Renegade Red

by Lauren Bird Horowitz

  Hilo stopped suddenly in the dark, causing Noa to stumble ungracefully beside her.

  “Why are we stopping?” Noa asked nervously.

  Hilo’s blue eyes flared like matches in the dark, raking Noa’s face with all the fierceness the pixie had.

  “Because this,” Hilo said, sharp teeth glinting, “is where I’m leaving you.”

  • • •

  Callum took the proffered seat in Otec Kells’ royal quarters, which had once belonged to Otec Darius. They looked the same now as they had then, everything just as Callum had last seen it (though to be fair, with the fuzziness, he was not quite sure how long ago that was). The walls were still white stone, overhung by those rippling silver tapestries.

  Delicate and imposing, like Darius.

  The furniture was all there too, the bureau standing majestically on one side. No ordinary bureau, Callum remembered with a familiar shiver of boyhood awe: shaped from the softest, reddest timber, so intricately carved it actually seemed to move. But it wasn’t special for its beauty; it had been a gift from Lorelei.

  Who had made the bureau, Callum could not remember (do I even, did I ever, know?). Surely someone with the gift to speak with nature, to deserve from her a work so precious.

  Seeing the bureau again, Callum remembered a scene like an almost-painting, in blurry light: he had sat before the bureau when he was five. The seeming-movement of it had entranced him; he’d reached out to feel its atoms (they are liquid, must be liquid)—when Darius had caught him.

  Callum froze now, as he had then, reinhabiting the shame. Until Darius surprised him—then and now—by simply sitting down beside his son, smiling a rare and fragile smile.

  “Does it feel different? Can you feel the magic?” Darius had asked, thirsted to know. Callum had done his best to describe it, but only a Blue could know because only a Blue could feel the atoms. And though Darius had nodded, the fragile smile had evaporated in the moments five-year-old Callum had taken to form his words.

  Darius had nodded softly, sadly, then reminded his dearest son never to actually change the bureau’s atoms. Touch, but stay within your limits. Touch, but do not change.

  Now Callum looked over at the bureau, still in motion in this room that was and was not his father’s. His eyes remembered before his mind, tumbling down the bureau’s right leg, the one he’d touched that day.

  Even though he knew it would be there, Callum’s chest constricted to see the scratch, long and deep and ugly like a scar.

  The scar had not been Callum’s doing (touch, but do not change). Judah (Judah my brother) had made it with a Faefyre knife for any reason, for no reason at all. Judah never needed reasons. He did things because was bored (that’s the kind of thing that Judah does).

  Callum had tried to fix the damage, but even he could not fix Faefyre. And so Darius had seen and flown into a rage. Callum still remembered Judah’s smirk. He’d known Callum would take the blame, and so Callum had (because I must love Judah, for Darius cannot.).

  Judah had forgotten all as soon as Callum had confessed, the way Judah always did. But Callum never forgot. Even in these blurry painting memories, in the warm halo of this candlelight, Callum could see the sharpness of Darius’s cheekbones, the sheerness of their hollows, the disappointment as Callum told he’d done the damage, misused his gift, and did not know how to fix it.

  Darius’s face had hardened. He’d told Callum the leg would not be replaced. It would stand ugly for all time, as a reminder of Callum’s disobedience, and even more, of his inability to set it right.

  Callum Now shrank in shame alongside the boy he was Then, curling inward beneath his heavy secret: knowing he’d acted nobly, capably, but everyone would see the opposite. And that this wrong gaze, over time, would become even his own too, worn in by habit and reflection (because one gaze is not enough, even if it’s the true one. Real things change to fit the shape that others see.).

  (And they lose the shape that’s really there, as if it never was.)

  “Beautiful bureau,” Kells commented, waking Callum from his swirl of impressionist memories. Kells was watching Callum curiously.

  “My father loved it, until the leg,” Callum murmured, pointing.

  Kells tilted his head. “I never noticed.” He walked over, bent and ran his hand over the leg. The color of his skin had red accents like the wood.

  “It’s a terrible shame,” Callum said sadly.

  “It’s a mark of life. Everything gets them. Everything and everyone.” Kells laid his palm on the face of the bureau with a sigh, a tired smile.

  Callum saw him then—the Kells from Before—as if in this room, time had collapsed. Kells Before was looking quietly, fondly at the bureau, the Kells who’d made Lorelei smile, who’d held Callum’s hand (small again) in the palace garden, who’d made Callum’s fingers warm to make things grow.

  Callum now looked at Kells’ hands in wonder—they were the same, still rough and worn, dyed brown by dirt and calluses. In fact, everything about Kells’ body looked the same once Kells touched the bureau, and Callum saw that face, those hands, that first Kells inside him again.

  “I remember you taking me into the gardens with my mother.”

  “I remember,” Otec Kells answered softly, turning slowly. “You could make the buttons grow.”

  Callum smiled proudly. “I was copying you, in the only way I knew how.”

  Kells smiled sadly, sat on the ground, leaned against the bureau. He raised a hand to invite Callum to come sit beside him.

  “Your mother used to love to watch you,” Kells told Callum as he settled back against the precious wood.

  “From the redwood bench?”

  “That’s right. She loved that bench. Took me months to find just its twin in the forest for this bureau. Of course I could have had a Blue change some other wood to match, but it wouldn’t have been the same. Your mother would have felt it.” He smiled, wistful. “Did you know even wood has a spirit to be felt?”

  “You made this bureau for her. I should have remembered—”

  Otec Kells waved his hand. “I didn’t let her tell anyone. And anyway, he wouldn’t have kept it if he’d known.”

  Callum swallowed. When Kells talked about Darius, he looked less like the man Callum remembered in the garden, and more like the specter of the twisted troll that haunted the bad-memory place, the fuzzy place Callum was supposed to stay well away from because of specters just like that.

  But Callum heard himself ask anyway. “My father wouldn’t have kept it, you mean,” he said uncertainly. “He was the Otec, but now you are.”

  Kells studied Callum shrewdly. “Yes.”

  “I-I love my father. But, I think, I feel like, I have memories of loving you. I know my mother loved you both, but I … I can’t—” Callum broke off in frustration. His feelings were blurring and diluting.

  “That’s all right, son,” Kells said, putting a hand on Callum’s shoulder. “It’s okay to be confused.”

  “That’s why I came to talk to you,” Callum said, relieved.

  “Don’t worry. We’re on the same side.”

  Callum met Kells’ eyes and shivered. That specter of the twisted, gnarled man had blinked back—but only for an instant. Then Otec Kells was reassuring, kind again.

  Callum relaxed. “My dad is … good. He tries to be. But sometimes, I think I am afraid of him too.”

  Kells nodded. “I’m sure you have memories of both.”

  “I know I love him,” Callum said with certainty.

  Kells considered Callum curiously. “What about your brother?”

  “My br—you mean Judah?”

  “Yes, Judah. Do you love him?”

  Callum felt his mouth twist. “Yes.”

  “But he is difficult sometimes.”

  “Yes,” Callum agreed. “But it�
��s my job to protect him, Lorelei told me—” When Kells winced, Callum felt a sharp pang. “Wait, have you seen her?”

  Kells sighed heavily, closed his eyes. “She’s dead.”

  Callum nodded; he knew that, but he hadn’t known he knew it until Kells had said the words again. They echoed in his ears, an unpleasant buzz.

  Otec Kells got to his feet, gestured they should return to their chairs. He sat in the chair that once had been Darius’s, sat up straight. “What if I told you that I am Otec now because I am trying to take care of your father the way you try to care for Judah?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your mother loved us both, so in a way, we are brothers, too, your dad and me. Darius is like Judah: he means well but has his limits. He doesn’t understand some things that I understand. Like Judah doesn’t see the things you see.”

  “So you took over to … protect him? The way I have to decide things for Judah sometimes.”

  “Yes,” Kells said, with an unfamiliar little smile (the specter’s smile, he’s back again, except this is Kells and Kells is helping, the specter isn’t real).

  “It makes sense,” Callum said slowly, thinking hard about Kells’ words. It did make sense: when Callum thought of Darius, he felt a twisty mix of feelings, just like the knot when he thought of Judah. “But can I see my father? I think I would like to see him.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s wise just yet,” Kells advised, leaning across his desk—Darius’s desk—to squeeze Callum’s shoulder. “You have to trust me, remember, if we’re going to save him.”

  Callum felt uneasy, but Kells seemed so certain. The moment he accepted Kells’ guidance, relief pumped warmness through him, that blissful relief of finally knowing what was true and whom to follow.

  Except.

  “We have to save Judah too, though,” Callum added suddenly, urgently. “We can’t leave him behind.”

  Kells smiled warmly again. “Oh, we won’t. And you have a very important part to play in Judah’s salvation.” He stood up, and helped Callum stand beside him. He put his golden hand on Callum’s back as he walked him to the door.

  “And Callum? That bracelet on your wrist, the one Arik gave you? I’d like to hold on to it.”

  Callum hesitated, putting a hand to the bracelet, another sudden shard of cold unease. “It … protects me.”

  “It’s okay, son. It will still do its special job if I have it. You don’t need to actually wear it for it to work. I just want to make sure it stays nice and safe.”

  Callum nodded, pushed away the shard. He offered up his arm to Kells, who carefully rolled off the tight red tube with the silver-and-blue circlet inside. Otec Kells clasped it in his hands.

  Callum tried not to shudder at the look that came over Kells as he looked at his closed fist.

  The specter isn’t real.

  • • •

  Judah sat in his new cell—back against the wall, staring through the bars—and listened to the endless, torturous, incessant dripping he couldn’t locate no matter how much he searched the Tower room. It wasn’t like the room was huge: it was circular and narrow and held only his cell. And a single window, across from his bars of course, the better to taunt with its hint of hazy sky. Judah had named this room the Birdcage on his first day, even though he had no perch to swing on, nor rodent bones shoved through the bars.

  Not that Judah deserved them. Not after what he’d done to her, or what he’d almost done and maybe done then let be done, and what the hell was the difference anyway? Because as he’d sat here, things had gotten clearer, and he’d realized how immensely he’d betrayed her—he could not bear to even think her name—sure he hadn’t made her into ooze, but he’d let Callum do Marena, had made her watch, and then had probably killed her by stuffing her in that chute. It went hell-knew-where to incinerate garbage, and given how unreliable his mind was, who was to say killing her hadn’t been precisely his intention? The work of his very legendary impatience to hurry up and get the task done?

  The point was, whether he’d melted her or incinerated her, whether he’d killed her friend himself or forced her up against the glass to watch it done, Judah would never see her again and so he’d never see himself again.

  For that, a birdcage was as good a place as any.

  In a way it was freeing, actually. It reminded him a little of when he’d been younger, running to the safe, small place. It might look like a cell to outsiders, but really it was a Tunnel, mapped by heart, where no one could ever find him because only he knew it from inside.

  There was no regret, no heartbreak, no painful hope in this Tower Tunnel of Aloneness. The only downside, in fact, was silence—because it made the dripping worse.

  Judah tried to distract himself and ignore it. The only other movement was the parade of Guards, like clockwork: Spider-Eye followed by the Mustache followed by Spider-Eye, each replacing the other in the single, ramrod-straight chair beneath the taunting window. They watched Judah but never spoke. Just silence, silence, silence.

  Drip, drip, drip.

  Finally, when Judah was sure the drip had actually killed him and trapped his mind in some hellish Portal dimension of unending, eternal days, the door unexpectedly opened in the middle of Spider-Eye’s shift and Kells came in.

  Despite his best efforts, Judah cringed back—not because of Kells, that bastard, but because of the threat the “Otec” had cursed at Judah before imprisoning him: to subject Judah to “the weapon.” Judah hated being afraid, but if Kells had turned Sasha the way he’d turned Callum … Kells’ terrible promise had grown and stretched in the hours of silence in this cell, uncurling into a living, writhing centipede of nightmares stretching tentacled legs through Judah’s mind. The very sight of Kells now made Judah shudder against his will, as if Demon Sasha might be steps behind. She wasn’t, but Kells smiled an infuriatingly self-satisfied smile at Judah’s cowering reaction.

  Judah wanted to scream in frustration, but then Kells would take that as a victory too. Besides, no matter how much time had passed, Judah’s body was, for some reason, stubbornly refusing to recharge. Even the idea of screaming now made him weary with exhaustion. Which was also infuriating.

  Kells rubbed his hands and nodded at Spider-Eye. “Go, and tell Kalen you’re both off this rotation.”

  Spider-Eye looked curious but of course didn’t ask, like the mindless drone he was. He walked out, subservient and sniveling as usual.

  Coward.

  Kells turned to Judah, amused. Judah seethed. If this was the end, he’d be damned if he went out without having the last smirk, no matter how tired he was.

  “Finally,” Judah drawled, giving Kells his own smug little sneer. “Took you long enough. Off getting more Aurora plastic surgery?”

  Kells’ eyes glittered. “Don’t you even want to know what happened to the girl? Whether your hasty move killed her instantly?”

  Judah scowled. Do not be baited. “Let’s just get to why you’re interrupting my ‘me’ time.”

  “So surly!” Kells chided happily. “And to think, I brought you a present!”

  “You mean besides dismissing Tweedledee and Tweedledumb?”

  “Oh, I’ve done more than dismiss them, child. I’ve replaced them.” Kells went delightedly to the door, which Spider-Eye had closed, and gave a taunting little bow. “Your Grace, the Red Son, may I present”—he flung the door open with a flourish—“your new keeper.”

  Despite himself, Judah gasped in shock. The new Guard was stronger than Mustache, more imposing than Spider-Eye, more commanding than Arik. His uniform shone brilliant white and silver and was outfitted with special extra weapons, tools, restraints of every possible, sadistic invention. His face was fiery, almost mad with intensity and purpose and single-minded, absolute determination—

  Judah sagged, all smirk lost.

 
“Hello, Callum.”

  • • •

  Noa froze, wanting to believe this was only a dream, a manifestation of the unkind thoughts and jealousies she’d harbored for her would-be betrayer. But Hilo’s terrible words bounced around the dark wet walls, slapping back against her cheek again and again.

  This is where I’m leaving you.

  The anger on Hilo’s face was obvious. Grotesque, even, lit now by Stella-light from below, like some kind of demon jack-o’-lantern.

  “What do you mean, leaving me?” Noa asked, trying to sound strong but sounding weak, terribly weak, at the thought of being left alone, all alone, down here.

  “I mean—” Hilo cut off, growling and pulling her fingers through her hair. Something prickly broke through Noa’s panic: she knew that gesture. Very well. Had Judah learned it from her, or Hilo from him?

  “Did you hear me, Noa? I said I’ve lost my way! I’ve lost us! I’ve failed, I’ve completely—” She turned to the wall, slammed her palms against it. Hilo leaned forward against her arms, head down, as if she couldn’t bear to stand back up.

  Noa realized she’d been wrong, completely wrong. Hilo was angry, yes, and wanted to punish someone—herself.

  “We knew it was a risk,” Noa whispered uncertainly, as Hilo leaned harder into the wall. “But you can’t just—”

  Hilo yelled in frustration, spun toward Noa. Her palms were scraped bloody from where she’d hit the hall. “I have to leave you here while I go back. I have to figure out where it got tangled up, then I can come back for you—”

  “No frickin’ way!” Noa exclaimed. “I’m not waiting here alone!”

  Hilo roared. “When you’re here Noa, I can’t see my way!”

  “Hilo—”

  “You—You—!” Hilo threw up her hands, looked away, cheeks burning. “It’s not your fault, okay? But you make me think about other stuff, remember things I don’t want to—and I can’t focus, I just—”

  Noa tried to master her anger—and her panic. “I understand that. But we have to stick together, like it or not, we’re all we’ve got now.”

  Hilo turned back to Noa, face crumpled and pleading. She was fighting hard not to cry, Noa could tell—and then Hilo sank, head in her hands, leaving streaks of blood on her cheeks. Noa stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do, and then Hilo began to rock, back and forth, muttering softly to herself.