Terri Windling - [Bordertown 02] - Borderland

by Mark Alan Arnold (epub)

  By the middle of the third set, Manda was still feeling shy, but she was itching to play. That always happened when she saw a good band. Her fingers would start shaping chords down by her leg. It didn’t take Bramble a whole lot of urging to get her up on the stage then to join in on some of the numbers she knew. “The Road to the Border,” “Up Helly-O,” “The Land of Apples,” “Tommy’s Going Down to Berks” .. . the tunes went by and Manda grinned behind her fox’s mask, even joining in on the singing when the band launched into “Hal-an-Tow.” Listening to the words, she realized that the song pretty well said what the band was all about.

  Do not scorn to wear the horn It zuas the crest when you was bom Your father’s father wore it and Your father wore it, too

  Hal-an-tow, jolly rumble-o We were up, long before the day-o To welcome in the summer To welcome in the May-o For summer is a-coming in and winter’s gone away-o

  It didn’t matter what time of year it was, Manda thought, as she chorded along on the chorus. The song wasn’t just about the change of the seasons, but about day following night, good times following the bad; that there was always a light waiting for you on the other side—you just had to go looking for it, instead of stewing in what had brought you down.

  Bramble laid down a synthesized drone underneath a sharp rhythm of electronic drums. Big Will was playing bass. Teaser hopped around in front of the stage, waving his jester’s stick, while the rest of the band crowded around a couple of microphones. The Hood sang lead. Manda smiled as he began the third verse.

  Robin Hood and Little John Have both gone to the fair-o And we will to the merry green wood To hunt the bonny hare-o

  Hal-an-tow, jolly rumble-o. . . .

  The music had a sharp raw edge to it that never quite overpowered the basic beauty of the melody. Voices rose and twisted in startling harmonies. Manda found herself jigging on the spot as she played her borrowed guitar. There was a certain rightness about the fact that it was the same canary yellow as her own Les Paul.

  God bless the merry old man And all the poor and might’-o God biing peace to all you here And bring it day and night-o

  The final chorus rose in a crashing wave that threatened to lift the roof off of the club. Kids and old-timers were mixed in whirling dervish lines that made patterns as intricate as the song’s harmonies. When the final note came down with a thunderous chord on the synthesizer, there was a long moment of silence. Then the crowd clapped and shouted their approval with almost as much volume as the band’s electric instruments.

  “I knew you’d be hot,” Bramble said as she and Manda left the stage. “Did you have fun?”

  Manda nodded. She bumped into Teaser who thrust his jester’s stick up to her face. “Says Tom Fool—you’re pretty cool,” he sang to her, then whirled off in a flutter of ribbons and leather.

  The two women made their way to the small room in the back that the club had set aside for the band to hang out in between sets. Manda slumped on a bench and tried to stop grinning. She laid her foxhead mask on the bench beside her, her silver eyes flashing.

  “See, we don’t have elf magic,” Bramble said, plonking herself down beside Manda, “so we’ve got to make our own.”

  “What you’ve got’s magic all right.”

  “Want a beer?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  “I’ve talked to the others,” Bramble said. “They were willing to go along just on my say-so, but now that they’ve all heard you, it’s official: you want to gig with us for awhile?”

  Manda sat up straighter. Absently chewing on her lower lip, she had to look at Bramble to see if it was a joke.

  “For true,” Bramble said.

  “But I’m not. .. Human, she thought. “Like you. It could cause trouble.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, like—”

  Manda never had a chance to continue. The club's owner poked his head in through the door. “Hey, have you seen Toby? There’s a guy outside looking for him to—” He broke off when he saw Manda. “What’re you doing in here?”

  “She’s with me,” Bramble said.

  “Uh-uh. No fucking halfies in my club. You. Get out of here.”

  Bramble frowned and stood up. “Lay off, George. I said she’s okay.”

  “No. You listen to me. The Blood’s got their own places to hang out and I don’t want them in here. This is a clean club. She’s out, or you’re all out.”

  “You’re acting like a fucking bigot,” Bramble began, but Manda laid a hand on her arm.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I was just going anyway.”

  “Manda. We can work this—”

  Manda shook her head. She should have known the day was going too well. Everything had just seemed perfect. Under the club owner’s baleful eye, she stripped off the ribboned jacket and laid it on the bench beside her mask.

  “I’ll see you around,” she told Bramble.

  “At least let me get the Hood and—”

  Manda shook her head again. Blinking back tears, she put on her shades and shouldered her way by the club owner.

  “Manda!”

  When she was out on the dance floor, Manda broke into a run. By the time Bramble had gathered a few of the band to go outside to look for her, she was long gone.

  “This is the shits,” Bramble said. “I’m out.”

  “What do you mean you’re out?” the Hood asked. “We’ve got another set to—”

  “I’m not playing for these assholes.”

  “Bramble, he’s got a right to run the kind of club he wants.”

  “Sure. Just like I’ve got the right to tell him to go fuck himself. We’re supposed to be putting out good vibes, right? Be the ‘luck of the city’ and all that shit? Well, I liked that kid, Hood, and I don’t like the idea of being around people who can’t see beyond the silver in her eyes.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll pick up my gear at the house tomorrow.” “Where you going now?” Mary asked.

  “To see if I can find her.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Johnny Jack said.

  Bramble shook her head. “You guys go on and finish the gig, if that’s what you want to do, okay? Me, I just want to think some things through.”

  “I’ve got an idea where she might have gone,” Mary said.

  “Where’s that?”

  “Stick’s place.”

  “Oh, shit. That’s all we need. To get him pissed off.” “Bramble, listen to me,” the Hood tried again, catching hold of her arm.

  Bramble shook off his hand. “No, you listen to me.

  Didn’t you see how that kid took to what’s supposed to be going down with us? She Fit right in. I have a feel for her, man. She could be something and I want to see her get that chance.”

  “Okay,” the Hood said. “Go look for her. But don’t turn your back on us. Let’s at least talk things out tomorrow.”

  Bramble thought about that. “Okay. If I Find her, I’ll be by tomorrow.”

  “We’ve got a commitment to fulfill here,” the Hood went on. “For tonight at least. We don’t have to come back.”

  “We shouldn’t be in a place like this at all,” Bramble muttered under her breath as she headed for her bike. “Not if they’re going to be assholes about this kind of thing.”

  Manda didn’t think it could hurt so much. It wasn’t like she’d spent her whole life with the Dance or anything. So what if it had seemed so perfect. It wasn’t like she’d ever Fit in anywhere. Not with the kids her own age, not with Maggie’s friends, not with anyone. Some people just weren’t meant to Fit in. That’s all it was. They got born with a frigging pair of silver eyes and everybody dumped on them, but who cared? That was just the way it goes sometimes, right? Yeah, sure. Right. Fuck the world and go your own way. That’s what it came down to in the end. Be a loner. You could survive. No problem.

  A brown face surrounded by dreadlocks came into her mind. It was good enough for Stick, wasn’t it?
Sure. But how come it had to hurt so much? Did it hurt him? Did he ever get lonely?

  She was crying so hard now, she couldn’t see where she was going. Dragging her shades from her eyes, she shoved them in her pocket and wiped away the flow of tears with her sleeve.

  Maybe she’d just go ask Stick how he did it. She hadn’t even had a chance to thank him yet, anyway.

  Still sniffling, she headed for the museum by Fare-you-well Park.

  As the Horn Dance was leaving the stage in The Factory, Stick pulled his Harley up in front of the museum. Cutting the engine, he stretched stiff neck muscles, then put the bike on its stand.

  “End of the line,” he said.

  Lubin left her basket to perch on the seat. Wrinkling her nose, she made a small rumbly noise in the back of her throat.

  “Yeah, I know. It’s long past supper.”

  What a night, he thought. Pocketing his spell-box, he chained the bike to the iron grating by the museum’s door and went up the broad steps. Lubin flowed up the steps ahead of him. By the time he reached the door, she’d already slid through her own private entrance to wait for him inside.

  “Get the stew on!” he called through the door as he dug around in his jacket pocket for his keys.

  He was just about to fit the key into the lock when he heard it. Oh, shit he thought. Not again. Turning, he tried to pinpoint the source of what he’d just heard—a young voice raised in a high cry of pain. Now who’d be stupid enough to mess around this close to his digs? It was bad enough that he’d spent the better part of the day and evening unsuccessfully trying to run down a lead on Farrel Din’s rumor, without this kind of shit.

  The sound of the fight came from an alleyway across the street. Stick took out his staff and snapped it into one solid length as he crossed the street. Packers or Bloods, somebody was getting their head busted because he was not in a mood to be gentle with bashers tonight.

  He slowed down to a noiseless glide as he approached the mouth of the alley. Hugging the wall to the right, he slipped inside. Bloods. Bashing some kid. It was hard to make out if it was a boy or a girl; a runaway or one of the Pack. He didn’t stop to think about it. His staff shot out in a whirling blur, hitting the closest Blood before any of them even seemed to be aware he was there. The one he hit went down hard. The rest scattered toward the back of the alley.

  Stick smiled humorlessly. Seemed they didn’t know the alley had a dead end.

  He moved after them, sparing their victim a quick glance before going on. Looked like a Blood—a small one, but a Blood all the same. Now that didn’t make much—

  “Hey, Stick. How’s it hanging?”

  Stick’s gaze went up. The Bloods were making a stand. Well, that was fine with him. There were seven-no, eight of them. He shifted his feet into a firmer stance, staff held out horizontally in front of him. As he began to cat-step toward them, the ones in front broke ranks. Stick had no trouble recognizing the figure that moved forward. Fineagh.

  “Times hard?” Stick asked. “Haven’t seen you getting your own hands dirty for a while. I thought you just let your goons handle shit like this.”

  “Well, this is personal,” Fineagh replied.

  Stick gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Pleasure’s mine.”

  “I don’t think so,” Fineagh said. Taking his hand from his pocket, the Blood leader pointed the stolen .38 at Stick. “Bye-bye, black man.”

  Christ, he’d been set up like some dumbass kid who should know better. He started for Fineagh, staff whistling through the air, but he just wasn’t fast enough.

  The gunshot boomed loud in the alleyway. The bullet hit him high in the shoulder, the force of the impact slamming him back against the brick wall. His staff dropped from numbed fingers as he tried to stay on his feet. A second bullet hit him just above the knee, searing through muscle and tendon. His leg buckled under him and he sprawled to the ground.

  “You always were just too damn good,” Fineagh said conversationally. He kicked the staff just out of reach of Stick’s clawing fingers, then hunched down, eyes glittering with malicious pleasure. “Never could deal with you like we could anybody else. So you had to come down, Stick—you see that, don’t you? We got a rep to maintain.” He grinned mockingly. “Nothing personal, you understand?”

  Stick saved his breath, trying to muster the energy for a last go at Fineagh, but it just wasn’t there. The wounds, the shock that was playing havoc with his nervous system, had drained all his strength. He kept his gaze steady on the Blood leader’s eyes as Fineagh centered the .38, but that didn’t stop him from seeing the elfs finger tightening on the trigger. He could see every pore of Fineagh’s pale skin. The silver death’s head stud in his ear. The spill of dark laughter in his eyes . . .

  Though he tried not to, he still flinched when the gun went off again.

  Manda hitched a ride with a friend of Maggie’s that she ran into on Cutter Street, arriving at the museum just in time to see Stick enter the alleyway. She was at the far end of the street, though, and paused, not sure what to do. She could hear the fight. Stick wouldn’t want her getting in the way. But when she heard the first gunshot, she took off for the alley at a run, speeding up when the sharp crack of gunfire was repeated.

  Lubin reached it before her, streaking across the street from the museum to disappear into the mouth of the alley.

  When Manda got there, she caught a momentary glimpse of Stick’s sprawled form, the circle of Bloods around him, Fineagh with the gun. . . . Just as Fineagh squeezed off his third shot, Manda saw the ferret launch herself at the elf’s arm. Her teeth bit through to the bone, throwing off his shot. The bullet spat against the wall, showering Stick with bits of brick. The gun tumbled from Fineagh’s nerveless fingers to fly in a short arc toward Manda, hitting the pavement with a spit of sparks. Hardly realizing what she was doing, she ran forward and claimed the weapon.

  Fineagh screamed, trying to shake the ferret from his wrist. It wasn’t until one of his companions reached for her that Lubin dropped free to crouch protectively over Stick. Fineagh aimed a kick at her.

  “D-don’t do it!” Manda called nervously. The gun was a heavy cold weight in her fist as she aimed it down the alley.

  The Bloods turned to face her. Fineagh’s eyes narrowed. He clutched his wrist, blood dripping between his fingers, but gave no sign of the pain he had to be feeling.

  “Hey, babe,” he said. “Why don’t you just give me that back—maybe we’ll leave you in one piece.”

  Manda shook her head.

  Fineagh shrugged. “Your funeral.”

  As he started toward her, Manda closed her eyes and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked in her hands, almost flying from her grip, but her fingers had tightened with surprise. That was the only thing that kept her from losing it. Her shot went wild, but the Bloods no longer seemed so eager to confront her.

  “Hey, come on,” one of them said to Fineagh. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  Billy Buttons stepped up to the lean elfs side. “Nabber’s right. We got what we came for, Fineagh. Let’s blow.”

  Fineagh turned to him. “You want to leave her with that piece?”

  “I just want to get the hell out of here.”

  Biting at her lower lip, Manda listened to them argue. She didn’t know what she’d do if they charged her. How many bullets did this thing have left anyway? Not that she was sure she could even hit anything, no matter how many bullets there were.

  Fineagh glared at Billy, at the ferret guarding Stick, at Manda. “Sure,” he said finally. “We’re gone.”

  Manda backed away from the mouth of the alley as the Bloods approached, standing well away from them as they stepped out onto the street.

  “I won’t forget,” Fineagh said, pointing a finger at her. “I never forget.”

  “Come on,” Billy said. “Let’s get that wrist looked at.” “Fuck my wrist! You hear me, babe? Fineagh Steel’s got your number. You are not going to like what I’m g
oing to do to you next time we meet.”

  “You . . . you can just . . .” Manda was so scared, the words stuck in her throat.

  Fineagh took a step toward her. “I ought to rip your—”

  He stopped when she raised the gun. She hoped desperately that they couldn’t see how badly she was shaking. Fineagh gave her an evil smile.

  “Later, babe. You and me.”

  He turned abruptly and led the gang away.

  Manda waited until they turned the corner, then ran back into the alley.

  “Easy,” she said soothingly to the ferret. “Good boy. Don't bite me now. I’m here to help.”

  Help. Right. She almost threw up when she looked at the mess the bullets had made. There was blood everywhere. Stick was so pale from shock and loss of blood that she didn’t think he’d have any trouble passing himself off as a white man if he wanted to. The light in his eyes was dimming.

  “F-funny . . . seeing you . . . here. . . .” he mumbled.

  Manda swallowed thickly. “Don’t try to talk,” she said.

  She laid the gun down on the ground and knelt down beside him. Lubin made a suspicious noise and sniffed at her, then backed slowly away, growling softly. Manda closed her eyes and took a deep steadying breath. Leaning over him, eyes still closed, she began to hum monotonously. The sound helped keep her head clear for what she meant to do.

  She sustained the drone for a few moments, then laid her left hand gently on Stick’s thigh, covering the wound, her right on his shoulder. Here was one thing that silver eyes were good for. Elf blood. For once she was glad she had it. She stopped humming as she concentrated fully on the task at hand. Something inside her, some part of her Elvin heritage, reached out and assessed the damage done to Stick’s body, mended the broken bones, reconnected arteries and nerves, healed the flesh, all the while taking the pain into herself. Not until the least of his cells was healed, did she sit back and take her hands away.