be that place.”

  Jean stabbed the pie a little harder than necessary. “I’ve been here ever since. Got tied up when the Japs did their number on Pearl Harbor, and then the damn Krauts had to get involved because of that fool Hitler. Someone needed to play cloak-and-dagger on this side of the Pacific. Better me than anyone else.”

  Her mother could not have been dead that long. “So you pretend to be Jewish.”

  She shrugged. “Dark coloring is all the same over here. Makes you one way, even if you’re not.”

  “You can’t be fooling the people in this neighborhood.”

  “Only the baojia stick their noses in business that doesn’t belong to them. Jewish tattletales, hired by the Japs. Some of them are stand-up, though. Especially if you pay them.”

  “You missed an appointment with one tonight.”

  Jean went silent, studying me again. I de
bated telling her about meeting Ernie, but she spoke before I could say a word—her tone cautious, careful. “His idea. He told me the Krauts were coming in for dinner at the White Horse. He thought if I waited on them, I might hear something.”

  “Did you?”

  “Not enough. As far as Hilter is concerned, most of the hard action is in Europe. Won’t waste good intel on the officers out here. But you never know. Little bits help.”

  “And the kids? I saw Samuel pass you a note.” And Ernie seemed to have made himself her unofficial protector.

  “They also help,” Jean said quietly. “They’re in a…unique position.”

  “With this…Black Cat. Who tattoos young boys and calls them her…men.”

  Jean said nothing. I leaned back, staring at the ceiling, which was covered in black patches of mold. It was still hot, but maybe I was getting used to it. I could breathe more easily. I heard gunshots again, in the distance. Jean looked at the window, drumming her spoon on the edge of the pie pan.

  “Black Cat,” she said quietly. “Russian whore. But she’s got her hooks in the local underground spy network. Happened right after Richard Sorge got checked out in ’41. He was a piece of work. Left behind a hole that needed filling, and the whore was in the right place. She had been one of his favorites, and knew some of his contacts. Except she’s no patriot. Not for Russia, not for anyone except herself.”

  “Have you met her?”

  “No.” Jean hesitated. “She’s dangerous.”

  “And you’re not?” My tone was sharper than I intended; for a moment, I sounded like my mother.

  Spots of color touched her cheeks. “You don’t understand what’s at risk.”

  “I understand she uses children to do her dirty work. I guess you all do, to some degree.” I ignored the flicker of guilt and outrage that flared in her eyes. “What was on that boy’s wrist?”

  She sat back, jaw tight, glancing from me to Zee, all the boys sitting quietly in the shadows of the room, watching us, and each other. All of them, so quiet. So solemn.

  “I don’t like this arrangement,” she finally said, ignoring my question. “I tell you everything, you tell me nothing.”

  I stood, dropping my spoon into the pie pan. “I’ll find out what I need on my own, then. Wearing your face should count for something, I think.”

  She swore softly. “It was a tattoo. Of a rose. She brands all her…men…with them.”

  “Samuel doesn’t look a day over eleven.”

  Jean said nothing. She did not need to. I looked down at my gloved hands. “I need to meet this woman.”

  “And do what? Kill her?”

  “Whatever it takes.” My voice sounded tough, decisive. It was a good act. Good enough to fool my grandmother, who, in this place, this time, was almost ten years my junior. I was the old guard here. It gave me new respect for my mother. And for Jean, for accepting my presence as well as she had. If my own descendant showed up one day to boss me around, I think I might suffer an aneurysm.

  Jean stood, utterly grim-faced. “There are circumstances—”

  A crashing sound interrupted her. It was from downstairs, like a door getting kicked in. Shouts followed: a frail male voice protesting in German, swallowed by louder, guttural Japanese tones. A woman screamed. I ran for the door.

  Jean got there first, blocking me. Below us, more shouts, and the crunch and crash of furniture being broken. The woman’s voice broke into a piercing wail. I could still hear the man speaking in German, but in ragged fits and gasps. The floor beneath my feet vibrated. I smelled smoke.

  She grabbed my arm. “You intervene, you’ll make it worse.”

  “Really,” I muttered, trying to shrug her off. “You sure about that?”

  “You’ll make it worse for them,” she clarified. “And for me. I can’t afford to be noticed. Not like that, and not now.”

  I leveled my gaze. “Trust me. You can take it.”

  Her fingers tightened around my arm—a crushing grip. Behind me, at the door, someone knocked, but it was so faint it sounded like the scuff of a cat’s paw. Jean and I froze, and then we heard it again, followed by a whisper. I could not understand the words, but I knew the voice.

  Ernie.

  Jean let go before I could shove her away. Raw and Aaz were already clearing the evidence of our dinner, shoving plates beneath the couch, and silverware down their throats.

  “You can’t let him see you,” Jean hissed, blocking me as I reached for the doorknob.

  “Too late,” I muttered—and knocked her aside. I opened the door, saw a pale gaunt face, and in seconds dragged the kid inside—with the door shut and locked behind him. Cutting off, as I did, a rolling barrage of shouts that continued to rise through the floor in muted waves.

  Ernie was dressed in limp pajamas, his chest bare. Ribs jutted, and his collarbone was so pronounced it could have doubled as a hanger. Sweat trickled down his skin. He stood, blinking at me with huge terrified eyes—as disconcerting as the violent tremors shaking his body. He snatched at his wrist, and then hugged himself convulsively, gulping down the beginnings of a tremendous, wracking sob.

  I knelt, keenly aware of Jean standing in the shadows behind him. He had not yet seen her. I placed my hands lightly on his bony shoulders, and he surprised me by throwing his arms around my neck.

  “I ran,” he whispered.

  I looked over his shoulder at Jean, who was tight-lipped, pale. She pointed at the floor, and mouthed, “His home.”

  I closed my eyes, and drew him closer. He smelled like mildew and sweat. “You did the right thing.”

  “Mutter told me.” Ernie drew in a wheezing breath and began coughing. Below, the soldiers screamed in Japanese, and the answering replies in German were broken with sobs. The boy instantly slapped his hand over his mouth, cutting off both a cough and gasp, and took a broken step back to the door.

  Or tried to. I refused to let go, and stood—sweeping the boy into my arms, carrying him to the couch. He weighed nothing for a kid his age. Just bone, gangly limbs, and clammy skin. He tried to protest. I ignored him, and sat down with him in my lap.

  “Cover your ears if you need to,” I whispered harshly, looking across the room at Jean. “But you’re not going anywhere until those soldiers are gone.”

  He did not cover his ears, but instead buried his face against my throat, holding on with all his strength. I could feel his heart pounding. Mine, too. I remembered the feel of his old-man blood on my hands, the rattle of his last breath. His eyes, searching mine, for that one last time.

  Behind Ernie, well out of his sight, Zee and the boys uncoiled from the shadows like deadly blooming roses, unfurling claws and wild razor hair. But their gazes were soft as they stared at the boy. As were the gazes of their counterparts, clinging close to Jean. I met her gaze and held it. Wishing I could read her mind.

  She stood rigid, pale. Below, wood cracked. More shouts. A muffled scream. Ernie flinched. So did my grandmother. I was past that. What I was feeling did not allow room for flinches. Just violence.

  But it finally got quiet. Boots tramped on the stairs outside, and then faded.

  Ernie stirred, and when he did, demons scattered silently into the shadows. Jean had nowhere to go, and I watched something shift in her eyes—resolve, maybe. She moved from the darkened doorway. Standing in plain sight.

  She nodded at me, and I let Ernie sit up. He rubbed his eyes—turned his head, just so—and froze.

  Jean did not move. She stood with her feet braced, hands loose at her sides—as though ready for a blow. Ernie was so still in my arms. And then, slowly, he tore his gaze from her to look at me.

  I raised my brow. “Surprise.”

  He sucked in a deep breath and scrambled off my lap, nearly falling in his rush to get away. I did not reach for him, or move. Neither did Jean, but her gaze found mine for one brief moment. Tired, angry. Resolved.

  “Ernie,” she said gently. “Meet my sister.”

&nb
sp; “Sister,” he whispered, backing up until he hit the wall. “You said you had no family.”

  “I had to. Maxine was doing…sensitive work.”

  “Still am,” I told the boy. “That was me you helped earlier.”

  Jean gave me a sharp look. Ernie still seemed startled, but his shoulders relaxed, just a fraction. He mumbled, “Thought there was something different. In your eyes.”

  “You can’t tell anyone,” Jean said. “Not Samuel or Lizbet. Not even Winifred.”

  Ernie flashed her a defiant look. “You said you trusted us.”

  “Not a matter of trust.” I pushed myself to the edge of the couch and leaned forward. “Safety. Anyone who knows about my presence would be at risk. Bad enough that I’m here at all.”

  Ernie was a brave kid. He held my gaze with the same unwavering intensity that I would see more than sixty years from now. “Someone looking for you?”

  “Not yet.” Jean stepped close. “But you’ll need to be careful.”

  I finally stood from the couch. “I’d like to see your wrist, Ernie.”

  Jean stiffened. So did Ernie, but he grabbed his wrist, hugging it against his gaunt stomach. I walked to him. He tried to back away, but he had no place to go.

  “I have to go home,” he mumbled, ducking his gaze.

  I held out my hand. Jean drew close and said, “Ernie. Samuel showed me his tattoo.”

  The boy gave her a hard, despairing look. “He promised he wouldn’t.”

  Jean shook her head, and I felt her helplessness. “Not an easy thing to hide, short stuff.”

  He closed his eyes, banging his head lightly against the wall. “And did Lizbet and Winifred show you theirs?”

  Jean blinked. “What?”

  I knelt, and took hold of Ernie’s wrist. My grip was gentle but firm, and I bit the inside of my cheek as I made him show me the tattoo.

  It was familiar. I had seen it before, on a scrap of human skin. But this was smaller, singular; perhaps a rose, though the coiled lines felt more like the tangle of an unending knot, or a particularly distorted ouroboros. Reminded me of the engravings on the armor encasing my fingers and wrist—still hidden beneath my glove.