Indigo Springs

by A. M. Dellamonica

  “We’re brothers,” she managed.

  “Barely in-laws.” He took her face in his hands.

  And Astrid responded. She wanted Sahara, but as her hands twined in his hair she threw herself into the embrace. She clung to the solidity of Jacks, the unmoving never-leave-her presence of him. Heat burned up from her belly and she met his tongue with hers, pulling his shirt with tight fists. When he fastened his teeth on her earlobe, she groaned.

  He reached back and up, accidentally catching her coiled earrings on his sleeve, tugging them for a quick painful instant as he unlatched the door.

  “She’ll hear us,” she whispered.

  A painful pause—they couldn’t, not out here.

  “Windows,” Jacks said, leading her to his studio. They slid between the tall panes and into the basement.

  Groping and necking, they worked their way down the hallway to Jacks’s room, falling onto his thin mattress. Astrid was yanking his shirt, socks, wristwatch, scrabbling at the garments with her fingers and teeth. She had him half-stripped before he’d gotten a hand inside her dress.

  “You’re not gonna be alone,” Jacks said hoarsely, his thumb brushing her nipple. Astrid felt tears threaten and raised herself to his mouth again.

  Upstairs she could hear Sahara’s tread bump-bumping on the wood floors as they fumbled with nylons and condoms.

  Jacks’s hands were everywhere, but it was his eyes that were feeding the flood inside Astrid, an intent gaze she had seen on him a thousand times since the days of Dad and Olive’s whirlwind courtship. Jacks’s face with nothing but Astrid in it, and why hadn’t she taken him seriously? Now he was sliding against her, inside her, and she drew him deeper as with every thrust he whispered the things she needed to hear: “I’m here, I’m staying.”

  His love, naked at last and Astrid battered it against herself, driving onto Jacks, trying to shove him through the sealed door to her heart.

  Then as quickly as it had begun it was ending, their breath coming short, the emotion discharging like bursts of lightning. Stifling a moan, Jacks fell beside her on the pillows, his breath warming her cheek.

  “I love you,” he said. His bones felt like knobs through his skin.

  She kissed him hard, pulling him close.

  She woke to find Jacks sitting up, nestled in pillows with one hand caught in hers. With his free hand, he was pushing a line of acrylic paint along the wall with the bristles of a worn-out paintbrush. Random patterns covered the wall in red and gold as far as his arm could reach.

  She sighed and stretched, shifting her weight off his leg. “You must be squashed.”

  He nodded, kept painting.

  “Whyn’t you push me off? You have to go to work soon?”

  Another swift affirmative jerk of the head.

  He thinks I’ll have regrets, she thought, and shook herself awake. “That’s too bad,” she said, and kissed him.

  Gratified surprise broke across his face. The resistance in him gave like a breaking dam, and Astrid threw herself against his lips, telling herself how it could be: marriage and kids and trips to art galleries on the weekends…

  …and chanting, of course, shared secrets.

  Jacks lifted and turned her. She curled against him…and then he wobbled. Instead of joining they rolled off the bed, fetching up against the closet door. Astrid banged her head on the knob.

  “What happened?”

  “My leg’s asleep. Couldn’t take our weight.” His face darkened. “This isn’t what you want.”

  “Don’t. I’m lucky to have you, Jacks. I’m glad.”

  He stood, rocking the pins and needles out of his leg. His face contorted, and his erection drew in on itself.

  “Jacks…”

  He grabbed up a bundle of clothes. “I can’t be late.”

  “Jacks, it’ll work out.”

  “Will it?” His voice was strained. “Is that what she’ll say?”

  “She?”

  “Your romance consultant.”

  “Sahara doesn’t care who I…” The words snagged in her throat like fishhooks. “Who I end up with.”

  “Who you love?” He vanished into the hall.

  “Sahara won’t care,” Astrid repeated. It was true. Sahara wouldn’t—didn’t care.

  Her sinuses tickled unexpectedly. Her eyes watered.

  “I’m in love,” she said slowly, trying it out. She kicked her legs free of Jacks’s tumbled sheets—tried to anyway, but they wouldn’t come loose. She grabbed the knob of the locked closet door, levering herself upright and triggering a sudden memory of Albert.

  “If you ever have to run for it, Bundle, don’t hesitate. Leave it all behind and go.”

  She’d answered: “I’ll never run. Never leave Ma. You shouldn’t have picked me….”

  She jerked away from it, as if burned, and the door bounced open.

  “I’m in love, Sahara,” she said, rehearsing the words. “I’m in love with…Sahara, I’m…” She stepped into the closet, breaking through cobwebs, shivering at the cold touch of the concrete floor. There was a small box on the floor in the back corner.

  Another chantment? No. Astrid groped for it, struggling with its dusty latch. Inside were two piles of twenty-dollar bills.

  Had Albert squirreled this away? She flipped through the bills, thinking there might be a note, an explanation….

  Nothing. Just more mystery.

  “I’m in love with Sahara,” Astrid whispered. In all these years she’d never said it aloud.

  What was she going to do now?

  “I love her,” Astrid said, louder now, voice steady.

  She grasped the closet door again and was peppered by remembrances.

  She had sneaked into the house and absorbed some extra vitagua from the fireplace. The new grumbles had contented her for a while…until they had told her everything they could. Hungry for more, she had gone back, working her hand into the fissure in the fireplace hearth, touching the ice on the unreal side, listening, learning.

  Albert caught her there, crouched with her hand in the ice, mumbling to the glaciers. He yanked her away, and the vitagua in the unreal had heaved, chasing her. The hearth cracked, and spirit water splashed the inside of the chimney, the red bricks.

  He’d been so angry, so afraid.

  Astrid backed away from the memories, fumbling in the salad of blankets for her date dress, her date shoes. The stockings had runs in them; she left them on the floor. As she searched for her purse, her hand fell on Jacks’s chanted watch. The piece of tape with Dad’s handwriting was still there. The label was almost unreadable.

  Perfect timing. Suddenly enraged, she wiggled her shoe on. After dropping the watch, she crushed it under her heel. Gears popped and vitagua oozed out of the broken clockwork. She wiped up the droplet with her hand and left the pieces on the floor.

  There—her purse. Astrid found the lipstick. She applied it using Jacks’s grime-spattered shaving mirror. Her face changed, becoming smoother, glamorous.

  She went to find Sahara.

  At the foot of the basement steps she paused, seized by a mix of turbulent emotions—apprehension, determination, wretched affection.

  What would Sahara think if she emerged from Jacks’s domain? Instead, she slipped out through the studio, easing herself into the yard through the same window they’d used last night. Getting in had been easy, but this time she got her skirt tangled in plants: ivy mostly, and a rhododendron that seemed intent on invading the studio.

  Blinded by the sun, she fumbled her way inside.

  She got two steps before a sound in the living room—Sahara’s humming, accompanied by a metallic tapping—rooted her to the floor.

  “You’re back!” Heavy things thumped on the carpet and her friend burst into the kitchen. “Where were you?”

  “Where were you?”

  “Frankie got sick at the last minute—had to have his stomach pumped.” Sahara was uncharacteristically dressed down, clad in a sw
eatshirt with cut-off sleeves and a ratty pair of jeans. Both garments were smudged with white.

  “Did you paint the ceiling again?”

  “Astrid, did you hear what I said?”

  “You did paint.” She inhaled, smelling fumes. It was cold in here, chilly as the inside of a grocery store.

  “Stop avoiding,” Sahara said. “I couldn’t make it to dinner, okay?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “No? You stay out all night and it doesn’t matter?”

  “We don’t need to talk about this.”

  “I had to work,” Sahara said. “Astrid, I came to this shitty town to be with you. You’re my only friend—”

  “Friend.”

  “—only one who gives a rat’s ass if I live or die—”

  “Don’t sweet-talk me.”

  “I don’t want you mad!”

  Astrid searched her face, finding real anxiety. “You didn’t ditch me?”

  “I swear.”

  She swallowed. “There’s something I need to tell you. Sahara, I love—”

  A metallic clink from the next room interrupted her.

  “Don’t you dare vague out on me now, Astrid Lethewood,” Sahara said. “You love someone?”

  She looked into the dark eyes and her courage fled. “Jacks. I love Jacks.”

  A pause. Then Sahara threw her head back and laughed. “Jacks? You do not.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re too gay for him.”

  “I’m not gay, I’m bisexual.” She blushed as she spoke; she had never said either word aloud before, not when speaking about herself. “What does that mean? ‘Too’ gay?”

  “Jacks is all wrong for you. He’s sulky and quiet, and he’s got more food hang-ups than Gandhi. You need someone with some goddamn joie de vivre.”

  “I fucked Jacks last night.”

  Sahara’s jaw dropped. “You did not!”

  “We did.”

  “I’d have heard.”

  “We were quiet.” She forced the words out.

  “How passionate could it have been if the neighbors didn’t have to call animal rescue?”

  “You know how he feels about me—”

  “Whole town knows! So? Just because the kid has a thing for you doesn’t mean you’ve got to humor him—”

  “Humor him?” She was starting to get angry. “I fucked him, I love him, it’s…”

  “What, a done deal?”

  “Yes,” she gritted.

  “Jesus. This is what you wanted to say last night?”

  She looked away. “It makes sense, Sahara. He knows about the vitagua, he’s…”

  “A good lay?” Sahara asked.

  Astrid’s face got hotter. She’s leaving, she thought. Sahara leaves me; Jacks never will. It’s the right choice. A normal life. Invisibility.

  “Well…” She could almost see wheels turning in her friend’s head. “I guess it could work….”

  “You just said he was all wrong.” She tried to catch Sahara’s hand in hers, but Sahara slipped out of reach. Their fingers brushed, overwhelming Astrid with a sense of Sahara’s singular focus on the idea of magic, power. The issue of Astrid’s love life was barely relevant, had diminished into an interesting distraction from…what?

  “Jacks is wrong—but you’re pigheaded enough to make it work. I can be nice about it, if that’s what you want.”

  Tears threatened. “What I want, Sahara…”

  “It’ll work out. You and Jacks can make babies, I’ll run the mystic end of things. You still want me to help?”

  “What?”

  “You don’t want me to…”

  “To what?”

  “Bail. Three’s a crowd, right?”

  “Sahara.” She closed her eyes. “I don’t want you to leave.” I couldn’t bear it, she thought, but part of her insisted she would do just that—accept the necessity of doing without Sahara. Mournfully, in confusion, but…

  It won’t happen, she told herself. I’ll figure out a way to stop it. “Don’t go. Don’t go, Sahara, I love you.”

  “Cool down, I’ll stay. Just thought I should ask. The ravished look does suit you, I will say that.”

  “Thanks.” Astrid swept her friend into a tight hug, catching her off guard. She’d try again. She’d tell the truth, make sure Sahara understood….

  “I—” Her fingertips brushed Sahara’s neck and the knowledge came. “You’re trying to reexpose yourself.”

  Sahara stiffened, pulling away, face dark with stubborn resolve. A tick sounded from beyond the doorway.

  “Astrid…”

  Conflicted and weary, she walked into the living room.

  A chisel protruded from the crack in the hearth. Wedged between the bricks, its wooden handle was scarred with chips and dings. A small hammer lay beside it, haloed by red brick dust.

  Astrid turned slowly.

  “All that ice in the unreal,” Sahara explained. “We could heat it up. Make things flow again.”

  “You’re digging into the unreal?”

  “Why not? You can chant anything now, right? We’ll just buy things in malls.”

  “Sahara,” she said, fighting a surge of anger. “Get that chisel out of there.”

  “Okay, but I want to talk about this,” Sahara said, “really talk about it.” She grasped the chisel handle, tugging it free. A few drops of vitagua came with it, speckling her hand with liquid magic.

  “I’ll have to siphon that,” Astrid said woodenly.

  “Don’t start,” Sahara said, rubbing the hand on her jeans and turning away. To hide a smile?

  A deep glugging sound rumbled through the fireplace then, cutting off Astrid’s reply.

  • Chapter Twenty-Four •

  The four of us aren’t alone in the unreal for long. Patience leads Ev, Astrid, and me up an expanse of white plain, and as we crest the hill we come face-to-face with an assortment of alchemized people-creatures. Their skin runs the gamut of reds, from Aztec copper to sun-leathered tobacco brown. Everyone has animal features—turtle flippers where hands should be, fox tails, cats’ eyes, and elongated muzzles in profusion. Ev, with her goatish features, fits right in.

  They surround us without speaking, and Patience is the one who steps forward. “I’ve brought the spring-tapper,” she says.

  The hostility of the people eases slightly. Now they are less angry, more watchful.

  “Patience knows these people?” I whisper to Astrid.

  Patience throws me a smile but keeps speaking: “I was exposed to vitagua months ago—and I’m not alchemized.”

  A disbelieving rumble.

  “You’re still cursed!” someone accuses.

  “She’s been stabilized,” Astrid says.

  A shout from the back of the crowd, “Is that true?”

  Patience spreads her hands. “Would I lie?”

  The alchemized people begin to move, obliging us to walk with them. An escort? Or is this an abduction?

  Unconcerned, Astrid and her mother stroll with the group, their heads together.

  “You get any news of town after I surrendered, Ma?”

  “It’s a ghost town now.”

  “I figured they’d evacuate.”

  “Yeah. Elaine Clumber visits sometimes. She says most everyone who didn’t get quarantined is bunking with family. Rest went to big cities, chasing jobs. Maybe a hundred folks insisted they wouldn’t leave. No one knows what happened to them after the quake.”

  “I’ll check up soon,” Astrid says, but before I hear any more, Patience takes my arm, drawing me out of earshot.

  “These people,” I say. “They’re all alchemized?”

  “They were in the ice floes, exposed to pure vitagua.”

  “Why does spirit water turn people into animals?”

  “The curse Patterflam laid upon magic. Part of the litany was ‘lower nature overtakes higher, base animal urges overrule reason.’ General idea was that enemies who are little more
than animals are easier to defeat.”

  “I see.”

  Her eye falls on my magic ring. “A chantment allows you to possess magic—wield it—without touching vitagua directly. It’s a barrier method.”

  “My wedding ring is a big magic condom?”

  Patience winces beautifully. “I’m sorry.”

  “How do you fit in?”

  “Around the time of the freeze, a prophet said a woman would break the curse.”

  “You, Patience?”

  Her hand brushes the feathered shoulder of one of our escorts. “Could be me, I suppose.”

  “Or Sahara Knax?”

  “Let’s hope not.” She shakes her head. “The likely messiah is Astrid Lethewood, don’t you think? She can already draw vitagua from our bodies—”

  “But the residue…,” I object.

  She gives me a fond, indulgent look. “She’ll find a real cure in time. She has a better knack for chanting than any spring-tapper before her.”

  “Because of Albert’s gift for initiations.”

  “Poor kid. He made her into a force of nature.”

  “Are you suggesting we should pity her? At least chanters aren’t cursed.”

  “Are you sure? Think of the lives they’ve led, the things they’ve given up.”

  I’m not inclined to sympathize with Astrid right now. “How did she do it? Make you…what you are?”

  She shakes her head. “Albert and his grandmother knew how to fuse vitagua into objects to make chantments. What Astrid found is a way to fuse a chantment into a living person, to bind it to them.”

  “Of course.” I look into her bewitching eyes. “The magic lipstick. She fused it into you.”

  “That and some other things—the chantment that lets me go misty, for example.”

  “And the one that alters your appearance. But what good is that?”

  “All in good time.” She winks.

  Our escort pauses as we reach the high edge of a ridge. At the horizon lies a sea of vitagua, a blue expanse dotted with massive, luminous ice floes. On a plain, inland from the beach, is a lumpy mass of nests, an interweaving of colorful, irregularly shaped structures. The air around these lumps teems with dust; colored beams of light cut bands in the haze. I see ant-sized dots that must be alchemized people. Some are winged, and circle the nests.