Dark Metropolis

by Jaclyn Dolamore

  “Any luck?” Sigi asked.

  “No.” She pulled her arms back in and sighed, finally sitting down. “He’s got me,” she said, angry enough to break something, only there was nothing to break. “And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”

  “He’s got all of us,” Sigi said. “But you have an element of surprise, at least. If you really don’t need serum, he isn’t going to know what to do with you. You’re so…strong.” Sigi breathed faster. “This will be my first time. I wish you weren’t here. I don’t want you to see me.”

  “Sigi, I know it won’t really be you,” Nan said, but her stomach churned at the thought of what Sigi would become. Sigi’s eyes sinking. Sigi lurching stiffly. Sigi moaning hungrily.

  “But I’m afraid. I can bear anything except you seeing me turn into a—a monster.”

  Nan reached out in the dark until she found Sigi’s shoulder. She was crying silently. Her skin was already turning cold, but it was still perfectly supple. “Whatever happens, Valkenrath can’t touch your soul.”

  Sigi swallowed. “You think there is such a thing as a soul?”

  “I do.”

  “I wish I could feel sure about something like that. What good is a soul if life has no meaning? And I don’t trust that anything has any meaning at all.”

  Nan put her arm around Sigi, remembering the first time she had seen the girl’s mischievous eyes. She had always known there was something great beyond her earthly existence; she heard it in the music in her head. But she couldn’t give that gift to Sigi. “I wish I could show you what I mean,” she said softly.

  A shiver passed through Sigi. “I don’t mean to sound so tragic, anyway. When we were in the tunnels, we protected each other.” She laughed drily. “I actually enjoyed that night. It was terrifying, of course, and we didn’t really get anywhere, but it felt so liberating to walk away from this place, just the two of us.”

  “Yes, but I shouldn’t have let you go with me. I knew from the start that I was different. Like I was meant to fix things.”

  “Oh, Nan, could you really fix things anyway? Even if you don’t need serum, there is only one of you.”

  “What’s the point of being different if I don’t have a purpose?”

  “Maybe nothing has a purpose,” Sigi said. “You see…that’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Nan swallowed. “No. Everything has a purpose. I firmly believe that.”

  “I wish I could believe in something like that. That’s my problem. I doubt everything.”

  Now Sigi was so close that her curls tickled Nan’s cheek. Her voice was soft in the dark. She sighed. “Oh, Nan…promise me again that I won’t die here.”

  “You won’t.”

  And gently Sigi’s fingers touched Nan’s face, questing in the dark, and she kissed her.

  Nan froze with shock.

  Nan had been drawn to Sigi from the day they met—both times. Sigi was earthy and soft, the opposite of Nan’s cool angles. She felt things, and she expressed them, even wordlessly, with the twinkle of her eyes and the intimate nudge of her elbow. But Nan hadn’t thought of her like this. And she hadn’t realized Sigi might see her as more than a friend. Nan didn’t even know how to read the signs when someone cared for her.

  She liked it when Sigi took her hand. She liked protecting Sigi, imagining she might free her from this place and show her the sunshine.

  She wanted to surrender herself to this kiss. But she couldn’t. Inside, she felt strong and purposeful—and alone.

  Sigi touched her cheek. “Nan?” Her voice was full of hope and fear. “Maybe I shouldn’t have done that. Considering the circumstances. But I’ve wanted to for so long. You’re the most striking girl I’ve ever seen. And if something did happen to me here…I’d want my last act to mean something.”

  “I—”

  “I was presumptuous, wasn’t I?” Sigi spoke faster now. “I thought you might like me, too. I feel so comfortable around you, like I’ve known you forever—maybe because we had met before. And I thought we were two of a kind, but if you’d rather just be friends—”

  “Sigi, I—I can’t. It isn’t you. I told you there’s something different about me, and part of it is that I just don’t…feel for people, the way others do.”

  “Oh,” Sigi said, her voice flat.

  “Your mother thought I wasn’t quite human.” She needed Sigi to understand. “She said I might be a guardian of fate. Because it isn’t just that I can’t seem to—to feel.” Nan groped for words. She did feel. She felt loss and loneliness, but she didn’t feel love. “I also can’t see colors. Just gray. I don’t want to be this way, but I am. And I think…if I were wholly human, I think I could…we could…”

  Sigi was silent for a moment, and then she said, “You don’t have to say that just to make me feel better.”

  “You don’t believe me.” Nan was afraid of this. And could she blame Sigi? It sounded so far-fetched. A guardian of fate? Even Nan didn’t know what it meant. “But it’s true. I—I liked you from the first moment I saw you.”

  “I thought so, too, but what good is it if—” Sigi didn’t sound bitter, just broken. “God, I’m stupid. I guess I believe you. I thought you were just…I don’t know. I thought we got on so well.”

  “Sigi, we do.” Nan reached for her hand.

  “No!” Sigi shook her off. “Just leave me alone. Let’s forget it happened at all. I just had a foolish moment, and I’m sorry about it now.”

  “Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

  Sigi made a sound somewhere between humiliation and despair, then drew even farther away.

  Nan could feel the emptiness inside her grow and grow, until it seemed to swallow her whole. Everything, everything was so cold. She could hear, faintly, the solitary thrum of music that seemed to belong to her alone, and memories of Sigi drifted into the space between thoughts and dreams.

  Nan had arrived only half an hour ago, and the cigarette smoke, the loud voices echoing in the grand room, and the press of people already threatened to smother her. These were the luminaries of the revolution, the people Arabella so wanted her to meet—scruffy young men with university slang and poetry books, their older equivalents with thick glasses and world-weary expressions, society women with a rebellious streak and too much money for their own good.

  These were not Nan’s people.

  Not that she had people, anyway.

  A lot of them approached her and introduced themselves. They had heard about her from Arabella. They seemed interested in her, welcoming, complimenting her dress.

  She felt like a hand thrust into the wrong size of glove, discomfited by the attention, wondering why these people cared. She was just a sixteen-year-old girl. It made her wonder if Arabella had found more in those books than she’d said.

  Nan slipped up the stairs, above the smoke and the noise. Down the hall she heard rummaging, which stopped at the sound of her footsteps.

  Sigi’s head poked out from a door. “Oh—it’s only you. I’m sorry. I thought it was Mother.”

  “Just me,” Nan agreed.

  “Aren’t you enjoying the party?”

  “I needed some air.”

  “Your hands are empty, I see. Here’s a tip: go get a cocktail. It’ll help.” She smiled and ruffled her hair. “But don’t mind me if you need a quiet moment.”

  “I don’t mind,” Nan said. She had walked closer and could see that Sigi had a suitcase open on her bed and clothes strewn about. “Are you going somewhere?”

  “I’m moving in with my friend Margie. She just got her own apartment.”

  “To get away from your mother?”

  “Well, that’s blunt,” Sigi said. “I don’t want to complain about her to a member of her crowd.”

  “I’m not in her crowd. She just seems to know more th
an most.”

  “That’s true, I’m sure. Mother likes to know everything.” Sigi folded a jacket artlessly and put it in the suitcase, pressing the pile down with her palms.

  “I just get the feeling she might not be telling me everything.”

  Sigi glanced up. “What do you want to know?”

  “Well—” Although Sigi felt easier to trust than her mother, she also seemed too practical to speak to of vague feelings and guardians of fate. “I have a strange condition. I can’t see colors. Your mother found something about it in an old book, but…she didn’t really tell me much. I wondered if she’s holding something back.”

  “We could check her office….”

  “Please. Where is it?”

  Sigi stepped out the door, checking the hall. The party downstairs was noisy, but this upper floor seemed empty. “It’s just ahead,” she said.

  Inside, the desk was piled with books and papers. The walls were lined with mounted birds, their staring glass eyes giving Nan the sense of being watched. She quickly rummaged through the papers and books, Sigi beside her.

  “Do you know what the old book was called?” she asked.

  “No,” Nan said. “But—” She uncovered a dusty tome, The Mystic in Our World. A bookmark poked out from the pages. Nan opened the book, finding a passage that was underlined—

  *

  In times of trouble, the guardians of fate, sometimes referred to in old texts as the Nornir, will appear as humans and step in to influence destiny. They always appear in female form, and in appearance they are indistinguishable from other women, but their senses are troubled by the human world—our music is abhorrent to them, they dislike being touched, and they cannot see colors. Having a connection to the realms of gods, their powers are considerable and should not be trifled with. If the fates have marked you for death, woe betide you, for even death will not stop these women. Their human bodies are only shells, and they will return in some other guise.

  *

  In the margin was a scribbled note: NAN? Could she be immortal? May be answer to our prayers.

  “Did you find something?” Sigi asked, peering at the page. Nan snapped the book shut so fast the dust made her cough.

  “Just—the same thing your mother already told me,” she said. Her heart raced. She couldn’t speak of this to Sigi—or Thea—or anyone who might be a friend. If it was true, if she really was some kind of mystical creature in a human shell, it explained why she had such trouble identifying with people. But she wasn’t indifferent to them—she wanted to be a part of this world. This book didn’t help her with that, so why even speak of it?

  “What did Mother say, anyway? You look awfully pale.”

  Nan put the book back in the same spot where she’d found it, covering it with the other papers. “She thinks I might have magical powers of some kind. It was just nonsense. I want real answers.”

  “I don’t blame you. Do you want to keep looking?”

  “No. I don’t want her to find out we were in here.”

  Sigi shrugged, moving for the door. “I’d take responsibility. I don’t care. I’m leaving anyway.” Then she spoke more shyly. “But I wish I could help you out. I’d love to photograph you someday. Just because—you know—that’s what I do. I like taking pictures of people who look like they have a story.”

  “Do I look like I have a story?”

  “Yes,” Sigi said. She looked at Nan for a moment, her eyes seeming almost as if they were the camera, focused, shuttering with a blink, and then looking down again.

  “Of course you can photograph me,” Nan said.

  “Not here, though,” Sigi said. “Maybe you could come to the apartment sometime. It’s at Eighty-Five Richter Street, number six. If you give me a ring the day before, I’ll even make a torte.”

  They were walking back into Sigi’s room now, and Arabella suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs. “There you are, Nan! Is everything all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t mind Sigi; she’s leaving anyway. Sigi, are you taking only one suitcase?”

  “I can always come back. But I don’t need much. I should’ve been born into a family of tramps.”

  Arabella shook her head and motioned a hand to Nan. “I must introduce you to someone.”

  Sigi didn’t talk to Nan anymore. She curled up in the corner, occasionally staring out in a way Nan didn’t want to admit was unnerving. Nan sat and watched breakfast and dinner go by.

  Minutes. Each so very, very slow. She would have been happy to work, just to escape Sigi’s slow decay.

  No! Not happy. That was how they got you to accept, or even appreciate, the fate they forced upon you.

  In the middle of the second night, she heard Sigi groan gently, rousing from sleep. Nan wasn’t sleeping. Her bones ached from the cold floor.

  “Help…” Sigi’s voice scratched the darkness, and in another moment, it was her fingernails on Nan’s arm.

  Nan jerked away and got to her feet. “What is it?”

  “I remembered something, Nan. Nan, help!” Her voice was a pained rasp. “Hold me, hold me, it’s so cold….”

  Nan froze. This didn’t sound like Sigi anymore.

  Sigi slumped to the floor, hugging herself. Nan could hear her more than see her, hear her fingers scratching at her clothes. “I’m starting to remember….I did it, I killed myself.” Her voice was high-pitched and choked at once. “I was so alone….I didn’t think it would really work….” She cried, “Now I’m dead!”

  Nan shook Sigi’s shoulder. Her skin didn’t feel right; it was cold. “Sigi, please—it’s all right, I’m here. You’re here.”

  “I need help….”

  “What kind of help?”

  “I don’t want to be dead, Nan, I don’t want to be dead!”

  Nan rubbed Sigi’s back, trying to keep her from descending into complete hysteria. “You’re here. It’s okay.”

  “You know that man…in the tunnels?” Sigi grabbed Nan’s shirt.

  Nan’s heart was hammering. “Yes?”

  “I won’t be like him. I won’t.”

  “I know you won’t.”

  Sigi let go. She got quiet again. But Nan could hear her breathing—it was labored and loud. Nan didn’t hear her inner music, and she didn’t sleep. She just waited.

  It was some hours later that Sigi bit her.

  Nan shoved away the face, her finger brushing Sigi’s eyeball—still soft and moist in contrast to her withering skin. “Sigi!”

  “I’m sorry….”

  “Don’t make me have to fight you. Please. You’re strong, Sigi, remember.”

  “I forgot who you were.”

  “What?” Nan grabbed the bars and got to her feet again. She felt dizzy and desperate for light. The whole world felt as if it were tilting, slowly. “Please. Remember.”

  “I’m just so…” The voice trailed off and then flickered back in like a radio. “You smell like life, Nan. Like…honey and cinnamon…”

  Nan heard Sigi moving—only it just wasn’t Sigi anymore. It could be Sigi again, but right now it was a terrifying thing, half-dead and hissing and hungry. Sigi was scrambling to her feet, not moving all that fast, but still Nan was trapped with her and she didn’t know what she could do. If she fought back, she could wound the thing that wasn’t Sigi but would be Sigi again.

  “Please let me just…just…” Sigi said, and Nan imagined a hand coming at her in the dark.

  Nan felt sick. She took out the knife and unfolded the blade with an audible click. “Don’t come near me. I have a knife. Do you remember when we got the knife?”

  “Yes.” The voice was expressionless.

  “I could hurt you,” Nan said, trying to keep her voice steady.

  “You won’t….” The voice turned slightly cajoling. I
t didn’t even sound like Sigi anymore, but it still had her accent with her aristocratic vowels.

  And then the Sigi-thing lunged at Nan. It moved stiffly and yet it was ferocious, tearing at her collar until the button at her throat broke. Fingernails dug into her tender skin. The pain sharpened everything. She slashed the knife at the assaulting arms, and the raspy voice howled like a sick child’s.

  “Don’t touch me again,” Nan said, her words harsh with fear. She had known Sigi would become this, and she thought she was ready, but this was worse than she had imagined.

  “So hungry,” it wailed, and it tried to grab her shirt again, but Nan dodged. She didn’t know what to do but dodge. She didn’t want to hurt Sigi.

  “Please remember, Sigi! I’m Nan. Remember how—how we—the tunnels.” Nan wondered if some primal part of Sigi’s brain was angry at Nan for not returning the kiss. “Sigi, please.”

  Nan tried to push Sigi back with one hand and get in a punch with the other—maybe just enough to knock her out—but it was so hard in the dark, and she didn’t really want to touch that dead flesh.

  But it wanted to touch her, and when Nan tried to simply back away, they were on her again—those little scratching, questing fingernails. They were gentler now, but that was almost worse. She batted the hand away.

  And screamed. Finally. Finally, she had to scream. She didn’t even know such a dreadful noise could come out of her own mouth.

  Were there any guards around? She just wanted someone to let her out. She could deal with Valkenrath if she could just get out.

  When the door to a lit hallway was flung open, the wash of relief made her feel as though she had been trapped in some confusing childhood night terror. A candle, warm milk, a blanket tucked to her chin on a cold night…the opening door was better than all that. She put her knife away and grabbed the bars.

  “Please,” she cried to the two silhouettes framed against the light beyond. “She’s—I’m—I’m not like her. I’m alive!”

  “See, sir, it’s just as I said. She was screaming bloody murder; they don’t scream like that. Couldn’t if they wanted to.”