First, Become Ashes

by K. M. Szpara

  “It’s—” I fumble for the shower handle. Make it cool, I can’t—my hips buck forward, out of control.

  Calvin stills, not persisting but not letting go either. “Um, is this okay?”

  I’m so hard, and I want him to—like Kane did. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

  “No,” I say. My voice sounds like it belongs to someone else, throaty and thick with pleasure. “Stop!”

  “Okay, I’m not touching you!” Calvin stands, and that’s almost worse, his body parallel to mine. Warm and wet. Hands out to prove their innocence. He looks at my cock, then my lips. I don’t know if he’s hard—if I look at his cock, I’ll die. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” His fingers curl into fists as he steps back. “I did what I promised, I swear. I was being as clinical as I could.”

  “I know. It’s fine, I just—this was my mistake.” I turn to face the wall, lock my eyes on the discolored grout between the white tiles. “Please leave.”

  “Okay.” Calvin trips over the shower curtain as he steps out of the tub, knocking the shampoo bottle onto the floor with a high-pitched hollow thunk, then a thud as he catches himself against the wall.

  I take my cock in my hand as if it’s a wound I need to keep pressure on, but no magic can heal this. Go down, I think, half-considering a spell. A few words whispered against my palm. A shameful use of the last of my magic.

  From the other side of the curtain, I can hear Calvin sliding a towel from a rickety metal bar and rubbing the rough fabric over his body. The curtain’s not enough. What is this thin sheet of plastic when his hands massaged my hair and caressed my side and stroked my cock. Nothing. As I rub my thumb over the head of my cock, around the ridge. As my unoccupied fingers drift to the inside of my thigh and press half-moons into my skin. As I rest my forehead against the slippery tile, my hand might as will be his.

  Might as well be …

  His.

  I come without a sound, a buzzing in my ears and black spots before my eyes.

  18

  CALVIN / NOW

  Lilian’s awake when I stumble out of the bathroom, still dripping wet. She looks up from her computer, the monitor lighting the front of her face as if she were gazing into a Pensieve. With both hands, she removes chunky pink headphones from her head, looks between Lark’s empty bed and me, raises her eyebrows.

  “Someone had a good morning.”

  Normally I’d laugh it off, but I don’t feel good. “I tell you pretty much everything about myself, so believe me when I say it wasn’t like that.” I slide a second towel off the rack and rub it roughly through my hair while I tiptoe onto the rug.

  “What was it like?”

  I wrap the towel around my waist and sit opposite the nest of pillows and blankets Lilian’s constructed for herself. “He asked me to help him with something—I’m not sure it’s mine to share.”

  “Ooooookay,” she says with skepticism. “But like, I’m dying to know, now.”

  I glance at the bathroom door. “I know, and I’m sorry, but—” It swings open with a loud whine. I hear Lark take a towel before disappearing into the bathroom again. He doesn’t close the door.

  I clear my throat and peer at Lilian’s laptop. “What’re you working on?”

  “Editing the podcast we recorded at the con. Want to have it in case I can’t break from our road trip to record a normal episode.”

  “When’s that supposed to be?”

  “Wednesday at 3:00 p.m.” She glances at the bathroom door. Lowers her voice. “Think we’ll have slayed a monster by then?”

  Lark walks out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, key hanging from his neck again. “It takes a while for my hair to dry,” he says to Lilian, then picks up the toothbrush and paste I packed for him. At least he knows how to use them—his teeth look cared for. “I apologize for the delay.”

  “No worries. Checkout isn’t for a couple hours, and I need to shower too.” Lilian hops off the bed. “Might as well.” She trains her eyes on me and whispers, “Who knows when we’ll have running water next.”

  Learning from our mistakes, Lilian grabs two towels on her way into the bathroom. The one Lark grabbed barely makes it around his waist, leaving open an unintentional slit up his right thigh. I should take the opportunity to get some work done, like Lilian was. I shouldn’t look.

  I slide my laptop from my backpack and pull up some old photoshoot sets. Lil had the right idea; we have to keep our fans fed. I pull together a couple of sets of outtakes for my supporters, at varying stages of undress. They like those. Makes them feel like they’re seeing inside my life, as if all I do is bop around in cosplay.

  I look around the hotel room, at the scattered laundry, backpacks, and bags. The unmade beds and stained carpet. This is not how Calvin Morris lives. He travels to conventions, has glowing skin, and lives in an adorable historic apartment building that isn’t totally infested with mice.

  What I mean to do is check my notifications, but instead, I open my phone’s camera and switch to the forward-facing lens. Stare at my face in the dimly lit hotel room. I snap a few photos before leaning back against the headboard. I rearrange the towel around my waist, showing just enough V, and hold the phone over my head. Snap.

  That’s good for now. I put it on my locked story and caption, Who’s up for a road trip? with a car gif and sparkling stars. Replies come in immediately from followers who want to know where I am and where I’m going. I coyly tell them it would ruin the surprise.

  The bathroom door opens and Lilian emerges dry, wearing a sports bra and rainbow cat underwear. She nudges Lark aside from the sink where he’s slowly towel-drying his hair and begins lining up her skin care routine along the counter. He doesn’t even pretend not to watch, rapt with fascination as she explains what’s in each of the bottles, allowing him to try some of the less expensive ones.

  I give them space—especially Lark. He hasn’t so much as looked at me since he kicked me out of the shower. I glance up from my laptop every now and then to see Lilian putting on eyeliner or Lark getting dressed. The cheap hotel hair dryer roars to life, and I see Lark jump back into my field of vision.

  “What is that?” His forehead scrunches with suspicion.

  “You’ve never heard of a hair dryer?” Lil says. “No wonder it takes hours for your hair to dry. Here. Turn around.” She aims it at him and reaches for his hair.

  But he holds up his hands between them. “No. Thank you, but please don’t touch my hair.”

  “Okay, well, you’re welcome to use it when I’m finished.”

  As promised, she hands the dryer to him, and this time, I can’t look away. The “man out of time” trope is so cute in real life. He lifts up his hair in chunks, as if it’s not attached to his head, drying it slowly. After a minute he accepts some kind of serum from Lilian, which he holds like a baby bird in his palm.

  That’s when he looks at me.

  I set my laptop aside and stand, remembering I’m still only wearing a towel. Lark is wearing another pair of my underwear, yellow trunks, and a long-sleeved scarlet shirt that says MUGGLE, PLEASE.

  “Do you need my help again?” I ask.

  He walks over and sits on the bed in front of me. “Yes, thank you,” he says, tilting his hand over mine. I warm the oily substance between my palms then rub my fingers over his scalp.

  “Can I get some more of that?” I ask, and Lilian brings the bottle over.

  “Don’t use all of it,” she says. “Who knows when we’ll see a Sephora.”

  “Thanks.” I massage the serum through Lark’s hair, roots to tips. Dry and cared for, his blonde hair shines. “Would you like me to braid it too?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He sits still and quiet while I separate it into sections. While I twist and pull and fasten. I can’t manage the crown I assume Kane gave him, but I’m not Kane. I’m not the person he grew up bonding with, who helped maintain his cock in that chastity device they wear, who washed an
d braided his hair. The man who sold out him and his friends to the authorities. I’m an outsider. And I only really know how to braid like we’re at a Renaissance festival.

  That’s what he looks like when I finish. A dozen long, tiny braids that I incorporate with the remaining loose strands into one thick Dutch braid. They always look fancy, but they’re dead easy.

  Lark pats his head and examines my work with his hands. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say, suddenly very aware of how naked I am. Of how incredible his hair feels between my fingers, and how cute he looks in that Harry Potter shirt. I remember that, later, he’s going to ask me to hurt him, and I’ve already said yes.

  * * *

  We leave housekeeping a twenty-dollar tip, pack our bags into the hatch, and get on the road. West, again, with no further directions. Healed, clean, and freshly braided, Lark sits in the back seat alone, taking stock of what he brought from Druid Hill. I can feel Lilian’s tension as she stares out the window—we decided to take shifts driving, but I wonder if she wasn’t better off with something to focus on. I grip the wheel, glad for something to hold on to.

  “We’re going to get pulled over,” she mutters, peering out the window. She really doesn’t like having weapons in the car, much less spread out in the open. “And then they’re going to see the swords, and then we’re going to get arrested, or shot.”

  “We are not going to get pulled over, because I’m a good driver,” I say, even though her fear has slowly worked its way under my skin. I also look out my window, trying not to be obvious about it.

  “You’re a good driver,” she says, followed by a deep breath.

  “Sometime in the next hour, we’ll need to stop somewhere without people,” Lark says, without prompting. “Somewhere outdoors. Peaceful.”

  “I think that’s, like, everywhere in West Virginia,” Lilian says.

  “Yeah, but if we don’t want to stop in someone’s backyard, we’ll have to google a park or something,” I say.

  “Google a park?” Lark narrows his eyes. “Is that some kind of spell?”

  “No, it’s an internet search,” Lilian responds.

  “What’s an internet search?” we say at the same time. I smirk as Lark startles, taken aback that I knew what he was going to say.

  “Oh my god, you don’t know what the internet is?” Lilian looks in the rearview mirror.

  “No,” Lark says, slowly as if to make sure we understand him. “Even if I did, I probably wouldn’t use it. Outsider distractions sap and taint my powers. Speaking of which, Calvin, are you still willing to help with my magic?”

  “Of course.” I feel Lilian’s eyes on me and a blush rising in my cheeks. “Lil, shouldn’t you be googling a park?”

  “He said in the next few hours!” She smiles and toys with her cell. “Don’t worry about me; you drive. And don’t get us pulled over.”

  * * *

  That is it for four more hours. At Lilian’s insistence, we put so much distance between ourselves and the Motel 9, we pass a sign that says WELCOME TO KENTUCKY! Every now and then, she and I sing along to her “Girl Power” playlist, but I’m terrible with lyrics and she can’t carry a tune. The most we achieve is a pained complaint from our captive audience of one. For the past four songs, he’s just been sitting back there, in the middle seat, back straight, legs comfortably spread, eyes closed.

  “Do you mind if I put the windows down? Get some fresh air?” I ask, now that I know he’s awake. I ignore Lilian’s multiple glances.

  “Not at all,” he says, opening one eye to watch as I maneuver the windows from the front seat, before closing it again. “Though, we’ll be stopping soon.”

  “For what?”

  “We just will be,” he says.

  “I can feel it in my bones,” Lilian says dramatically.

  I try not to laugh.

  “Because we can’t continue without a tracking spell, and I can’t perform one of those without my magic.” Lark’s face tenses with frustration. He releases it with a long, deep breath, then looks out the window at the trees. “So we’ll be stopping soon.”

  His blue eyes are duller than they were last night, beside the pool. His skin looks, not paler, but lackluster. His hair thin and greasy, even though I just washed it this morning. He looks like he’s fading. I don’t know if that’s possible, or if I’m imagining things.

  “Here,” he says.

  I keep driving, his words catching me off guard.

  “Please pull over.”

  “Just on the side of the road?” I ask.

  “Yes.” He sounds tired.

  Lilian and I both look for cars as I pull into the right lane, then onto the shoulder and roll to a stop.

  “Calvin?” His voice is a plea.

  I fumble with the windows. “Do you still want my help?”

  “Yes, please.” His politeness unnerves me. Yesterday, he would’ve thought nothing of telling us what to do, and now he’s minding his p’s and q’s?

  I toss the keys to Lilian, hop out of the car, and open the back door, sliding in beside him. “Are you okay?”

  He shakes his head but otherwise doesn’t move. “No. I don’t think I’ve ever been this drained.”

  “Okay, I got you.” I unfasten his seat belt, and he grabs on to me as if I’m extracting him from a wreck. “Lil, would you—”

  Lark shakes his head again. “No. Only you.”

  “It’s fine,” she says. “You go, uh, help Lark with his magic.” She winks at me. “Besides.” She turns the car into accessory mode and cranks up the Spice Girls. “Someone has to guard the car.”

  Lark heaves his legs over the seat, trembling as I help him to his feet. “Can you walk?”

  “Yeah.” He takes a few steps before leaning against the hatch. “But I’d appreciate if you carried my stuff.” He points to the canvas bag we left in the car overnight. The one with swords and arrows—and leather and knives. I’m dying to know what they’re for.

  “Sure, I got it.” He steps aside and waits while I grab the bag.

  We walk slowly, side by side, stepping over the metal railing that lines the road and onto a dirt path that leads into a forest. I reach for my phone to make sure we aren’t trespassing before realizing I left it in the cup holder, charging. Great. The only thing I prefer about reality to epic fantasy is that I can solve most of my problems with a smartphone. I look over my shoulder as my orange car grows smaller behind us.

  The forest creeps up on us. The few trees lining the road thicken and grow as we walk among them. Lark has his hand on my shoulder. I barely notice his weight until it’s fully resting on me and the canopy overhead blots out the sun. I’ve never been to Kentucky before, but I didn’t expect it to look like this. Pinpoint lights twinkling from within the trees. Air so still, it’s like we’re wading through it rather than walking.

  “Is this place real?” I don’t mean to ask out loud—didn’t even realize it was a question I had until I spoke it.

  Is this place real? Is Kentucky this magical or did we cross into an enchanted forest? Lark is real. I’ve touched him, run my hands through the thick of his hair and felt his power run through me. I believe him, and I believe this. “Here,” Lark says, voice barely audible. “Stop.”

  I stop. Lark stumbles. I hold him tighter.

  “I’m okay.” He pries himself from my grip and leans against a thick gray tree with wrinkled bark. “There’s rope. In my bag,” he says, kicking off his boots and pants.

  I set it down on the mossy forest floor in a clearing that’s opened up around us. Reach my hand into the bag and feel around for the rope, but feel a sharp prick. What else is in here?

  I spread the bag open and feel my breath catch in my throat. A set of knives, metal clamps with teeth, a small whip—and more. This is a toy bag. Maybe to Lark it’s a bag of tools, but I have one of these in my apartment and the contents have never made any of my partners cast a spell.

  When
he said hurt him, did he mean—

  I pick up a cat o’ nine tails.

  Does he want me to—

  “Did you find it?” Lark asks.

  I bury the cat in the bag; return with the rope in my hands and a sour feeling in my gut. I look down the length of his body. The messy, wilting braid, dull eyes, and sallow skin. He wears my clothes like drag.

  “Yeah.” I offer the hank half-heartedly.

  “Good.” He reaches for the hem of his shirt. “Now if you’ll—”

  “Lark.”

  He pulls the scarlet shirt over his head, moving with jerky determination. Wisps of his hair stand on end from the static.

  “Lark, stop.”

  He does, shirt in hand. I blink. His skin ripples as if I’ve been walking through the desert for too long and am only imagining him. As if there’s something true beneath his flesh. Something I can’t see or he’s hiding. If I focus, I can barely make out a web of lines twisting around his torso, looping his shoulder and arms. I shiver, unnerved.

  “What are you doing?” Lark grabs a low-hanging branch to steady himself, and the lines that mapped his body disappear or fade or were never there at all. “I need your help,” he says, drawing my attention. “You promised.”

  “I did.” But I can’t shake the disquieting feeling growing louder inside me. “I’ll do it.” I can do this. I believe Lark and he knows himself best. What he needs. “I know how to handle most of the tools in your bag.” Most.

  A deep breath wracks his exhausted body. “Thank you.”

  “I assume the rope is meant to restrain you.”

  “Yes.” He looks at his soft, scuffed boots. “I’ll understand if—”

  “I said I’ll do it.” A lump forms in my throat. A knot in my stomach. I’m no stranger to pick-up play, and I’ve undressed my fair share of cosplayers, relished living out my fantasies about our respective characters fucking and hurting each other. But this feels different—not at all playful. Serious and sacred, like a holy ritual. I suppose, for Lark, it’s similar.