Dark Ember

by R. D. Vallier

  Or is he a good influence?

  Forty-five minutes later, Sam had six subscriptions to be delivered to him at the Sheriff's station. I also added his personal and work emails to their mailing lists, my lips pressed and chest jiggling the entire time. Maybe he'll be inspired so Mark will get laid like I never did. A young couple eating burgers two tables away stared when I snorted into my hand, whispery gales spluttering through my fingers.

  Sam would brush everything off, of course, proclaim competitor retaliation. But that didn't matter, because I knew he'd realize it was me. It would slap him with the reality I existed, I hadn't forgotten his abuse or infidelity, and I knew secrets he desperately wanted concealed. He'd laugh off the prank and join in on the jibes from his fellow officers, but alone he'd sweat and endure bouts of diarrhea. He'd wonder and obsess and worry. He'd suffer his own brain herpes to scratch, his own venom-pocket to taint his success and glory, built on a mountain of lies and exploitation and deceit.

  I killed the browser and crumpled the empty cup, longing to howl at the moon.

  The savory aromas of Chinese food and kitchen grease filled the food court. I slipped the phone into my pocket, beaming as the shopping mall hummed around me. I wasn't weak. I didn't need to settle for getting by or being safe. I wasn't a victim, but a survivor tempered like a blade in a forge, capable of slaughtering my enemies.

  Cheater, cheater, marriage eater. Did you think you could defeat her?

  You're supposed to be the better person, Miriam! my mother screeched, her voice shrinking with each word. Be … the better … person! Be … the …

  I grabbed my shopping bags and crumpled cup, then headed out of the food court, my new high heels clicking on the tile. "I am being the better person, you harpy," I muttered, tossing my garbage into a trashcan. "For once, I win."

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  "Sorry I'm late!" The lock clacked behind me as I dropped the shopping bags to the floor.

  "We still have twenty minutes," Delano said from the bathroom. "Thida left dresses on the bed."

  Twenty minutes. My brain surveyed a mental check-list. Bathed? Check. Legs shaved? Check. Above the knee and the bikini line? Check. Armpits? Check. Skin exfoliated? Check. All done during daylight.

  The air conditioning whirred, prickling my skin with goosebumps. I unbraided my hair, combed the waves, brushed my teeth, tried to remember anything I missed. Cosmetics and shoes acquired. Dresses waited. Menstrual cycle not due for two weeks. Everything seemed in order, except for my thigh which began to ache. I stepped out of the heels, convinced a twenty-minute rest would carry me through the night, and walked around the dividing wall.

  My heart sank.

  Three dresses waited on my bed: a mini strapless number with more gold sequins than a Vegas showgirl, a backless strappy thing with indigo fabric so short bending would be impossible without flashing my crotch, and a long scarlet dress with slits so wide the front resembled a loincloth. Delano had drawn smiley faces (some with toothy grins, others drooling) and pointing arrows on the hotel's complimentary notepad and scattered them around the middle dress. I sniggered, unsurprised. Indigo was his favorite color.

  I eyed the scarlet dress. It offered the most coverage. Barely. The shower started with a hiss; water pattered. Delano's doodles pleaded with grinning faces and drooling tongues. Indigo dress! Indigo dress! I twisted my lips, debating … debating … There's no way I can wear my bra under that thing. My eyes swooped. So very faerie. The smiley faces begged. The arrows pointed. How can you expect the darklings to accept you if you act like a scared changeling? I sighed, figuring a lifetime of T-shirts and jeans hampered my judgements. I sought acceptance from darklings, so I should trust two darklings' recommendations. I lifted the indigo dress. My brow furrowed. I thought of Thida's confidence and felt like a child in comparison, playing dress up.

  I can't form darkling opinions, but I cannot care about them. I chewed my thumbnail. Well, I can pretend to not care, anyway. And I can choose to not let their opinions deter me. I pressed the dress against my body and my brain herpes flared.

  That's not a dress, my mother mocked. It's lingerie. You're acting like a slut.

  "I'm not a slut." I traced a finger across the dress's neckline. "I'm a modern woman. I'm allowed to honor that."

  Woman? she said. With your scrawny body?

  "I'm not scrawny. I'm willowy."

  Sam laughed, eager to join the fun. Twig is a better description.

  My teeth gritted. "Shut up asshole or you'll lose another ten grand."

  …

  A naughty hum flooded my body, straightening my spine as I stripped off my clothes. I slipped into the dress, then sucked my teeth when I faced the mirror. It was rib-breaking tight, the decorative seams accenting every dip and curve of my body. The hem was too short, the straps too seductive. On the hanger the dress represented everything I despised, but pressed against my flesh it became something else.

  "Wow, Thida. You can pick a dress." I pivoted to admire my rear in the mirror. For a winking moment I glimpsed myself through Delano's eyes. Not as an awkward girl or a scrawny mid-west housewife, but a woman. A fae. A being made as I was supposed to be made. A being made beautiful.

  Nausea curled my insides, as if admitting such a conceited thought was wicked and shameful. My impulse was to swat and squash it, as if developing a scrap of self-esteem was a crime worthy of God's rejection.

  That's stupid, I told myself, tucking in the loop which had escaped beneath my armpit. God is a creator. An artist. Artists adore their creations, and aspire for them to be their best. Besides, I wouldn't hang on God's arm this evening, or my jealous mother's, or a cruel ex-husband's. The only arm would be Delano's. He's the one I cared to impress.

  I snubbed my shame and twisted in the mirror. As my gaze drifted past the exquisite fabric and stylish lines, my smile faltered. The hem displayed the birdshot scars on my thigh. The dress's color accentuated my bruise, sitting like a purple potsticker beneath my right eye. I bit my lip. Worry bit back. The mirror reflected my injuries. My injuries reflected my insecurities. Black-and-blue keyholes divulging how battered and weak I felt inside.

  Feelings are just feelings. They don't make anything true.

  I opened cosmetic bottles and arranged brushes beside the directory assistance binder on the dresser. I dabbed on concealer. And dabbed. And dabbed. The bruise faded, but remained. The saleswoman insisted this would work. The shower's water stopped; curtain rings scraped across a pole. I powdered, then moved to eyeliner, neutral shadows, mascara. I rarely wore makeup, except for the occasional wedding and Sam's work parties. My mouth never encountered anything fancier than a swipe of cherry lip gloss. Today, though, I buckled under exciting product displays and a sale-woman's pitch. I applied deep red lipstick. In the store the color oozed seduction, but on my face it seemed stark, clownish. How do women pull this off? My red frown hummed in my reflection as bright as an electric marquee, flashing headlines: Poser! Faker! Wannabe! Pretender! Tonight Only: Miriam Thatcher in The Phony Trying Much Too Hard!

  I wished Orin was here to braid my hair as I pulled the sides into a plain silver clip. I then clasped a dainty silver necklace with a moon and crystal star around my throat. The darklings will laugh. You're a changeling trying on seduction, a child trying on her mother's shoes. All I saw in the mirror were too-red lips, too-brown eyes, and a purple, potsticker bruise. "I need to own myself." But what exactly was I? Faerie? Changeling? Darkling in training? How could I own myself when I didn't even know who I was?

  Maybe if I redden my eyes as I redden my lips. If I take the night into me, at least the darklings will know where I align.

  I went to the window, stared out over the busy strip, and felt night's energies rush over Las Vegas. The magic felt different here, the whispers distant and jabbering, but concentrated somehow, similar to when Orin and I had entered the ley line.

  Take enough to show you're aligned with darklings, not faeries, I told myself. En
ough to feel the air-conditioning leave the air, but no more. I reached into the over-city stream. Magic rammed into me. "Oh, crap!" I clenched the windowsill. This was not the satin sheet seduction of the Sierra Nevada. Las Vegas was a hard, back-alley fuck, an amplifier cranked to blow the speaker. My eyes rolled. My genitals throbbed. Shadows coiled along the floor, filling the room like swamp mist.

  Come to me. Come to me. Come to me.

  I unplugged from the night with a hard yank, wobbled a few steps. The air conditioning whirred at full blast, but my goosebumps smoothed and the air felt tepid. I exhaled a heavy breath, tasted ice crystals on my tongue. Sin city, indeed.

  Delano's touch made me gasp. Our magics pulled us together—a strange, silent transmission of wanting and connectedness—and I feared I'd taken too much. He was clean shaven, his damp hair slicked, dressed in black slacks and a pinstriped button-down the color of gunmetal, his new shoes gleaming. He lifted his dark glasses to his head and stared at me in dead silence.

  I sunk into my shoulders. "Should I try on the others?"

  His gaze slid up my body, a hint of starvation in his eyes. He looked feral. A wolf in Armani's clothing. He circled me once, dragging his hand along my waist. "Don't you dare change."

  "The dress looks okay?"

  "This dress can only look better around your ankles."

  I smirked and glanced at his shirt buttons. "The makeup doesn't hide my bruises well, unfortunately."

  Delano pulled me to the dresser mirror. Standing behind me, he placed one hand on my sternum. I smelled the mountains beneath soap and mouthwash, as if the wild flowers and grasses followed him across highways and desert, as if his territory refused to let go. He pressed his cheek against my head. "Victims hide their bruises. Braggarts flaunt them. But warriors?" He pushed my shoulders back, lifted my chin with a caressing finger. "Warriors own them. You look fierce."

  I released a long, slow breath, and kept my chin up when he pulled away. "I hope I don't embarrass you tonight."

  "You never embarrass me," he said, buttoning his cuff. "Besides, these events are mostly business, partly an excuse to break isolation. Tonight will be one of the dullest experiences of your life."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I can do this, I told myself, smoothing out my hair in the doorway. I can relate to darkling lifestyle without the darkshine. I can discuss night magic. I can talk bacteria.

  I entered the banquet hall remembering when Orin had led me into a lodge guised as a storage-unit, where I met other faeries for the first time, my people. My fear had melted in the lodge's sweltering heat, amid dancing and acceptance and gold knot-work glowing inside an enchanted dress. Then everything snowballed down the Realm's collective insanity, straight into hell. I shuddered at the memories and reminded myself that now was different, despite my tightening stomach, and the tingles in my legs screaming run! I had seen the Realm's corruption, lived and suffered through it. I knew the truth now. No more surprises. No more lies.

  Now, peering around the banquet hall with its blank projector screen and round dining tables to the left, and a throng of stylish darklings mingling around a buffet to the right, I started to relax. This was no storage unit. At first glance, I was reminded of the annual mayor's party Sam and I attended. Conversation hummed. Glasses toasted. Silverware clinked against tiny china plates. But then I breathed in winter solstice on a June Las Vegas night, shivered as it infiltrated my blood. Delano led me to the ruddy-eyed crowd, our elbows hooked. The static the darklings' magic produced set my teeth on edge, whispering wisdoms that would be mine if I stepped closer to listen.

  Come to me. Come to me. Come to me.

  I pushed away that feeling, focused on my surroundings. Frost glimmered in the corners and doorways to prevent eight-legged party crashers. Ice sculptures of wildlife and shooting stars decorated the hall, their whiskers and scales and stardust impossibly intricate, and never dripped. I clenched Delano's elbow tighter as we moved through the crowd, wobbling in my heels. About a quarter of the darklings had partners, and they looked conjoined. The women's fingernails slipped between flesh and belts. The men's hands traced curves and clenched hips. Otherwise, the darklings kept their distances, unlike faeries who gathered as if an unseen nucleus drew them together. Smiles seemed genuine (the too-wide stretch of lonely lips eager for like-minded interaction), and conversations were animated, but everyone stood at least two arm-lengths apart. If the darklings reached out, they'd never touch.

  They're keeping territories.

  Shadows quivered. Magic hummed like cricket legs, serenading the crowd. I could almost feel black lace and satin slip through my fingertips, practically heard a garter-belt snap. Night's seduction seemed to dribble onto the crowd from the chandeliers' dangling crystals. My arm linked with Delano's felt priggish beside the singletons sizing up each other, lust pulsing in the magic leaking from their starved bodies. Their faces were composed. Conversations about life and weather and bacteria carried between them. But the air around them clicked. Their magic felt wild, like lassoed gales, eager to snap into an uncontrolled energetic orgy. As a singleton with charming dimples and empty-promise lips ogled my body, I understood their territories held them captive, and none could partner permanently with each other. But Vegas offered relief. Ruddy full moons shone on their faces like hanging red lanterns, and I suspected no darkling would be alone tonight.

  Except for Bavol. Our neighbor stood out like a laceration on the crowd's face. His shirt sleeves were unbuttoned, his collar crooked, a wine glass near empty in his hand. I tensed when I noticed him, but soon relaxed. He meandered around darklings without real course, not talking to anyone. He reminded me of a sailor astray in a foggy nighttime sea, drifting aimlessly after the loss of his guiding star.

  Moths fluttered around the room. One stopped on Delano's shoulder to inform him refreshments were replenished, and hoped we enjoyed our evening. My skin crawled to their sing-song whispers, but I had to admit they made gracious hosts. Delano broke away to retrieve two glasses of champagne. A brunette glided past me in a coral mini dress. Gorgeous wings filled her back like cascading shadows done in black and gray watercolors. Shooting stars cut lines for a feathery effect. Unlike the faeries, whose wings started in tribalistic latticework, the darklings' wings were fine art, relics of a time when the profession was revered, when the Realm bestowed stipends and housing and family reunions. The woman glanced curiously at me, then smiled. I smiled back, noticing her ears had the changeling fold. Most ears had the changeling fold, actually. I sighed, relieved. We share more similarities than differences.

  Black hair swayed in my peripheral. "Del, is there—" I tensed when I faced him. Delano hadn't worn an overcoat tonight. He also wasn't a Vietnamese woman. "Ss-Sorry, I—you're human!"

  Silver pentagrams—true pentagrams of nested Vs—dangled from the woman's rounded ears. She held a clipboard and pen; a messenger bag hung off her shoulder. Her inquisitive eyes studied my rusted ones. "And you are what, exactly?"

  "Who, not what." Delano handed me a glass of champagne, sliding his arm around my waist. "You have my extension suggestion?"

  The human's eyebrows arched. Her breath steamed as she rummaged through her messenger bag, then handed Delano a yellow folder. "Boundaries may be disputed and traded dur—"

  "Yeah, yeah. I've done this before." Delano scrawled his signature on the clipboard. The human opened her mouth to speak, then thought better and scurried into the crowd.

  "She's human," I said.

  "Yes. A wytch."

  "As in potions and spells?"

  "No. Humans can't wield magic, but wytches intimately sense and see it. Some darklings seek them as employees." Delano opened the folder and released a deep breath. "Thank God. I extend east toward the desert."

  Weldon hobbled to us, looking dapper in his charcoal slacks and plum button-down. He'd forgone the cowboy hat, but kept the boots. "Save me." He glanced over his shoulder. "Thida ain't lettin' me get drunk, and Art's
been yammerin' my ear off." He snatched Delano's champagne and gulped. "Like I give a rat's ass about New York's microbes."

  "Hey, how many wytches work for you?" Delano asked.

  "Three." Weldon lifted his mirrored glasses, peeking into Delano's folder. "Oooh, you lucked out."

  "They know you're darklings?" I asked.

  "'Course." Weldon lowered his glasses and drank. "They manage daytime business matters, bring Mozart and Buttons to the groomer, that sorta thing."

  Thida glided to us, waving a yellow folder, looking as beautiful as a carousel horse in her violet and silver mini dress. She plucked the champagne from Weldon and handed it to Delano. "We extended south," she said, beaming. "I think it hits the Fuller property."

  The three of them discussed their borders while I searched the room for rounded ears, overcoats, steaming breaths. Wytches. I bit my lip, feeling ignorant. "What else exists?" I asked as Delano tucked his folder beneath his armpit. "Do darklings hire werewolves and vampires, too?"

  "Nope. Fae are the only magical beings. On this world, anyway."

  "Oh."

  Delano's mouth quirked. "Five months ago you were overwhelmed magic existed. Now you're disappointed only one species wields it?"

  I shrugged. My eyes paused near the conference tables, where a dozen darklings—mostly women—gathered. Magic spread from the crowd's center; the encompassing darklings' magic slinked and purred around the wielder, lapping their shadows. I lifted my chin, but couldn't see over the bodies.

  Their room will be rocking tonight. I gestured to the crowd. "Who's that?"

  "James," Delano grunted. He sighed. "We should say hello, I guess. It's his territory we're on."

  Thida squeezed Delano's shoulder. "Do me a favor. Don't start anythin'."

  "I never start anything," Delano said.

  Thida made a mmmm sound and released his shoulder. Delano and I sauntered toward the gathering. A woman grimaced as we squeezed through, and my eyebrows jumped when I glimpsed our host. His resemblance to Delano was striking. High cheekbones, sultry eyes and mouth. Not brothers, but possibly cousins? Otherwise, James was all Las Vegas. Not in the ways of Elvis or sequins and glitz, however. He was the smell of cigars and the taste of bourbon in a dim lounge room, the slick feel of polished wood on a roulette wheel. His wavy hair was as black as the spade on a one-eyed jack, and the way he brushed it out of his face suggested the amount of damns he gave was precisely zero.