“That’s a bit long for me.”
She was almost too shocked to speak. “I have nothing to say to you,” she replied tersely. “Especially not a comeback to one of your sick attempts at a joke. Get out of here before I call the police.” Before she could shut the door and pull the cell phone from her jacket pocket, Moth took a step forward and placed his hand against it. Ondine could feel the strength in his hand, the resolve. He’d push if she did. Harder.
Her legs weakened. In the mountains there were people around, but here, on N.E. Schuyler, it was a quiet Thursday morning and everyone was inside. An image of her brother Max — thirteen and nearly six feet tall — flashed before her. How could she have wanted him to go?
The smile faded from Moth’s face, and though his hand was still on the door, his voice turned soft, almost pleading. “Ondine, please. I know this is painful.”
“No —” She was shaking her head, still trying to shut the door. She heard herself begging, her voice jagged. “Please … just leave me alone.”
His hand dropped. “I can’t.”
Though she should have slammed the door in the boy’s face, she didn’t. Instead she paused, hand still clutching the cell phone she’d retrieved from her pocket.
“What?”
“This is real. We’re — real. Please. I can prove it to you.”
Ondine stared. His fragility gave her strength.
“I don’t know who you are, James Motherwell, or what you’ve gotten yourself into, but I don’t want any part of it.” She was calmer now, her voice more measured. She’d tell him what he wanted to hear. “I’ll pretend like none of this took place. But if you try to call me, if you come here again —” She breathed and remembered the conversation she’d had with Moth the night of her party. “Please, just stay away, Moth. Otherwise, I’ll go to the cops and have you arrested.”
The boy’s eyebrows furrowed, not from fear but exasperation. He blinked, hard. She swallowed.
“It’s not going to do anything, Ondine.”
She watched him move away from the door. He was preparing to leave. What she said about the police must have convinced him. She wanted to believe the scene was over, but something about Moth’s voice as he spoke made her look at him one last time. The sun was behind him and his green eyes were trained on hers.
“This is not a joke. You’re in danger. To know what you know now, and not to do anything … you have to be prepared. You have to understand what you are. You were passed out for a lot of what Viv said and we don’t get many chances. Now Bleek knows it’s you and he’ll come and get you, Ondine. He’ll come to kill you. Your ring and I are the only people who can help you.” Here Moth paused and stepped closer. Ondine was afraid to move. “You’re not alone,” Moth whispered, and she found herself, incredibly, listening to him, though she knew she shouldn’t.
“I’m calling the police right now….” She flipped her cell open but waited to press the buttons.
“I only want you to hear this. We know you. Viv has known you since you were born. She saw that this would happen, that you would have to go through this — this confusion. You belong with us, Ondine. Viv —”
Ondine could barely speak. “You’re crazy, Moth. You’re crazy.”
For once he stayed quiet. He looked out to his right, down N.E. Schuyler, and shook his head. He was muttering.
“She told me how hard it would be. I don’t know why I didn’t listen —”
“You have to go now. Please. Go. Go tell someone. Get help. You’re sick. You’ve been brainwashed.”
He swiveled his head back to her and said one more thing as she was closing the door. She managed to do it — close the door — but not before she heard Moth’s last words, the words that now had her breathing hard, crying, losing the strength in her legs, letting herself slowly sink to the ground with her back against the door, where she sat rocking herself, not knowing what to do next.
“Call your father, Ondine. He’ll tell you where it started. Ask him if he remembers Viv. Your father knows.”
IT STARTED WITH A HISSING from the steaming thicket around her. Morgana. The forest breathed and Morgan with it.
The bank of green and black shimmered and expanded. As far as Morgan knew, she was alone. She had dropped Ondine off, dumped her things at home (or was it the other way around?), then just as quickly headed into the trees — awake — for the first time since she was twelve years old. Here was where it had started, and here was the only place she knew to run to.
Something seemed to be straining to come out. Morgana, she heard again, and wheeled, but when she turned, the same disorienting vegetal chaos greeted her: twisting vines; overlapping leaves; and behind it, an inky, mysterious blackness so dense that even the shafts of morning light that fell from the sky like shards of milky glass could not pierce it. Night ruled here, and Morgan began to wonder whether she was asleep, whether this was just one long dream — the toad, the girl with the fangs, the Ring of Fire — when from behind a screen of nettle came Bleek, smaller than she remembered. Instead of his red fleece and Gap khakis he wore a black-leather fighting costume with straps and buckles and what looked to Morgan like metal-tipped scales. He was clean-shaven and his receding corn-husk bowl cut had been shorn so close to his head that his bald skull seemed to glow when he crossed under a slice of light toward her.
Morgan stopped and waited. Even from several yards away, the man’s tensile strength and tarry eyes unnerved her. She held her breath and tried not to move, though she could not help but shiver in the misty coolness, cursing herself that she had dropped her jacket along with her backpack at home. Bleek appraised her: tennis shoes to thin white sweater to black, still-damp hair. Morgan felt the hair on her arms stand up. She knew what her nipples must have been doing under her sweater and she hugged her arms closer. She was frightened, but sensed he would not hurt her.
His feet scraped the muddy ground.
“Morgan le Fay.” He smirked and slithered nearer. “Humans can be so —” He smiled crookedly, his eyes downcast in some imitation of flirtatiousness. “So instinctual. So beastly instinctual.”
Bleek looked her up and down again. She felt her stomach turn.
“Morgana,” he whispered.
She waited, unsure what to do next. What had Viv told them? There are cutters out to hurt you. Changelings who have chosen the dark path. One is familiar to you already. Of course the woman had meant Bleek. And Neve — Bleek must be using Neve somehow, she reasoned, untangling the associations that had formed among her small group over the last weeks leading up to the Ring of Fire. But why? For simple enjoyment, as Viv had said? The hassle hardly seemed worth it. If Neve was at the Ring of Fire, as Morgan had overheard Viv telling Ondine, she must have been brought by Bleek. But for what purpose? And what did it all have to do with dust?
She stared at the older boy — cutter, she reminded herself. Evil, chaotic, insidious. But what was he, really? And why was he dangerous to the others, but not to her?
Or was he?
One thing Morgan was sure of was that she wasn’t going to do anything until she had more information. Whatever Bleek was, and whatever she herself was, were more similar than Viv imagined. Bleek — Morgan winced inwardly at the improbable name. And they say you can’t judge a book by its cover. He was a dark disturbance, a shadow after her own heart, which was beating shallowly now, fluttering.
Morgan knew that what would ultimately happen depended on moments like these. Each decision stacked up like a line of dominoes. If one fell, everything would be lost. She was not stupid. Bleek’s … what was it? Flirtation? It was hardly as sweet as that … had little effect on her, though she knew she’d use it.
Coyly, so coyly, she spoke.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
Should she smile now? Bleek was so close she could see the open pores on his hairless skin, the ripples of wrinkles around his black eyes. She breathed, inched her chest forward, tilted her head, and lowered he
r eyelashes.
Bleek blinked.
“Disgusting little slut. Stupid bitch.”
He struck her. Not with his hands, Bleek was not meant to use his hands. He struck her with a bolt of something, an electric current that transfixed Morgan and sealed her to her place. She felt her hair fly about her. She felt her feet fasten to the ground. She tried to raise her hands but they would not move.
“Deceptive minx.” Bleek opened his mouth and his jagged white teeth shone. Despite his harsh words, he was smiling. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. Do you know what your problem is, Morgana?”
She looked down. The ground seemed to move in waves beneath her.
“You think you’re special. You think there hasn’t been anyone like you. An ambitious girl with a beautiful face and a blessed body.” He sneered. “The thing is, your tits won’t get you anywhere in Novala. There are thousands of you burned at the door.”
He spit the last words and Morgan felt the air shake around her.
“Fuck you, you pathetic drug dealer, dumb redneck —”
“Quiet!” He jolted her again. This time she felt her tongue lock to the top of her mouth. She tried to move it but only gagged. “Do not underestimate me, Morgana. Let this be your first lesson. You like lessons, don’t you?”
He circled, yellow-rimmed eyes upon her.
“We have not chosen the dark path for nothing, love.” She felt the coffee she’d had on the drive with Ondine inch up her gorge. “There’s very little that a cutter won’t learn, or do, for his own gain. Or hers.” He smiled condescendingly. “Our instincts are sharper, for we’ve had to hone them on creatures just as lightning quick as we are.”
He stopped, walked up to her, and flicked a taut nipple. It was a shocking gesture, both intimate and violent. Again Morgan felt a current root her to her place, though not as painfully as before. Though she had to restrain herself from smacking him across the face, she stayed quiet, as she knew Bleek wanted her.
“You’re here because you already know what you are. Well, good. It usually takes longer.” A shadow of something passed over Bleek’s face but he shook it off and crossed his arms over his chest. He started sucking on something between his teeth. “Of course, not me. I knew. I knew like you did.”
Morgan tried to remain still, though every nerve wanted to bolt. She had not expected this reaction. She had expected to feel more powerful. Herself, but better. Bleek smelled swampy, and Morgan, despite herself, wondered whether she would have to become ugly like he was if she were to be a cutter.
“It’s obvious what you want, Morgana.” He sidled close again. “Power, isn’t it? Come on, sweet. You can speak now. Bleek is listening.”
So this was what he wanted: submission.
“Yes.” The word sounded like a yell but she knew it had emerged a whisper.
Bleek whispered back. “And I will teach you.”
She held her breath.
“You will learn much more, and much faster, than the other lings in your ring will from that disaster, Moth. Viv’s little charity case.” He whipped around. “I could — and I will — tell you a few things about him.”
Morgan almost responded but checked herself, and Bleek, infatuated with his own words, moved on.
“But you.” He moved closer, brought his mouth to her bare neck. She felt his soupy breath against her. “You are quite another creature altogether. I’ve been watching you since you were an itty-bitty thing, Morgana.”
Watching her? Was this how it started then? Had Bleek been there all those nights in the woods?
“And you’ve turned out very nicely indeed.”
She was disgusted by the insinuation. She had been only a child. What had they done to her? Despite her revulsion, she forced her face to be blank, pursing her lips. “Thank you.”
Bleek laughed. “It wasn’t meant as flattery. We’ll have to work on that. You know” — he turned to her — “cutters aren’t sex-shual. Dear, vain Morgana. Your pretty face is as compelling to me as that puddle over there.” He pointed and the water shivered. “Well,” he smiled. “I should amend that. We can procreate. If that bitch-bot Viv wasn’t running the show, we would. Check that: Will. Will run the show. Power is what turns us on, dear. Power and trouble. Here. On earth. Now. Not in never-never land. But perhaps you’ve already gotten an inkling of this?”
He traced a long nail down the thin fabric of her sweater and she shivered again.
“I know what makes you tick, Morgan. I hear the same bomb as you. Now.” He paused, clearly ready to give her some instruction. She was about to ask him about Viv, what made her a scion, but thought better of it. The confines of the relationship had been settled, the terms agreed upon. Bleek had been seduced — by himself. He would teach her, and in return, she would do his bidding. She had only to be patient.
Apparently he read as much on her face. He started humming a crooked little tune — where had she heard it before? — and began.
“Tomorrow your idiot of a brother returns from soccer camp.” Bleek shook his head. “Unbelievable that you had to share a home with him. And that one! That trailer. I would have caused an accident some time ago. A pinch of arsenic in those p-cakes Kaka is so good at making? A goose-down pillow over the mouth just before bedtime? Eh?”
Despite her dark intentions, Morgan clenched back a scream. How dare he? She loved her brother, as much as she could love anyone. How did he know about the pancakes? The pillow she’d spent two hundred dollars on as a birthday gift for K.A.’s sixteenth? He had been spying on her. Drawing her into the forest night after night. Morgan knew she hated the cutter then. Hated him more than she hated anything. And she knew that this was what he fed upon, this anger. Power wasn’t Bleek’s elixir. Hatred was.
She stared. He was testing her commitment to him, and though inwardly she rebelled, she stayed quiet and listened to his spew.
“You’re harder than I thought.” He tossed his head. “In any case. You know the little slut called Neve? Your brother’s seriously misguided choice of a girlfriend?” He smiled evilly. She nodded and spoke.
“Neve. She’s a trashy whore.”
“I’ve got my eye on her. I’ve been trying for years to find a suitable human. Cutters, as you can imagine, aren’t first on the list for pets.”
Morgan must have seemed confused, though she was trying to conceal any emotion from her face. Bleek’s tone had become sarcastic, almost infantile. He pursed his lips, sniffed, and continued.
“Viv must have given you the spiel, sweetheart. She did the rest of us. So long ago …” A faraway look came into his eyes but it did not last. “The humans, love. The pets? Some of them were used for reproduction. For more changelings.” He looked at her. She shook her head to indicate that she did not fully understand. “For the initial change. For the ringing.”
“That’s where we’re from?” Morgan whispered.
“Some of us.” He frowned and looked away. “Not you. You were born into a real family, and the change had to be done later, in secret. In the forest.” He gestured grandly to the green canopy above her. Morgan had almost forgotten where she was. “Don’t even try to remember. You won’t yet. You were out of it and the ringer wasn’t a very good one. But you remember afterward, don’t you? The little games you used to play? With the animals? Remember that, Morgy?”
Bleek folded his hands over his chest and regarded her.
“That’s why you kept coming here. To be with your kind. A baby ling trying to learn how. It was almost … sweet. If you hadn’t been so cruelly abandoned. Viv was busy playing patty-cake with her favorite, Ondine, and didn’t have time for you. And your human family …” He inched closer. “They certainly sucked ass, didn’t they? But that’s all right. All of that is gone now.” He reached out a yellowish finger and trailed a sharp nail down the mound of Morgan’s wet cheek. “Uncle Bleek’s here now.”
“Don’t touch me.” She choked. Was she — crying?
; “Don’t speak until spoken to. And wipe those tears off your face.” She tried to swallow a low whimper. The show of weakness obviously irritated the cutter, for he stepped back, wiping the hand that had touched her on his leather jacket and tucking it into his side. “Not me, of course. I was born to a stinking pet in one of the scia’s hideous little corpa factories. But you. You were raised by loving Yvonne, the Rose Queen, and doting Phil Jr., the prince of paper products. That’s where he stocked, didn’t he? Aisle ten? Burnside D’Amici’s? Quite a provider, that Phil.”
“Fuck you.”
Bleek ignored her. “At least you had plates to eat off of. Clean sheets to wrap around your pretty corpus. And what a lovely one, too, eh? A perfect ten. Too bad none of it is yours.”
He scowled and wagged another long-nailed finger in front of her face.
“You didn’t think that you actually looked like this, did you?” He was close to her and she could smell him again. She breathed shallowly. “You aren’t human, Morgana. Get this through your shallow fay reflecting pool of a brain. This —” He grabbed a bit of flesh at her hip and tugged. “This is just temporary. Your costume. Your cocoon, pretty butterfly …” Morgan pulled away and Bleek laughed bitterly. “I know I disgust you. You really need to work on your acting skills. Unfortunately, dear, if you’re going to be a cutter, you better get used to looking and smelling like one. Invest in some deodorant. Teen Spirit, perhaps? In the human world, we take human form. And humans rot. Especially if something’s in them.” He blew at her and Morgan could smell his putrefaction. She remembered the girl with the dreads from the parking lot at the Ring of Fire, sniffing her. Was she already turning?
“Soon everything will be ours. Novala, too.”
Bleek unfurled his hand — his wrist marked by that same little blue X, Morgan noted, the same that she had seen on Moth, the same on the girl in the parking lot, the same on Viv — and a spinning sphere of blue and yellow sparks almost a foot across emerged from his palm and whizzed past her, shearing her left shoulder as it spun by. She watched it bounce through a tree trunk and into the dark woods till she couldn’t see it anymore. When she looked at her sweater, it was brown from where the ball of lightning had skimmed her, and the air smelled like burned wool.
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