by Tam MacNeil
The woman with the cigarillo raises the veil and turns her head, and James can see her face. He’s never seen La Flaca before, didn’t know she could be seen. Her face is painted white like a sugar skull, a rose painted on her forehead, her mouth stitched. If she’s got eyes, James can’t see them. She tips her head up, and smoke comes from her mouth and hangs like fog in the air. She is La Flaca, Skinny Mary, queen and justice, ruler and lawmaker of what some people call the Veil, and some call Penumbra, but what James grew up calling the Land of Shadow or the seelie court. He holds his breath.
“Brought a guest for dinner,” Brett says, and now, even through the haze that keeps him from having to think about the things that he does and the thing he is, now James is scared.
Four
“SIT DOWN, kiddo, and have some wine,” Skinny Mary says.
James considers protesting. Pointless. If they want him to drink, he’s going to be drinking. If they want him to eat, he’ll eat. He should run. He should do as he’s told, then escape when no one’s looking. He should never have come, taken his chances with the tornado. He was drunk, proud, curious, and he’s a van Helsing. The sidhe wouldn’t dare come after him. And it’s Brett the bartender. He’s known her two years, across the bar. He wasn’t thinking any of this could be real. And it is. Oh God. He realizes, like he’s taken a bucket of ice water in the face, just how colossally stupid he’s been.
But Brett pulls out the chair across from the baron, and right beside Skinny Mary. She does it like it’s just good manners, like he was waiting for her to do it, as if his hesitation had something to do with him not knowing where to sit, and not a prey-animal sort of desperate indecision. He drops into it, and it creaks like an old door. Brett glances at him, then at Skinny Mary.
“He’s going to get too drunk,” she says.
“I can hear his heart pounding like a drum all the way over here,” Skinny Mary answers. “Give him a drink to calm his nerves. Bourbon.” She smiles at him then, skull-mouthed. “That’s what you prefer, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says softly, not really sure what he’s agreeing with, only knowing it’s better to give the queen of the seelie no reason to dislike him, over and above the connotations of his family name.
Brett snags a bottle from the center of the table, produces a cut crystal glass from the pyramid that’s sparkling in the candlelight, and pours out a generous measure of amber bourbon. She sets it down at his right hand and steps back again, behind him, beyond his peripheral vision.
He looks at the glass. He grew up on stories of Persephone and Izanami and knows better. “I think I’ve had enough to drink tonight,” he says, and his voice doesn’t even shake, which is amazing, actually.
She laughs. Smoke comes out of her mouth again, but he didn’t see her draw on that chocolate cigarillo.
“You think I’d want to keep you here?” she asks. “You’d be a shitty hostage and no good for a ransom. I’d want your brother. He’s the valuable one, isn’t he?”
He swallows and isn’t quite sure what to say.
Her open mouth curves up like a fingernail moon. “You’re being real damn Celtic, boy. Which is pretty funny, considering.”
He knows bait when he hears it. But he’s past caring, because everything about this is a disaster. And he’s a disaster usually, but this is colossal, even for him.
Him, a van Helsing, sitting at Skinny Mary’s table with her servants waiting on him, with Baron fucking Samedi sitting here watching him like he’s a whole litter of kittens that might be cute and delicious, but it’s hard to know ’til you test it out.
So he swallows the bait, the hook, the line, the rod, and the hand that’s holding it. He takes the glass and drains it, as if she’d challenged him.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he says. “What was that you were saying?”
She laughs and gestures, and Brett comes forward again and grabs another bottle and pours out. This one is champagne. He could kill himself drinking tonight, but he won’t. He sips.
“Thank you for the hospitality,” he says.
She shrugs. “Well, it wouldn’t do to be rude.”
“What did you mean?”
She closes her mouth and tilts her head. “What’s that your people always say? Bad blood will out? Well, it surely came out in you. That thing your brother said on the TV the other night? God, how we laughed. Sure he’ll be ready, your brother says. It’s in his blood. Sure is. Like iron and salt, like Christ in wine.”
He sips again, to wet his lips, to moisten his mouth, to buy him time, to cover up his expression. He drinks to feel the sweet numbness of the first glass coming upon him and know with certainty the rush of the second will be even better. It unropes the tension in his limbs. It lets the agony of fear fall a little to the side so he doesn’t have to carry it so far. Which is why he’s not upset about this, this in his blood thing.
“So you know.”
“Well, it was my sister, wasn’t it?”
Silence. A candle spits like an adder and then falls silent too.
“Pretty thing,” the Baron says quietly, nodding as he does. “Old like the sky. Black hair curling, eyes and skin like a seam of coal.”
Skinny Mary turns and looks at him. Her mouth is curved in a dreamy sort of smile. If she has eyes, they’re probably soft and fond. “And the way he covered her with gold,” she agrees. “Hung it off her like she was his Christmas tree.”
James swallows. “Who?”
“Your great-granddaddy, James. Your great-granddaddy and my baby sister, they had a sweet tumble down at the river and had a pretty baby boy that we gave to him, to raise him like a human.”
“My… your….” Too many questions and wants rush through him. “I want to see her” is all he can say.
She smiles, she laughs. She raises her head, and breathes out a long strand of smoke that hangs gossamer and golden above her.
“You and me both. She died long time ago, a kind of death anyway. She fell in love with a human, like I said. Went to the Firm and they told her they’d fix her, make her human too.” She snorts. “So they baptized her in that river where she tumbled, and she died. You know the old Rogers mansion? The one on the island in the middle of the river, just north of town?”
He nods. Of course he does. He and Abe used to take the boat out in the summer and paddle up and scare the shit out of each other in that place.
“That’s where they did it. Word is she’s locked up somewhere now. Some say you hear her when the weather’s rough, screaming and wailing, but she’s dead.”
James has stopped pretending to drink. He sets down the glass. “How can she be dead and still scream?”
“They teach you nothing in that big fancy school you went to? Nothing at all? I heard you’re smart. I heard you’re one of the best.” She shakes her head and puts her lips to the cigarillo, and the ember glows like a Sacred Heart. “Sidhe get three ways of dying. Some, we get old and we go west, you know?” She might be winking at him, it’s hard to tell. “And some, we get old and we fight it, and maybe we use mortal lifetimes in exchange for a bit of magic, but it’s a deal done and everybody’s free. But some sidhe, when they die, they get mad. That’s how she went. She died like a sun. She died like a star. She came apart, and she tore down everything all around her.”
“A collapsed sun leaves a black hole,” he whispers.
Skinny Mary inclines her head. “So they did teach you something. Well then, well. She’s a dead star. She’s there. But just there to pull things apart. Unseelie now, that’s what it’s called. They burned her whole body with that holy water and took her boys away. We tried to save her, me and the Baron, but she wasn’t strong enough for saving. It’s not the kind of thing you’re ever gonna get over.”
“So that’s why I see what I see. I’m….” He tests it out. Even with the veil of wine over him, it’s weird. “I’m part unseelie?”
She glances at the Baron with a smile, and the Baron, he laug
hs.
“Sure,” he says. “In the way every white boy is part Cherokee.”
He shakes his head, not understanding.
“You’re part sidhe, yeah, but part god? In your dreams. You think you’re Greek or something?”
“I’ll call him Hercules from here on in,” Skinny Mary says with a little laugh.
James feels himself blush hard.
“Anyway, that’s why you came with the Dullahan, isn’t it? Come on now. Be honest. Because you knew there was something funny about you, and you knew the sidhe had answers, and you always wanted to know.”
He swallows. He can’t argue. If he had a reason for getting into that car after he knew what Brett was, it was because of the way time has been so crazy lately, the way it made him sick when he was talking with his father, the way he can’t stop seeing it, the way he’s seeing it more intensely and more sickeningly, the way it seems to be getting worse and worse.
“Maybe,” he says.
Skinny Mary sits back in her creaking chair. “All coming clear now?”
He nods.
“How do I get rid of it?” he asks.
She laughs, smoke coming out in puffs. “Oh, Jon Snow.”
“What?” he asks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You drink up. That’s your answer. Your answer is no, you can’t change it, no because you are a monster, and you already kind of knew that, and you hate it, so you drink. Now drink up.”
He looks down at the glass, then looks around. It’s just the three of them now, the Baron and Skinny Mary and him. Brett’s gone, the Dogs are gone. “How’m I getting home?” he asks.
Skinny Mary sighs and shakes her head. “Well, he’s not walking,” she says, “not with the Thing out there. And I’m not letting any of my babies go in case it’s out and prowling.”
The Baron sits forward. “My Horses will take you home. But none of the seelie are gonna want to risk meeting the Thing, and the Thing’s a night hunter, so you’re gonna have a late night.”
“This doesn’t seem like the safest building to shelter in,” James says. “What with a tornado warning. Shouldn’t we get somewhere safe?”
There’s a long, long silence. Then Skinny Mary starts laughing. She laughs so hard smoke starts coming out of her mouth again. The Baron laughs too, his hands tightening on his cane, the golden tip thumping on the floor.
“You’re a gas, James van Helsing,” the Baron says. “An absolute gas. Now, you like ghost stories?”
James doesn’t, but he nods all the same.
Five
HE WAKES up in his bed, world fuzzy at the edges, his head throbbing like there’s a clamp around it. That was, without a doubt, the weirdest fucking dream of his life. He rolls over in bed and covers his eyes with his arm. He’s still fully dressed, even has his shoes on, and his shirt smells like scented candles and chocolate cigarillos, and his head is pounding with a mixed-booze hangover headache. So it wasn’t a dream at all.
Jesus, he thinks. I’m alive.
He’s actually startled.
He rolls back over and looks at the clock on his bedside table. The glowing green face tells him it’s 11:40, and that it’s Wednesday, just like it should be. He’s late for work, but he’s the boss’s son, and nobody’s going to get him into trouble if he doesn’t show up promptly at nine. Or ten. Or at all, really.
He checks his phone for messages. There’s something from Abe, he doesn’t bother with that one, and there’s a text from Gabe. That one he checks.
Can I see you?
He reads it a couple of times to be sure he’s read it right. It’s hours old, and it could mean just about anything.
Slept in, he texts back, still want to come by?
He’s hardly put it down when his phone buzzes. Yes. Now ok?
Y.
His phone rings then, and he swears at it, because nobody needs a hangover, a headache, and a ringtone all at once. “Yeah, what?”
“James?”
Abe. Shit. He sounds upset, voice tight and too high-pitched.
“Hey, yeah. Sorry.” He’s not sure what he should be sorry for, but there’s probably something. “Crazy night last night, and I guess I slept in. Just saw your message.”
“Did you talk to Mom?”
He muffles his no by rubbing his face with his hand. “No,” he says again. “Literally just getting out of bed. What’s going on? You okay?”
“Oh, man, you haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Uncle Abraham,” Abe says softly. “Mom says Uncle Abraham’s dead. Happened last night.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Mom says… Mom says it was an attack.”
“Wait, what? Uncle Abraham?”
“Yuko found him this morning. He and Dad were supposed to meet, but he didn’t show, so Yuko went looking for him. She said it….”
James leans forward in bed, elbows braced on knees, forehead in one hand.
“C’mon, Abe.”
“She said it looks supernatural. Not magic, though.”
“Sidhe?” James asks, feeling stupid. It’s the only other option. There aren’t any vamps in New Glamis County, and it’s the wrong season for werewolves. It’s either magic or sidhe, and if Yuko says it’s not magic….
“Yuko says not, but… but the thing is….” James hears Abe lick his lips. “Yuko said it was a fucking mess in there. If it was a human, if it was just a murder, it was… bad. It’s got to be sidhe. Or maybe the Thing.”
James feels sick. “Oh Jesus,” he whispers.
“Uncle Abraham’s room has roof access. A sidhe might have come in through there and got out and nobody would have heard anything.”
He doesn’t tell Abe that can’t be right. It’s not like he can say, Oh, I was hanging out with Skinny Mary and the Baron last night, so it couldn’t have been their people. I’m sure I would have known. Jesus. Bad enough he’s got this little drinking problem of his, and a boner for Gabe, and now he knows the worst is true about what he is. If it comes out that he’s a fixer, that’s one thing. An iron bolt through that hand and an Alaskan work camp in his future. But if it comes out that he’s a fixer and he’s been hanging out with the sidhe? Jesus. Won’t matter that Abe’s sidhe too. James is the only one who was unaccounted for last night. The last thing he needs to do is be pointing a finger at himself.
“Hey, uh, I gotta go,” Abe whispers. “Mom’s asking for me again. Listen, you okay?”
He nods, then remembers it’s a phone. “Yeah. Just kinda….”
“Taking it all in. I know. It’s bad.” Abe’s voice is soft. “I know we’re not close or anything, but we’re family, Jamie. If you… I mean….”
“Yeah. Thanks. And thanks for letting me know.”
“Okay.”
He hangs up and rubs his forehead for a minute. Then he hauls himself to his feet and pads out to the kitchen, to the little coffeemaker. He switches it on, stands staring at it while it burbles, dumps a little whiskey into the cup with the cream and the sugar, and then pours the coffee on top of it.
SOMEONE KNOCKS on his door. He could go open it, but it’s probably Rob coming to tell him the news. He passes a hand over his sleep-squashed hair as if it’s going to make any difference and then calls, “It’s open,” and waits. It’s not Rob. It’s Gabe. He’d already forgotten Gabe was on his way.
Gabe’s pale. He hesitates at the threshold, like a monster who hasn’t been invited in. Then he comes through and closes the door behind him. His eyes are red and swollen, his nose too.
“Hey,” Gabe whispers. “Did, uh, did anybody tell you the news yet?”
“Just got it from Abe,” James says.
Gabe looks around the room like he’s seeking something, and he clasps and unclasps his hands before him. James frowns.
“You okay?” James asks quietly. “You look kinda messed up.”
It ought to be the other way around. James is blood with Uncle Abraham, not G
abe, but Gabe looks small and lost, he leaned out when he started doing fieldwork and now he’s swimming in a suit that’s too big for him. He looks like a child at a wedding who’s not sure what he ought to be doing or what he ought to have done. For a heartbeat he stands silent, looking at James. Then he shakes his head.
“I didn’t,” he blurts.
James blinks.
“Didn’t what?”
Gabe’s mouth twists. He rolls his shoulders like he’s working to free the words. “We both saw the card,” he says, almost accusatory. “I know what it looks like, but I didn’t do it. I didn’t.”
James hesitates before he answers. He’s never seen Gabe like this, so distressed he’s pulling at his fingers, rubbing hard at his hands. “What are you talking about? Why would I think…?”
“The card, the card. I….”
And he realizes with a jolt. Gabe had been Death in the cards, and Uncle Abraham had been trampled underfoot. Gabe must see him get it. He comes forward, hands open, palms out.
“I didn’t, Jamie. I swear I didn’t. You believe me, right?”
“Oh my God, of course,” he says, pushing off from the counter. “Of course I do. That’s insane. It’s stupid.”
“I swear I didn’t.”
“I know, Gabe. You don’t have to tell me.”
Gabe’s probably closer to Uncle Abraham than James is. Shouldn’t have been that way, but he and Uncle Abraham never had much in common, but Gabe plays chess and the old man liked a game once in a while.
“It’s what everybody’s saying in the halls. Those fucking cards, those fucking cards. I thought we were going to keep them out of sight. Everybody’s seen them.”
“Everybody?”
“Yeah, well.” Gabe glares at him. “It’s not like they were in the cage like they were supposed to be, were they?”