The Amber Lee Boxed Set

by Katerina Martinez

  I had missed Europe so much.

  Collette’s reflection melted in next to mine. She was smiling.

  “This is as close to home as you’ve been in a long time, huh?” I asked.

  “Oui,” she said.

  “Do you miss home?”

  “I do and I don’t. I miss France, of course. But I have a new home with you, one I am very grateful for.”

  I turned around and smiled. “And you’re welcome to it for as long as you like. Of course, assuming we can get you back in to the US.”

  “Zat will not be a problem.” A wicked grin spread across her face.

  “Oh?”

  “Did we have a problem getting out?”

  “No, but historically I think my country has had more problems letting aliens in than out.”

  Collette went for her purse, pulled out her passport, and showed it to me. I hadn’t seen her passport photo yet so I suspected I was on the verge of breaking out into a fit of laughter because, well, no one takes a good passport photo and I was sure Collette wasn’t the exception to the rule; no matter how beautiful she was. But when I flicked through it I was surprised to find the passport empty.

  Completely empty.

  Out of my mouth a kind of “eh?” sound escaped. “It’s blank,” I said. “You left the country with this?”

  “And entered.”

  “Okay, now I’m interested,” I said, handing the passport back. “What does it do?”

  “Ze passport was my mother’s,” she started to say, but then she trailed off and shook her head. “Non, zis is a conversation for another time. I will check my emails and we will go, yes?”

  “Alright,” I said, eyeing her suspiciously, “But I get to pick the places we go to tonight. And you finish telling me what you were about to say.”

  “You can pick ze places, and perhaps I will tell you what I was about to say.”

  “Fine, but just so you know, I plan on having fun tonight. The serious stuff doesn’t start until tomorrow, understood?”

  Collette nodded, retrieved her tablet from her bag, and sat down at the desk to, presumably, start the process of hooking on to the hotel wireless network and check her emails. Emails, I thought. Who is she emailing? That guy we’re supposed to meet? I thought he was a hermit.

  It didn’t matter. I was hungry and in desperate need of a shower, so I went ahead and fixed the latter problem all the while mulling over possible places to eat at—TV Tower, the Chicken Place by the train station, or maybe somewhere in the mall across the way—and musing about my plan to get Collette drunk tonight. She never drank anything besides wine, never lived in any way excessively, “everything in moderation” she would say in her sultry French accent. But tonight that would change.

  Tonight, after dinner, we were drinking Absinthe.

  Chapter Nine

  In the end we decided to simply head down to the hotel restaurant and grab a quick bite before going out. After, we made our way out of the Holiday Inn and walked across that grand plaza standing between our hotel and the train station. At the station we decided, after much deliberation, to pick up an S-Bahn train, S-Bahn being short hand German for “city rapid railway”, and head to a nearby district where there was, I had learned the last time I was here, a real Absinthe bar. Of course, I couldn’t speak German and Collette’s was pretty rusty, so we had to figure out the maps on our own because, well, I couldn’t entirely remember where it was.

  “It’s this one,” I said, pointing at an escalator. “We literally just take the train from Alexanderplatz, ride it a couple of stops down to…” I checked the map on the wall and tapped it, “Here, Berlin Nordbahnhof, and then it’s a short walk to the bar.”

  “For an American,” she said, offering a pretext I was sure was bracing me for offence, “Your pronunciation of German words, despite not knowing ze language, is quite remarkable.”

  “I am sure I can imitate your accent as well, ma cherie,” I said, putting on my best Collette impression.

  “How long did you spend in Europe?” she asked as she followed me up the escalator.

  “A while. Long enough to pick up what I could. I can understand most Latin languages well enough if they’re spoken slowly. Maybe not German, though; this language sounds like typewriters being thrown down stairs.”

  “I actually find German to be quite charming.”

  “I disagree. French, that’s charming. Even Spanish, maybe. And let’s not get started on the British accent; that drives us nuts over in the US.”

  Collette giggled and made her way up the escalator.

  Getting a ticket wasn’t difficult. The ticket machines, situated all over any platform, were automated. You just went up to it, tapped on the touchscreen display and made your selection—Zone’s 1 through 2, 1.50 Euros return—dropped the right number of coins into the slot, and out came your ticket complete with a holographic stub.

  Simple enough.

  But purchasing a ticket didn’t quite cut it. You also had to validate it using one of the other nearby machines. That way, if a ticket inspector asked, you could prove that your trip was valid and thereby avoid the embarrassment of having to pay for another ticket in front of everyone. I wished I had known this on my first trip to the German city. Gods no. I won’t let that happen to me again.

  Of course I hadn’t known, and that hadn’t been a fun experience for the introvert in me.

  But I had come prepared this time, locked and loaded with all of the tricks and tips I would need to get around without issue—even if I hadn’t quite bothered to pre-map the route from our hotel to the absinthe bar. Luckily, Fate intervened in the form of Daniel Robinson; an American traveler who, after hearing my accent, approached us with impunity and introduced himself.

  Daniel was alright. He reminded me a little of a wandering dog, padding along on roads he didn’t know, pissing on everything as he went just to leave his mark; for the mere sake of proving he had been there. Proving what—and to whom—though, maybe not even he knew. Still, he had a charming smile, pearly white teeth, clear hazel eyes, and while his voice made him sound like his throat didn’t know the meaning of wetness there was something friendly about it.

  Welcoming, I thought, that’s what he is. He’s welcoming.

  And helpful, as it turned out. Daniel had been in Berlin for a few days and one of the first places he had gone to was the same Absinthe bar we were looking for. Maybe he sensed our newness to Berlin, or maybe it was written on our faces, but he decided to abandon his previous plans and get off the train with us at Nordbahnhof to lead us to the place because everyone had to try Absinthe the way Hemmingway had it at least once.

  The first thing that struck me as we came off the S-Bahn and walked out of the platform building, which looked more like the interior of an old residential building that had been gutted out and pierced through with a train track than a platform, was the total absence of noise on the streets. The hour hadn’t crept past the point of mandatory noise reduction yet and besides the odd car hissing past over a road covered in evening dew… silence.

  “It’s so quiet here,” Collette said as we crossed the street, “Too quiet to be a capital.”

  “That’s because Berlin actually enforces it’s no noise policy,” I said, “You can drink out in the streets if you want and you won’t get arrested for it, but if you make a sound after about ten while you do it they’ll come and get you.”

  “I enjoy silence,” Collette said, “It was one of ze things I enjoyed most about France.”

  “Raven’s Glen isn’t that noisy, maybe in the fall and the winter when everyone’s driving around in their cars, but as far as people getting arrested for noise pollution? I wouldn’t be able to tell you.”

  I thought back to the day Damien and I had first met Frank. Marilyn Manson had been screaming at the top of his lungs about the Beautiful People, a sound so loud and heavy every beat and thump was like a sledgehammer driving into the walls attempting to contain them. G
ods only knew how long the music had been going for, and yet the Sheriff was nowhere to be seen.

  No, the Sheriff was too busy figuring out ways to kill me, I thought, grimly.

  “Raven’s Glen, huh?” Daniel asked, “Where’s that?”

  “Northern California.”

  “You get a lot of Ravens up there in Northern CA?”

  “A few,” I said, smiling.

  “So why Raven’s Glen?”

  “I guess it’s because last name of the guy who founded the town was Raven?”

  “Was his first name Glen?”

  “I don’t know you, Danny, but no one likes a smartass.”

  Daniel grinned a wicked grin and halted abruptly.

  “Is this it?” I asked.

  We had been walking along a quiet sidewalk for a short while. The sun had now completely disappeared, and with it so too had much of the ambient heat disappeared. I was wearing a long black cardigan over my black top and dark skinny jeans, thankfully, but that was coincidence more than forethought. I made a mental note to buy something warmer tomorrow as we came to a stop in front of a storefront with a big green sign above the door that read “Absinthe” in wild and quirky font.

  “Your powers of perception astound me, Amber,” Collette said in a sardonic tone.

  “Oh hush,” I said.

  Daniel readjusted his backpack and turned to us, smiling. “Yeah, this is it. The Absinthe they serve here isn’t the hallucinogenic type Hemmingway used to drink, but it’ll get you pretty wasted if you aren’t prepared for it.”

  “It’s alright, we ate before we came here.”

  Then there came an awkward pause, like the awkward before someone decides whether to invite another person in for a night cap. And in that pause I heard the rustling of leaves, the distant screech of a train in a tunnel, and, the whisper of the cooling wind as it whooshed gently past my ears. They were the sounds of silence.

  My eyes went to Collette, and I found her looking at me; equally lost.

  Then the door to the bar abruptly opened, and Daniel’s face lit up.

  “Well look who the fuck it is!” said the guy—another American—who had just opened the door. “I thought you were in Turkey, man.”

  “Came back yesterday,” Daniel said.

  The guy in the door looked at us, then back at Daniel.

  “Oh,” Daniel said, “These are Amber and Collette.”

  “Hey,” I said. Collette nodded in acknowledgement.

  “Well howdy,” he said, with a noticeable southern drawl to his voice, “I’m Cliff, and I’d be happy for you two lovely ladies to accompany us for a little bit of the green monster. Whaddaya say?”

  His offer seemed kindly enough, and I could see the eagerness in Daniel’s eyes, but I shook my head.

  “If you don’t mind, I think we’ll take our drinks alone. Thanks for bringing us here, though, Daniel. Your first drink is on us.”

  Daniel nodded, accepting my rebuke, but Cliff stood blocking the door as I made my way toward it. “Are you sure I can’t change the little lady’s mind?”

  I could feel the tension worm into my muscles and my body stiffened like a board. Little? Who’s he calling little? Did this greasy haired, unshaven, nomad of a man think he was some kind of cowboy? Collette must have sensed the rapid build-up of Power inside of me, must have felt the wind picking up speed, because she pulled up behind me, placed a hand on my shoulder, and declined Cliff’s offer with words instead of Magick.

  Cliff moved aside and let us head into the building, but as the sobering heat of the controlled environment hit me I became immediately aware that I had just done something stupid.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said to Collette once we found a booth at the back of the bar to sit in. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  Collette nodded. “Nothing happened, ma cherie,” she said, “Are you alright?”

  “I think so.” I was shaking. “I just… I got so mad at the guy. I wanted to hurt him.”

  Collette frowned, then nodded. “Don’t dwell. We have been through a long ordeal to get here. You are tired, that’s all.”

  I returned her nod and felt the tension fall away from me like flecks of dead skin in the summer. The bar we were in was low and dimly lit, and had an old English kind of tavern feel to it. The bar was black and made of oak, I guessed, and behind it—stacked next to each other—were colorful bottles, some red, some blue, many green. On the other side of the building from where we were I saw Daniel, Cliff, and his friends sitting in a bay booth overlooking the street. When his eyes caught mine I looked away.

  He had been nice to us and I had been kind of a bitch to deny him. But I hadn’t denied him, exactly; it was that southern friend of his. Was he Texan? Or did he come from one of the Carolinas? I didn’t know. I only knew that his aura tasted like stale beer and that I didn’t like it.

  Stale, warm beer.

  Luckily, the menu—which was a colorful flyer pressed between the glass upper layer of the table and the wooden lower layer—stole my attention away with its little green fairies and the promise of a drink I had not yet tasted.

  “This all looks good,” I said. “And cheap too.”

  I had re-acquainted myself with the Euro pretty quickly. Absinthe was served on its own, never mixed, and always came in the same volume, so the menu quoted prices in terms of the brands of Absinthe you could drink instead of quantities or what other soft drinks you could mix it with. A serving of Absinthe, about five fingers, would set you back only 2.50 Euros.

  Pretty cheap.

  We chose to drink the regular Absinthe so we went to the bar, put our orders down—as well as an order of a single drink for Daniel—and the barman came to our table a few moments later with two glass cups half filled with green liquid, two spoons, a simple red lighter, two cups of water, and a bowl of sugar cubes.

  I stared at the green liquid in the glass like it was going to leap out, transform into a real fairy, and strangle me with its tiny hands. Collette seemed equally hesitant.

  “Are you alright?” I asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “C’mon, just try it. For me?”

  “I don’t normally drink.”

  “I know you don’t. It’s like your thing. You don’t drink, don’t cuss, and you’re always so… flawless.”

  “Iz zat a confession of attraction?”

  “Maybe it is, but it’s also an observation… why?”

  It hit me then that Collette had never been open about her sexuality. She hadn’t shown an interest in Damien, although I suspected that the barrier there was my rocky past with him and not a physical attraction. They were both good looking people. But in all our friendship she had never spoken about a boy from her past… or a girl… and I hadn’t pressed. But after a few drinks?

  Collette’s lips curled upward into a light smile, and the smile disarmed her. She sighed and deftly went about the process of putting together this science-project of a drink as if it was second nature to her; melt a sugar cube over the glass until it dissolves into the spoon, pour water over the spoon with the sugar into the drink, stir it, then knock it back. I watched for a moment, perplexed at the ease and quickness of her movements—and annoyed that I had forgotten entirely—and followed her steps until the liquid was ready to drink.

  It didn’t burn, didn’t force my face to twist in the same way Tequila used to do, and tasted a little like candy. All in all the experience was anti-climactic; like a firework that shrieks into the sky and doesn’t explode. It tasted fine, don’t get me wrong, but it wasn’t all it had been cracked up to be.

  “Zat was… nice…” Collette said. “A little on ze sweet side for me, though.”

  “Yeah… I’m not even going to ask how you knew how to do that. Instead… another?” Maybe I hadn’t done it right.

  Collette nodded and I smiled, but neither of us got a chance to get up to order. Before we could even flinch, the barman arrived with a tray and two more
cups on it as if he had read our minds. Then he pointed at the table where Daniel was sitting and the traveler was waiting with a thumbs up. I returned the gesture and instantly regretted doing so. Who thumbs up anymore?

  “Looks like you have an admirer,” I said.

  She shook her head. “It iz you he is smitten by.”

  “Well that’s too bad, because I’m spoken for.” Or at least I would have been, had I not been such an idiot. “Anyway, so, back at the hotel you were about to tell me about your passport…”

  “Ah, yes… zat.” She trailed off, but I was determined to pull it out of her.

  “C’mon, you know more about my private life than I do about yours.”

  “Perhaps zis is because you choose to make your private life public.”

  “Not public; but I believe in sharing with friends. We’re friends, right?”

  “Sisters,” she said, correcting.

  “Sisters share more than friends do.”

  “I suppose.”

  I had her. “Then? You know you can talk to me about anything right?”

  She nodded.

  “I would never violate your trust.”

  “I know you wouldn’t.”

  “Alright, so… start from the top. You were telling me it belonged to your mother? Was she a witch too?”

  Collette nodded again. She sighed, smiled like someone recalling a fond memory, and said, “My mother wasn’t only a witch; she fought for ze French Resistance during ze Nazi occupation of France in World War two.”

  “Holy shit; for real?”

  “Yes. In fact, her coven was a vital part of ze resistance. When ze Germans invaded, her Coven split up and scattered across all of France but not until after engaging in a ritual to allow zem all instant telepathic communication with each other. Zis way zey could keep tabs on ze invaders and relay important military information to other freedom fighters in ze area to coordinate attacks.”

  “That sounds really amazing.”

  “Of course, zis meant maintaining her cover was more important zan anything. Ze occupying army could and would frequently stop anyone and everyone zey wanted to and demand to see zeir papers. My mother noticed zat French citizens were looked at with more scrutiny than Germans who had moved to France previously, so she created a passport zat could change shape and show the reader whatever ze owner wanted zem to see. Germans, then, saw not a French baker, but a German one.”