by K. M. Szpara
Stop, I would never.
“Yes.” I close my book and tuck it into my bag. “I’ve prepared my whole life for this.” And yet my stomach flutters like there are birds inside me. I prepared with Kane, to quest in his wake. For an adventure across the countryside with proper weapons and the strength of the Fellowship behind me. Today, I leave with an outsider from his dilapidated apartment building, with nothing of my own but hope.
11
KANE / CONFIDENTIAL
Lark carried the keys—two small keys that looked like they’d break if he clenched his fist. They hung from long silver chains, nestled in the crook of his finger, shining in the light I carried. I was the eldest, and yet Nova trusted him with them. Lark, not me. A strange jealousy worked its way into my heart.
I twined my fingers through his, trying not to stare at the keys where they swayed in the thick summer air. Lark caught my eye—caught me. The lightstick warmed in my empty hand, and I knew he was pushing some of his magic into me. A consolation.
“Are you nervous?” I asked, the night giving me more confidence than it should. As if my words didn’t count in the dark.
“No,” Lark said. “Are you?”
I didn’t answer. I’d hoped he’d say yes. I felt so far behind him, even walking hand in hand. Even though I was months older. Even though I was supposed to want this.
Lark squeezed my hand hard. “They’ll help us focus better, make us stronger. Trust me.”
“You mean, trust Nova.” The words curled out of my mouth like smoke.
His head snapped in my direction. “Of course we trust Nova.” He tugged on my arm until we were shoulder to shoulder. “You shouldn’t talk like that.” He looked beyond me, into the dark. I should’ve cared—that I sounded disloyal, that someone might hear me, what Lark would think—but I didn’t.
He hurried us past the faded zoo signs until we were safely inside our quarters. The cement dome felt as big and open as the night sky around us. For a moment, it felt like things would be okay.
Then, Lark took both of my hands and led me into our room with a look that said we need to talk. He cleared his throat. “Are you with me on this?” A hint of nerves laced into the otherwise grounded timbre of his voice.
I remember feeling the chain scratch the side of my fingers where we clutched it between us. Wondering if I could take it from him in this moment of—not weakness, but need. Despite the heroic confidence instilled in us, we were only human. Nova wanted us to forget that.
“I need you,” he said before I could answer. “Even though I know this is for the best, it’s still hard. If we support each other—”
“I am with you,” I said, instead of no. No, this isn’t what I want. I didn’t want him to give the key to his body to anyone but me. But I was too far in, I’d fallen too far for Lark.
“Okay,” he said, brow creasing with uncertainty. He looked around the domed room as if Nova might pop in at any moment. She’d done it before. Lark lowered his voice. “You seem off lately. Your magic doesn’t feel the same. During lessons, you’re a model student—smarter than me, for sure.” He laughed briefly to himself. “But during physical training?”
I had to stop him before he went too far. Before he spoke his doubt and made me face my own. I couldn’t voice what had kindled inside me. It was bad enough the ideas lived in my head; they could never pass my lips.
“I’m tired is all.” The easiest excuse. “Overexerted. Stressed about being the first to leave.” That was true. Even though I was dying to know what waited beyond the fence, I was terrified. The Anointed had grown up on stories of monsters and FOEs. Humans turned feral and hungry by corruption.
I had to believe, for Lark. I could discipline myself, for Lark. I could hurt Lark when he asked for it. Let him hurt me because that was how he cared for me. Because when we did magic, when he was happy, I was happy. I could forget. Lose myself in his joy and the pain and his lips and—
I pressed my lips against his with such force that he stumbled. Squeezed his bare waist, dug my fingernails hard into his flesh. Four half-moons were nothing among the dozens of other marks I’d left behind.
He moaned; his lips parted. I pressed my nails deeper, rubbed at the growing bulge between his legs, biting his lips. Reminded him that pleasure was good. That our bodies matched. That we were made for each other.
Lark drew back, bottom lip catching between my teeth. The delicate skin broke, and blood filled the crack as if from a whip. “What are you doing?” He freed himself from my grasp, breathless, lip swelling. I watched his hands curl into fists—watched him force them to his sides. I watched him walk away.
With a deep breath, he stopped and set his bag beside his bed. From within, he retrieved two clear bags. Their contents were sterilized and cleansed by Nova herself.
“Here.” He held one out to me.
If I wanted to stay in good favor with Nova and Lark and the other Anointed, I needed to take it. I willed my hand out like I was willing myself to fly, again. Take it. Closed my fingers around the plastic seal and took it.
This was happening. And why not? I already ate what I was told, drank potions whose ingredients I didn’t know. Swore off games and alcohol and friends who weren’t Anointed. Hurt the person I loved and let him hurt me. What did one lock matter? Besides, if it helped me grow closer to Lark and grow stronger in my magic, maybe it would help me survive my quest.
I tore my clothes off, nearly breaking the buckle on my leather harness. The glass vials inside jangled as it hit the cement. I yanked my boots off, kicking them past Lark. He flinched, but never broke eye contact as I tossed my shirt and pants and underwear and socks aside. Finally, I was naked. I stared him down—almost a dare.
Take your clothes off too. Face what you’re about to do.
Lark removed his clothes with as little spectacle as possible, dropping the pieces into a pile at his feet. “We’re supposed to wash each other first.” His voice sank into the humidity.
I dropped to my knees in front of him, opened the plastic bag, and took out the small metal contraption. Just do it, I told myself. Get it over with. As I fitted it around my genitals, I remember thinking it was warm. Of course. Lark had kept it stashed in his bag, warm against his body, safe from me.
The lock closed with a click. I squirmed against the foreign object, aroused, and painfully aware that I couldn’t do anything about it. Instead, I leaned into Lark’s touch as he smoothed his hands over my braids, closed his eyes, and then gasped as I pressed my lips to the head of his cock. I opened my mouth and looked into his eyes as I swallowed him.
This meant more to me than my own pleasure, than my own body ever could. Metal clanged against the cement as I dropped the other bag and wrapped both hands around his thighs, felt his length between my lips for what would be the last time, at least until we both reached our quarter century. Maybe forever.
For a cold moment I thought he’d pull away, until his fingers found their way between the strands of my braids, pressing against my scalp. Mine gently cupped his testicles, rolling them in my palm. A slight squeeze wrung whimpers from his lips. He held tighter, and I took my time, kissing and stroking, feeling every ridge and vein, breathing the scent of his skin.
When I could tell Lark was about to burst, I engulfed him. Dragged my fingernails hard down the backs of his thighs. His head fell back, lips parted. A cry escaped his throat as his come filled mine.
Lark held on as if he’d fall without me. As his body stopped bucking and his grip eased, I kissed the sensitive skin between his pelvis and thigh. Rested my forehead against his sweaty hip, stroked the length of his leg, and pressed my lips against the tip of his softened cock.
Before I could think on it any further, I picked up the metal cage, slid it around his balls, and fit his cock between the metal bars. I closed the lock. There.
We dressed ourselves in silence, only glancing at each other to make sure we were still there. I fitted my harness back into pl
ace, buckling the straps as he moved behind me to adjust them. Not missing a beat, I returned the favor. When we finished, Lark’s fingers scraped the ground, catching the delicate silver chains between his fingers. He stood, looking down at the hanging keys that could unlock our bodies. With a twist of that key, he could have me whenever he wanted, but we’d sworn off pleasure in favor of discipline. In favor of belief.
12
CALVIN / NOW
Lark, despite only having ridden in a car once, is a back-seat driver. “You’re going the wrong way.” He holds his left arm out between us, consulting an invisible spot on his palm for directions, while my GPS gives me detailed instructions in a soothing British accent.
“We have to pick up Lilian first.”
Lark shakes his head. “Druid Hill is more important.”
“Don’t you think we’ll have better luck in the dark?” I ask, turning opposite the way he gestures.
“Can you see better in the dark?” he asks.
“Well, no, but…”
Lark glares at me. “You swore your assistance would not slow me down.”
I don’t change course. “It would actually take us longer to drive all the way out to Druid Hill and then come back for Lilian. She’s not far. I promise I’m saving you time.”
He sighs dramatically and drops his arm into his lap. “I suppose you know the outside world better than I do. I’m not…” He trails off, turning to look out the window. “I’m not used to being so ill-equipped. To relying on an outsider.”
His voice carries a vulnerability I’ve rarely heard. Just because he threatened to stop me with force, doesn’t mean he doesn’t have feelings. The Feds ripped him from the only home he’s ever known. “I would never make light of the trust you’ve placed in me,” I tell him, because I do want him to like me. I mean, find me useful.
We pull up outside Lilian’s apartment: a huge block of buildings with bright exterior walls, balconies every couple of windows, and banners proclaiming things like you can “be on top anytime” if you rent there. Clearly written by a straight person.
Lil and I used to make fun of this development before she moved in. There’s nothing in the immediate area except a hospital, the court, a couple of hotels, and, admittedly, the best donuts in the city. But her girlfriend’s a surgeon at Mercy; I guess some people have normal jobs. Needless to say, I don’t dunk on the building slogans anymore. In front of her.
She’s waiting in the lobby when we pull up. I get out, opening the hatch. “Did you bring all your podcasting stuff?” Rearranging the bags, I can’t help feeling we’ve overpacked. Like, Lark would definitely just start walking with nothing, sleep under the stars, wash in a river. I wrinkle my nose at the thought of bathing in the Jones Falls.
“I did. You?”
“Camera, a few slutty costumes, mobile Wi-Fi hotspot.”
“Dammit, Wi-Fi hotspot. I didn’t think of that.” She slams the hatch shut.
“You can use mine. Just pitch in for gas.”
“Sounds good to me!”
* * *
The sun’s setting as we reach the periphery of Druid Hill. I’ve never been inside, but have often glimpsed the hulking metal fence where it crosses old entrances. We’re driving slowly up Sisson Street when Lark says, “Here!”
The bridge he points to is blocked with barricades. Didn’t he say the FBI was after him? My hands tingle with nerves as I grip the steering wheel, my stomach flopping like we’re on a roller coaster. We can’t stop. Not here. I shake my head and keep driving. “There’s nowhere for me to park the car,” I say. “Isn’t there another way in?”
“There’s only one gate.”
Lilian leans between us, squares herself with Lark. “Do you have a key to the gate?”
“No, and there are wards.” Lark purses his lips, considering this. Finally, he says, “There’s an old entrance on the north side. Should be quiet there.”
I cross the light rail tracks, getting as close to the trees as I can, following the curve of the park through Remington, Hampden, and Woodberry. Neighborhoods lined with rowhouses and corner stores and hipster pizza places. Imagine living here, alongside the Fellowship. Always close, never allowed in. These neighborhoods remember; they haven’t forgiven the city for selling their park.
“There.” Lark points to the left, where the road crumbles from pavement into gravel. A dead end where potholes and building materials lie abandoned by the city.
The car rumbles over loose stones before I pull onto a flat patch of dirt, hoping the trees and shadows will disguise the bright orange paint. Lark is out the instant I put it in park. Lilian and I look at each other, then at Lark as he moves quickly and sure-footedly through the tree line.
“What do you think he’s doing?” Lilian crosses her arms and leans close, rubbernecking.
I shrug. “Magic?” Please let it be magic.
Lilian shows no sign of hope. She watches him with lips half-parted and eyebrows raised. She’s still skeptical. Still. Since birth—or at least by the time she got to college. That was the first time I was actually on my own, living somewhere my parents weren’t constantly looking over my shoulder. Where I felt comfortable exploring my queerness and the possibility of magic. So, I ordered a deck of tarot cards with naked men on them. Some candles, even though they were “illegal” in the dorms. And a book called Manifesting Magic. The cover art looked like a bad nineties instructional video, but I read that thing a dozen times. Used the tarot deck so much, the edges softened and frayed.
I was still nervous to share them with anyone—thanks, Mom and Dad—but one drunken night, I offered to read Lilian’s cards. She laughed. I did too, playing off how much I wanted to believe in what she called “new age bullshit.” I’m not sure I ever believed Manifesting Magic was real or that the tarot illuminated anything except my enjoyment of naked men. But that was when I knew Lilian didn’t even want to believe. Not then and not now.
Lilian is interested in Lark because he offers mystery and adventure—and she genuinely wants to help people. She believes him, but doesn’t believe in him. I do. I need to. He’s not a deck of cards; he’s a person. And I don’t know why the Fellowship was disbanded, but I can’t help but envy him for growing up around magic, learning how to practice spells. Training with real weapons, to fight real monsters. Fuck, I am tired of being an outsider.
I close my eyes, allowing the shiver of want to pass through me, unwilling to see whether Lilian’s giving me A Look. “Whatever Lark’s doing, we’d better keep up.”
We both get out, crunching fallen leaves underfoot. Lark stops and glares at us over his shoulder. He lets us catch up, then whispers at Lilian, “Has anyone ever told you how loud you are?”
“Yeah,” she says, “but I mostly assume that’s misogyny talking.”
“Who’s Misogyny?” he asks.
She pats him on the shoulder. “I’ll tell you later. Let’s get through that fence.”
“It sure is a big boy.” I plant my hands on my hips and trace the iron pickets with my eyes. It must be twice my height, and there are no rungs, no weak spots. How the hell did his partner get out?
“Step back while I check the wards.” Lark approaches the fence, hands spread wide, palms open to it. “The invading FOEs may have disturbed them. We’re supposed to perform regular maintenance on them.” He shakes his head, tightens his lips into a line. Sorrow creases his forehead.
Lilian and I stand back, watching as his body expands and deflates with a deep breath. As his shoulder muscles flex and pinch against the long-sleeved Pikachu shirt he picked out from my suitcase. His head rolls forward, then back. Long, silent minutes pass, which I spend nervously looking over my shoulders. Finally, his hands clench into fists. He drops them to his sides dramatically, before addressing us.
“I found a weak spot. It’s not far.”
“What kind of a weak spot?” Lilian asks. “A point where the fence is broken?”
Lark looks quizz
ically at her, says, “No, a point where the wards are broken,” and starts walking.
She gives me a big shrug and perplexed face once Lark’s back is turned. Mutters, “I’m more worried about the fence. I’m not really the parkour type.”
“Yeah, same,” I lie. About the fence, not the parkour. Lark looks like he could scale a tree like a monkey.
We follow at a distance until Lark stops again and holds his hand out as if taking the fence’s temperature. I keep glancing over my shoulder as if I can see the car, but it’s long behind us. Already, I’m playing out excuses in my head. Sorry, Officer, we’re performance artists. The fence is a metaphor for personal boundaries. We are definitely going to jail.
“This is it,” he says. His sorrow deepens as he closes his hand around an iron bar. “Someone’s come and gone through here, multiple times.”
I assume he means the one who turned them in. Kane.
“When I say the word, walk through the fence.”
I feel my eyebrows hit my hairline and know Lilian’s are doing the same. “Through the fence?” As badly as I want it to be real, I also don’t want a concussion. Even Harry was nervous to blast through Platform 9 ¾, and he’d been shown magic by then.
“Yes. I know it looks solid, but it’s not. The wards have been bent so many times, the iron’s bent with them.”
I muster up as much belief as I can. “Okay.” I step forward, hoping Lilian will follow. That I won’t walk headfirst into the fence and knock myself out.
Lark whispers into his palm and grabs one of the iron pickets. Leaves whirl around us as a sudden breeze hits. I watch Lark as he continues whispering into the wind. Small strands of his hair free themselves from the crown of braids on his head—does the air feel warmer?