Path of Smoke

by Bailey Cunningham

  Latona and Septimus walked farther into the marsh. Septimus didn’t look back, although Fel could almost sense that he wanted to. He must have smelled the flowers on them. The real wolves who prowled the necropolis would smell the same. But had he detected the acrid smell of her fear, the wine on Babieca’s breath, or the scent of Morgan’s hair? She had an awful feeling that they’d only escaped punishment for a night. The basilissa would remember that she’d encountered a lucky miles who had seen her in the company of a silenus. The cloaks had been Felix’s idea. She’d come to him because she couldn’t think of anything else to do. And the ruse had worked, but now her face was known.

  “I can’t believe that worked,” Babieca murmured. “You really sold it, with the kiss.”

  “Yes.” Morgan couldn’t look at her. “That was unexpected.”

  “I did apologize,” Fel said.

  “Yes. You did.” Morgan’s voice held all sorts of things. Fel wanted to sound out each one of them, but there was no time.

  “The kiss needed to be”—Fel searched for the right word—“credible.”

  “Credible.”

  She felt her own cheeks redden slightly. “If it had been—”

  “I understand.” Morgan smiled thinly. “And it was.”

  “What?”

  “Credible.”

  Fel also smiled.

  “Can we get out of here?” Babieca asked. “Before that thing smells how close I came to pissing myself?”

  “We can leave the cloaks in the house by the wall,” Fel said. “We may need them again.”

  “Smelling awful has become a sad theme in my life,” he observed.

  “What about Eumachia?” Morgan asked.

  “She’s the wild throw in all of this.” Fel gestured for them to follow her. “A lot depends on how little she trusts her mother.”

  “I’ve talked with her before,” Morgan said. “She’s ambivalent, but not outright suspicious.”

  “And after tonight?”

  “It could work in our favor.”

  They walked toward the city. Morgan stayed close to her. A few times, they nearly touched. But both maintained a slight distance.

  “I stole that dazzler from the workshop,” Julia said. “If my master finds out, he’s going to murder me.”

  “Not if the basilissa gets to you first,” Babieca replied.

  Fel looked at Morgan. She almost said: You’re safe with me.

  The words rattled inside, like dice, but didn’t escape.

  2

  SHE WAS NAKED AND shivering in the park. A gray slice of light had just begun to outline the trees, and a few curious geese were approaching. Ingrid pulled her duffel bag from beneath a pile of leaves. Normally she put more thought into hiding her clothes, but she’d been distracted the night before. She was proud, at least, that she’d been able to remember this location. The house by the wall demanded a clear memory. Otherwise, it would spit you out in some random place. Felix had warned her about the house. If you relied too much on it, you would eventually forget your own alley. The house wasn’t a safe space—anyone could use it. And if your alley vanished, what was the result? Did you feel it, like losing a limb? She thought of the auditor’s lost alley, dissolving into smoke, or simply being devoured by the brick maze of Anfractus. His dagger and old tunica were safe, but that corner—his only mark on the skin of the city—was gone.

  “Why couldn’t you just beam us back to your house?” Carl asked, struggling to pull on his pants while balancing against a tree. “I could be drinking hot chocolate right now, instead of freezing my balls off.”

  Ingrid winced. “If you’re going to mention hot chocolate and your balls in the same sentence, please stay out of my pantry.”

  “It was just a metaphor. I swear.”

  “Anyways, you know that I couldn’t take us directly to the house. All of our stuff is here, and Paul could be asleep on the couch. Imagine if you woke up to find four naked people in your living room, including your sister.”

  “Speaking of four people—” Sam poked her head out from behind a tree. “Maybe you’ve all forgotten, but this is not where I hid my clothes. Can someone please lend me something to wear, right the fuck now?”

  “Sorry—we get caught up in the post-transition banter sometimes.” Shelby gave her an oversized shirt and a pair of sweat pants. “Here you are.”

  Sam looked critically at the Moosehead T-shirt. “Where did you get this . . . ensemble?”

  “It belongs to Carl, actually.”

  “That explains a lot.”

  Carl glared at Shelby. “I was looking for those.”

  “Really. You were looking for the worst outfit in history.”

  “If it’s so terrible, why didn’t you give it back?”

  “I don’t like this line of questioning.”

  Sam emerged from behind the tree. “I feel like I’ve just come from a Riders game.”

  “Where did you stash your clothes?” Shelby asked.

  “On the other side of the park.”

  “That’s okay. I can drive you over there.”

  She looked relieved. “Thanks. Not that I don’t appreciate this, but”—she looked down at her bare feet—“I’d prefer not to step on a beer bottle.”

  “I’ve got flip-flops,” Ingrid said. “Give me one second.”

  “Are those mine too?” Carl demanded.

  She ignored the question and handed the flip-flops to Sam. “These should do until you get to the car. Shall we meet back at my place, in a few hours?”

  “What are you going to tell Paul?” Shelby asked.

  “Study meeting. He rarely asks questions anymore.”

  “Can we go back to the issue of how everyone is stealing my clothes?” Carl gestured emphatically to the flip-flops. “This seems like—”

  “We’ll see you in a bit.” Shelby cut him off smoothly. “Thanks for lending us your living room.”

  “We’re going to have to start calling it the war room,” Ingrid said. “And Sam—will you be coming, as well?”

  “I can pick you up,” Shelby added. “That is—if you’re comfortable talking strategy with us. Ingrid has a variety of international creamers at her place, if that sweetens the deal.”

  Sam looked torn. “I mean—I’ve never been part of a company before.”

  “Parking,” Carl said. “Oh wait. Is it parking if we’re in the park?”

  “No pressure.” Ingrid wrote down her address on an old receipt and gave it to Sam. “If you show up, I can promise cold cuts. But I understand if you’re wary.”

  “It’s not that. I’m just not sure how to do this. Or even what ‘this’ is.” Sam looked at the ground. “I’ve always sort of done my own thing. I’m an only child. I guess that shows.”

  “You don’t have to decide right now. Just show up if you feel like it. If my son’s in the proper humor, we might even go to the park.”

  “I didn’t know you had a son.” Sam looked at all of them. “I guess I don’t know much about any of you. Which is odd, considering the fact that I’m wearing your clothes.”

  “My clothes,” Carl said. “If you want to be specific.”

  “Ignore him,” Shelby said. “Let’s find my truck. Ingrid, should we bring something? Coffee, or something sweet?”

  “All offerings are welcome,” Ingrid replied. “I may even get to sleep for a few hours. The very thought of being unconscious makes me happy. What does that say?”

  “That you’re a mom.” Shelby waved. “See you in a bit.”

  Ingrid crossed to the parking lot. The little sedan was waiting for her, with its cracked window and arm-strong steering. Paul called it the Angry Smurf. The interior smelled faintly of juice, and the backseat was an explosion of Neil’s artwork. She sat on something sharp. It was a pineco
ne covered in glitter-glue. Nobody had explained that her house, her car, and even her office would one day resemble the inside of Michael’s. Neil was mad about crafts.

  She drove home with the windows open, fighting sleep. The radio played a country song whose lyrics were drowned out by static. The chorus was something-something-fearless, or maybe it was something-something-feelings. By the time she arrived home, she was nodding faintly to the indecipherable song.

  Ingrid slipped into the house, being careful to shut the door softly. The living room was gauzy with gray light. She could hear the fridge humming, and Paul’s snoring, both rhythmic and soothing in their way. She took off her jacket and walked down the hallway. Neil and Paul were asleep in the master bedroom. Paul was on his back, while Neil slept diagonally, taking up an astonishing amount of space on the bed. His feet were practically touching Paul’s chin. She could use Paul’s room, downstairs, but he probably hadn’t washed the sheets. Ingrid mostly left that part of the house to him and didn’t like to intrude on his space. He kept it reasonably clean, save for the bathroom, which was a bit of a cave.

  Instead, she went into Neil’s room. The walls were covered in various posters: the solar system, the human body, the process of erosion. For a time, he’d been wild about cells, then the digestive system, then the desert. His intensities were everywhere, spreading across the house in the form of books, foldout diagrams, and toys. A small shelf held his prized volumes. There was Knuffle Bunny, The Magic School Bus, and Why Oh Why Are Deserts Dry? Currently, he was dividing his attention between books and screens. Ingrid sensed that this was a pivotal moment, and she’d been trying to champion the fun of reading, but the screen was incredibly seductive. He already knew how to work the TV, DVD player, and game console, and he could search for videos on YouTube. More than once, she’d asked him how to use the remote.

  Ingrid curled up on his small bed. The pillow smelled like his shampoo. That was the last thing that she remembered.

  When she opened her eyes, the light had changed. She checked her phone. Nine A.M. Why hadn’t Neil woken her up? She’d expected to hear his voice in her ear, asking if she wanted a bonus kiss. Her body felt strange. Not rested, exactly, but more alert than usual. It was amazing what three consecutive hours of sleep could do. Ingrid couldn’t hear any of the usual noises coming from the kitchen. She walked down the hallway. Neil’s artwork decorated the walls. Each picture was surreal. The family receiving a baby bat for Thanksgiving. Paul on his hands and knees, searching for tape, with two black squares looming over him (were they windows?). The Negativitron from LittleBigPlanet, whose heart was surrounded by vortices of color. King Pig sitting on a hoard of golden eggs, with a slice of stolen birthday cake next to him.

  She continued into the kitchen. Paul had primed the coffeemaker and left a note:

  Took Neil shopping. Didn’t want to wake you. Blintzes in the fridge.

  Ingrid loved her brother intensely in that moment. She pressed the magic button on the coffeemaker and threw a cherry blintz in the microwave. She could picture Neil running up to the counter at Canadian Tire, wanting to pay for something. His wallet was full of plastic gemstones and cutout pictures of dinosaurs. Or he would be forging ahead with the list in hand, telling the entire store that they needed extra toilet paper.

  Ingrid had never been especially shy, but after Neil came into the world, she found herself talking to strangers a lot more. She had learned to improvise. Children spoke their own language, and small acts of translation were often necessary. Even when Neil wasn’t cheerfully addressing people, they would strike up random conversations with him. Ingrid hadn’t realized, prior to becoming a mother, that kids were such incredible lightning rods for attention. People would ask her questions about him, or they would offer unsolicited parenting advice. Sometimes it felt like he was a tiny celebrity, and everyone wanted to interview her about his curious habits. Ingrid couldn’t remember the last time that someone had asked her about her thesis, but just yesterday, she’d engaged in a five-minute conversation about Neil’s favorite brand of string cheese.

  The microwave chimed. She ate the blintz in three bites and poured herself some coffee. It wasn’t often that she had the house to herself. The realization brought with it a curious mixture of excitement and regret. She missed Neil when he was gone, but at the same time, it was thrilling to be left to her own devices. Mornings were usually a storm of activity. Eating breakfast alone made her feel as if she’d suddenly become a different person. A writer, maybe—someone who could finish whole sentences, who rolled out of bed whenever she felt like it. Someone whose bathtub wasn’t full of Angry Birds.

  Ingrid turned on Radio Canada. The sound of French in the background was comforting. She fought the urge to gulp down her coffee. It wasn’t imperative that she remain conscious. Nobody was demanding her attention. Lying down on the couch, she stretched out her arms and legs in a snow-angel pattern. It was all hers. The cushions weren’t scattered on the ground or being used as part of a fort. She wanted to do everything imaginable: drink wine, jump up and down, smoke a cigarette, set her computer on fire, start a band, organize all of her books, clean the gutters, have a thirty-minute shower, and fly over the city, watching the park unscroll beneath her in long strands of green and silver.

  Instead, she topped up her coffee, ate another blintz, and played games for an hour.

  As her character—a paladin—leveled up in experience, Ingrid couldn’t help but think about the other, more dangerous game that she was playing. She’d thought that a history of mastering computer games would give her some sort of advantage, but the streets of Anfractus were unlike the realms that she’d explored as a teenager: the scattered settlements of Lost Guardia, Serpent Isle, even the retro-text mazes of Zork. Nothing could have prepared her for the crush of Via Rumor, with its alleyways that offered everything from mercy to violence. At first, she’d thought: Is this a game? The similarities were unmistakable—there were companies, and quests, and monsters. The gens resembled medieval guilds, manipulating everything from the great height of their towers. It felt, for a little while, as if she could recapture her childhood.

  The first time that Fel had spied a corpse, decaying near the mouth of an alley, she’d realized that the stakes were much higher. The wrong move could kill you. Save and reload was not an option. Andrew had been lucky. If he’d met a dagger in an alley, rather than nearly drowning, he wouldn’t have come back.

  She should stop. Ingrid knew that. She had Neil to think about, and it wasn’t safe. She rolled with her life every time she crossed over. The dull ache below her knee was a constant reminder that the game could be cruel. But how could she choose between two kinds of magic? How could she separate the shock of her everyday life, with all of its comedy and grief and sharp edges, from the wonder of the park and what lay beyond? It reminded her of the single philosophy class that she’d taken as an undergrad, before breaking up with the discipline (literature had seemed like the more stable romantic choice). Her professor had been talking about Plato’s Symposium, and how it was a heartless text. Alcibiades, the Athenian party animal, was a typical college student who wanted to drink and fuck and expand his horizons. But Socrates said no, you mustn’t drink (he was drunk), and you mustn’t fuck (the sex look in his eyes), and love should be celestial and spherical and stop that, my ass is off-limits.

  But the choice was impossible. She wanted all of the magic. She wanted to play both sides, the gladius and the lullaby, though she knew that they would tear her apart. The old scar was acting up. She popped a pill. It would go away, if she didn’t think about it. Sometimes, in the dead of night, she actually wanted the pain. She’d wake up with her leg stiff, a fire in her nerves, but she didn’t reach for the bottle. The ache reminded her of that other world. If she was willing to endure it, the memories would come rushing back. Sunlight on her blade, the screams of the Hippodrome, the sand burning her feet. The clarity hurt,
as if it didn’t belong here, but she dragged it to the surface. Ingrid refused to limit herself. Perhaps that was the one thing that she shared with the basilissa.

  The doorbell chimed. Setting down her coffee, she crossed the living room. Habit made her stare through the peephole. It was Sam. Her body was distended into a teardrop shape by the curved glass. Ingrid opened the door with a smile.

  “You came.”

  Sam looked slightly nervous. “Yeah. I guess I’m dumber than I thought.”

  “There’s safety in numbers.”

  “I think that only applies when you’re in a crowd.”

  “If it makes you feel better, we can put tinfoil on the windows.”

  Sam chuckled. “I guess I am being paranoid.”

  “Not at all.” Ingrid gestured for her to come in. “We’re absolutely in danger. But I’ve got cherry blintzes.”

  “You don’t seem too bothered by the situation.”

  “I have a four-year-old. I’m used to dealing with minor apocalypses.”

  Sam stepped into the living room. Ingrid closed and locked the door behind her. Putting tinfoil on the windows might not have been the worst idea. Or maybe some kind of tinting. Could you tint an entire house? It seemed like a question that only Beyoncé could answer.

  “Coffee?” Ingrid asked.

  The trip to the kitchen would buy her some time. Sam was a complete cipher, and she didn’t have the faintest idea of what they might talk about. Everything was parking, although at this point, it didn’t matter. Her life had become a parking lot, and she would endlessly wander through it, like that episode of Seinfeld. Funny, how park had antithetical meanings. A square of protected land in the middle of an urban sprawl. A hateful verb, expressed through clenched teeth. An accident site where civilization crashed into nature, leaving behind a spray of safety glass.

  “No thanks,” Sam replied. “I think I’m already vibrating at a high frequency.”

  “Ah. Okay. Well, let me know.” Ingrid sat down. “I’ve also got luncheon meat.”