by K. M. Szpara
“Oh, yeah.” I shrug. “Thranduil’s a Grey Elf, so his eyes are, well, gray, and mine aren’t.”
He tenses like a predator. “You can change the color of your eyes? Which monster are you in league with?”
“No! None!” I hold up my hands. “I used contacts. They’re little clear lenses you put on your eyes to change their color. Some people use them to see better.” I tap my glasses. “I put these on instead. I can’t see very far without help, like contacts or glasses, but the contacts dry my eyes out when I’ve been wearing them for a while, so I changed into my glasses.”
Meadowlark rises up onto his knees, braces on his toes, angling himself as if to attack. He could probably hurt me. The only look we’ve had into Druid Hill since the city sold it was a helicopter flyover for a documentary. The Fellowship shot arrows at them—real arrows. Whatever happens on Druid Hill, the Fellowship members can defend themselves.
“Who are you really?” Meadowlark asks.
“Calvin?” It’s more a question than I intend. Then—Oh. Oh. Oh my god. He thought I was an actual Elven-king, and why wouldn’t he? I doubt he’s ever read The Hobbit or any of the Lord of the Rings books, much less watched the movies—and my cosplay was spot-on. Okay, how to explain this … Meadowlark’s expression remains the same: angled, hard, suspicious. I realize, now, that I breezed through that definition earlier, as if he knows what a video game is, when he clearly doesn’t even know what a wig and contacts are.
“Remember when I told you I was staying in this hotel for a convention? That it’s a bunch of nerds talking about comics and movies and video games and stuff?
“At conventions like these, people dress up like their favorite characters. They sew costumes.” Surely, he understands this. “So, when you met me, I was dressed as Thranduil, the Elvenking. He’s a character in a story.”
Lark relaxes slightly back onto his heels, no longer prepared to leap at me.
“It’s pretend—not a lie or anything! Everyone at the convention knew that wasn’t my real hair. Did you see the other people dressed up in masks and capes, holding fake weapons?”
His lips are the only part of him that moves when he says, “Yes.”
“I was supposed to participate in a costume ball later, where the people who dressed up show off their costumes on a stage.” As I say the word “stage,” I realize there are so many words he might not know. I have to tailor my vocabulary to the word bank the Fellowship provided him with. “Oh, sorry, uh—”
“I know what a stage is,” he says, as if he can see the wheels spinning inside my head. “Why aren’t you on it?”
A good question. “Because I met you.” I’m not sure if my answer is good enough. I have roots in Baltimore. Friends who’ll miss me. A costume ball to attend. Bills. Technically, I can take my job with me; thank god for smartphones. But quests are for people without commitments, ready to risk their lives. Just because I’d rather live in my favorite story, doesn’t mean I actually could.
Lilian’s OMG pounds in my chest so loud I could swear—
Someone’s running down the hall toward us. As long as it took Lark to relax, he’s braced again in an instant. “They’re here,” he says, rising to his feet.
I check my phone. See a text from Lilian telling me she’s on her way up. “No,” I say. “No, it’s not the FBI; it’s my friend Lilian.”
“You summoned someone!” It’s supposed to be a question.
“No!” I hold his gaze as I back slowly toward the door. Wow, everything is suddenly going badly. “She summoned herself, but I promise she won’t hurt you or tell anyone you’re here.”
Meadowlark surveys the room from where he stands on my bed, as Lilian and I open the door at almost the same time. The surprise, the conjunction of our efforts, causes her to stumble ungracefully into the room.
She stops short of the bed, and, if Meadowlark is looking at her like prey, she’s watching him like a zoo animal. “Holy shit, you weren’t kidding.”
“Lilian, this is Meadowlark. Meadowlark, Lilian.”
Neither says hi. I move between them so he doesn’t kill her when she inevitably reaches out to see if he’s real. Then, with a shiver, Lil breaks the hold he has over her and holds out a hand. “So good to meet you. Big fan.”
He looks from me to her pointy pink fingernails. Like a cat, he jumps to the floor, not registering any shock from landing. He takes her hand but doesn’t move as she shakes his limp arm up and down. I suck in a nervous breath as he pulls her hand up to his face and turns it over, examining her fingernails.
“Are these weapons?”
I have a feeling he might break her arm over the wrong answer, and yet he looks genuinely interested, running his fingers over their tips, feeling the glossy gel polish. Peering underneath them as if Lilian has poison sacs hidden beneath her nail beds.
“No,” she says, “they’re acrylics.” They catch each other’s eyes. “Fake fingernails that someone shapes and paints—oh my god,” Lil whispers the end of her sentence to me. Meadowlark neither notices nor cares.
“My pronouns are he/him, and yours?”
“She/her.” Lilian gives me an impressed nod. The number of times she’s had to explain to people that nonbinary femmes are real and can use whatever fucking pronouns they want …
“And I go by Lark,” he says, pressing the pad of his thumb against one of her stiletto tips.
“Oh, sorry,” I say. “Didn’t know.”
“Now you do.” Finally, he drops Lilian’s hand. “Are you wearing a costume too?” he asks her.
“No. Are you?”
“No!” His forehead creases with offense. “I only asked because Calvin was. For all I know, you’re attending this convention too.”
“I am,” she says. “I left a panel about zombies for this.”
“What are zombies?”
“The mindless undead; they eat people.”
“And they’re not real,” I say, watching Lark’s eyebrows rise with horror. He’s barely calm when I ask Lil, “The Walking Dead panel?”
“Yes! I talked my way in with my press badge, but this is way cooler.” She grins, bites her lip, plants her hands on her hips. “We’re going on a fucking quest!”
10
LARK / NOW
I pick through Calvin’s clothes, while he and his friend Lilian pack. Nothing will be as good as the clothes made specially for the Anointed, but I find pants that have an elastic waistband and ankle hems, and are surprisingly comfortable. The shirt, well, it has some sort of animal on it—not one I’ve seen or even heard of. A yellow mouse-looking thing with floppy ears and a tail like lightning. Every one of Calvin’s shirts is equally ridiculous, so I settle for the first and change in the bathroom. There are some things I’m not ready to share.
When I emerge, Lilian ducks past me and scoops handfuls of bottles and tubes out of the bathroom. I stand out of the way, watching the rush until the last zipper is pulled closed. Until the two of them line up behind me with bags slung over their shoulders and luggage trailing on wheels.
“Will you get the door?” Lilian nods at it expectantly.
“Sure.” I hold it for them, then follow empty-handed. I consider offering to help, but then they stop in front of the doors Calvin called an elevator and I freeze. The two of them squeeze their suitcases through the open door, gesturing for me to follow. It’s empty of outsiders this time, but no less dangerous looking.
Calvin holds his hand between the open doors. “We trust you,” he says, “but you’ve got to trust us too.”
“We promise you won’t plummet to your death.” Lilian tilts her head side to side. “Most likely.”
That doesn’t make me feel better. But how can they help if I constantly question them? They survive out here beyond the fence every day, and I wasn’t prepared for all the cars and people and—as long as they’re useful, I can accommodate them. Until they hinder me. I won’t hesitate to sacrifice a couple of outsiders for my
quest.
With resolve, I step into the elevator. I watch the doors close. The floor shudders, but it’s smooth as it descends and none of us falls.
“Stay close,” Calvin says, when the doors open once again.
I do. I follow them through a crowd that presses like it did on the street, and I close my eyes as I push through them. Don’t get swept away. Please don’t lose me in this crush of bodies.
They don’t. Soon we’re in a cool, dark catacomb of vehicles. Only a few outsiders traverse its levels. Calvin leads us to a glossy orange car covered in colorful signs. It reminds me of an insect, it’s so … bright. How are we supposed to escape when we’re this visible?
“Is this your car?”
The answer is obvious when its lights flash and he opens its backside. “Yup.”
“Okay.” I can figure this out. Quick. I have seconds before these outsiders simply drive us off without protection.
Lilian hauls her rolling bag onto the top of the pile then hooks a small satchel over her shoulder—a purple leather that looks so soft, I want to touch it. She slams the car’s back door and steps aside.
“I’ll need to cast a concealment spell.” It’s easier on inanimate objects. Doesn’t require the whole ritual we did in the hotel. I can do it myself. It’ll work.
Calvin and Lilian look at each other, communicating something I can’t decipher. Not mindspeech, surely, but they seem to have a connection like I do with the Anointed. “You won’t need to do anything to my car for this spell, right?” Calvin says. “Like, change it in any way…” He gestures nervously at it.
“No. It’ll only take a moment.” I whisper the spell into my palm then press it flat to one of the cold glass windows. Magic spills forth, coating the vehicle in my protection. I have to yank my hand free. Shake it out. “That should do it.”
Calvin and Lilian look at each other again.
“It won’t look any different to us, but to anyone who seeks to harm us, the car will adopt properties from its surroundings,” I explain, because how can they understand? They wouldn’t know magic unless it slammed them into a wall.
“What about the license plate?” Calvin points at a metal plate with letters and numbers printed on it. “These numbers will identify me.”
“The spell will adapt,” I say with confidence. Outsiders need reassuring. “No one who seeks to harm us will be able to read it. The numbers and letters will appear to shift and scramble.”
“Cool,” Calvin says. This time, he avoids Lilian’s gaze as the two of them head for the car’s side doors. As I follow, I can’t help but wonder whether they believe me. In the hotel room, Calvin seemed to give me credence. But now that Lilian’s here, he sounds less sure. I’ll have to keep a close eye on her. Remind them that, while I appreciate their assistance, I will not be stopped. That I will push onward by whatever means necessary.
* * *
We drop Lilian at a tall, colorful building with pictures of people plastered to the side over the words: BECOME INSTA-POPULAR. I’m all the more suspicious of Lilian for living there. It shows she values visibility and influence, and is thereby vulnerable to corruption. Calvin, on the other hand, lives in a plain brown building. It has an elevator, but it does not work. I don’t mind, but when he grumbles about lugging his things up the narrow staircase, I hoist two of his bags over my shoulders and begin climbing the stairs without him.
“Which floor?” I ask over my shoulder.
Behind me, the wheels of his suitcase clunk over each step, only quieting on the landings. “Fifth. Top floor.”
When I reach the fourth floor, I no longer see him behind me. Presumably, he does this several times per day. How is he not used to it? I should not have to wait for him. His body appears muscled. When he comes into view again, I continue onward, stopping only when he shouts, “That’s it!”
He wheels his suitcase down the hallway, panting for breath, before shoving a metal key—no cards here—into two different locks and pushing the door open. A piece of gray rubber along its bottom splinters as he forces it over a thick rug.
An overhead lamp turns on like magic. I try not to look surprised, but my heart bounces as if my chest is empty. Calvin drags his bags halfway inside before abandoning them on the floor and turning a corner, but I don’t follow. Before I enter this outsider’s dwelling, I want to make sure it’s not a trap. That nothing is lurking around that corner or in the walls.
I whisper into my palm then press it against the doorframe. Close my eyes. Exchange energy with the building. It’s older than Lilian’s, has a history of use and neglect. Though its insides are bruised and scarred, it does not feel malicious. Calvin should not live here any longer than he has to, though. Down to its very bones, this place is broken.
“You can relax for a bit,” he says, suddenly reappearing in a tiny hallway. “Sit on the couch, watch”—he points at the shiny black screen—“television.”
I remember the device from his hotel room. Remember Kane being interviewed. How he said he wanted me back. That he loved me. I wish I could believe that was him talking and not the corruption. Not a monster’s tongue luring me to my death.
“If you like books, you’re welcome to pick a couple of mine to bring with us. I need to pack.” He puts his hands on his hips and glares at his bulging suitcases. “Re-pack.” Calvin grabs them one by one and hauls them down the hall, leaving me by myself in his living area.
I have never seen so many shelves. Only Nova’s office has this many, but we’re rarely invited inside, much less left alone. Glancing over my shoulder, I walk over to one that’s lined with plastic cases. These can’t be books, but titles show down their sides. I touch the spine of one called Jurassic Park and pull it slowly from the shelf. It opens with a snap and a thin disc pops out. I scramble to catch it; rainbows reflect off its underside and against the wall. It’s beautiful.
I press the disc back into its case and examine the front cover—almost like a book. A scaly head with dozens of sharp yellowing teeth protrudes from the side. This is some kind of monster. “Collector’s Edition, Widescreen,” I read, utter nonsense. I slip the case back onto the shelf and walk over to the books. These, I’ve seen before.
When I was a child, there were more. I remember books with weathered spines and colorful illustrations, books with yellow pages and black text. They were gone before I could read them all. Relics from beyond the fence, Nova explained. Each one a different path to corruption.
Wait. Is that? Jurassic Park. I slide my finger down its spine and pull it from the shelf. A white cover with the same monster, this time coming down from the top as if eating the title. Its outline a skeleton. The monstrous cover unnerves and excites me. I open to the first page, looking over my shoulder yet again—as if Calvin didn’t tell me I could touch his books. We’re not allowed to touch Nova’s.
I don’t recognize half the words that make up the introduction: “biotechnology,” “genetic engineering,” “commercialize.” They don’t sound good, and yet … I look at the cover again, glide my fingers over the raised title. I will take this book of monsters with me. Learn what the outsiders make of them.
I skim the rest, seeing titles evoking magic and the sky, with pictures of flying monsters and ships. None of that is how magic works. Those are the lies outsiders imbibe, helping real monsters mislead them. I skip the rest when I notice a familiar tool on the mantel. I have a wand, crafted from a tree branch; it’s thick like a rod and imbued with years of magic. We call it Spellslinger. This thing is long and thin and—I pick it up—plastic. Words are printed up a seam, tiny and black.
I march into the hallway and emerge into a small kitchen. No Calvin. I grab the first handle I can find and yank the door open. A bathroom, still no Calvin. Only one door left.
He turns when I open it, startled by my presence. He’s wearing elastic-hemmed pants like those he loaned me, with grass-green shoes and a long-sleeved shirt. Except for my braids and his glasses, we don’t
look that different. I press my tongue against the roof of my mouth to remind myself of the piercing. Of what makes us different: that I can speak magic.
“This is fake.” I extend the wand I found in his living room. “Thought you should know.” As I hand it to him, I notice a bin full of swords, a bow, and staffs. “It’s all fake.”
“Yeah,” Calvin says, “they’re for my costumes. That”—he takes the plastic wand from me—“does actually work, but only at the theme park, so please be careful with it.” Without explaining what a “theme park” is, he sets the wand on a shelf otherwise lined with small statues.
“It doesn’t do magic, though,” I say.
“Not like you’re used to,” Calvin says. “It’s got a sensor—I’ll explain on the road.”
“Okay.” I don’t know what to do empty-handed. The room is hot—or I’m hot, foolishness burning me. I pull at the neck of my borrowed shirt, glance around the space. Sorry I don’t know “sensors,” or all the words in his books, or that his weapons are fake.
Calvin hands me a bag I can fit over my shoulders. “This is for you. I didn’t want you to travel without a change of clothes or toiletries.” He shrugs and looks at his feet. Is he nervous, even here in his sanctum?
I glance at Calvin’s bed, smaller and less extravagant than those in the hotel room. “This is where you sleep.” Of course he’s nervous. I’m in his private quarters, riffling through his books and assessing his weapons. “I’m sorry, I can leave.”
He draws breath as if to stop me, but I don’t wait. I take the bag and wait in his living area perched on the edge of his couch, afraid to touch anything else. Needing to escape, I remember Jurassic Park. Flip to the first page and force myself through it, even if I don’t know what’s going on. The words lift me from the present, from the outside world and into another one. I don’t even care that it’s not my own; it’s away.
“Ready?” Calvin appears framed in the hallway. He wears a similar backpack and holds another bag in his hand. He looks good. Tall, broad-shouldered, and sharp, he reminds me of Kane for a moment. But Calvin’s dark hair is short and flies away from his head haphazardly, unbound. I want to run my hands through it.