Impostor Syndrome

by Mishell Baker

  “Maybe I can distract him,” said Claybriar. “I did promise him some nymphs. If he takes them to the receiving area to entertain them, that’ll leave the Gate and the front door unwatched for a few, and you can slip out without having to enchant him.”

  “But he broke the deal.”

  “That means I don’t have to pay up. Doesn’t mean I can’t.”

  “Fine. Go find your nymphs. Caryl and I will amuse ourselves while we wait.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Claybriar with a grin. “I’ll bet you will.”

  What, could he smell it on us? Caryl, currently the poster child for mood swings, burst into nervous giggles.

  The look Claybriar gave me before walking away through the trees was equal parts amused and chiding but, strangely, not at all shocked.

  17

  The moment Claybriar was out of sight, Caryl returned to me, slipping an arm around my back and leaning her head against my shoulder.

  “Do you think he minds?” she said. Not even asking if he’d figured out what we were up to in his absence.

  “He’s uh . . . pretty solidly poly,” I said. “I think he just sort of assumes everyone else is too.”

  “Are you?” Her breath warmed my neck as she spoke.

  “No,” I said. “I just suck at self-control.”

  “Is that what this is?” She drew back to look up at me.

  I looked down into her face, at her lips all rosy from cold and kisses, and forgot she’d asked me a question. I guess that was my answer. I kissed her again. She melted into it, shivered as I settled a hand on the nape of her neck.

  After a moment I drew back, rested my forehead against hers.

  “I’m so pleased,” she said, her eyes still closed, “that I can even respond appropriately.”

  “Your pillow talk needs work,” I murmured against her temple.

  “Find a place with pillows,” she said, “and I’ll work all you like.”

  The bestial quality of the lust provoked by those words was perversely what caused me to withdraw. Claybriar had said something to me back in the fall, about the way lust worked for him before his contact with me awakened his higher thought. What I was feeling reminded me too much of that; I felt that my already tenuous self-control was being decimated by the whims of prurient spirits. I was not okay with that.

  “I apologize,” said Caryl as I withdrew. She sounded a little panicky. “That was too far.”

  “Everything that happened since we went through that Gate was too far,” I said, but when I turned and saw the look on her face I regretted my words. “But it was good,” I amended clumsily. “Not smart, and not fair to do without at least having a conversation with Zach about what the fuck he and I are, but . . . very hot. I’ve wanted to do that for a while. I enjoyed the hell out of it. Thank you.”

  “Thank you?” she repeated with a blank look. Then she gave a strange, vague laugh, and her gaze wandered off into the trees. I checked her hands; they were shaking. Damn it. “How long do you suppose Claybriar will be?” she said.

  “I have no idea how long it takes to round up nymphs.”

  “That may depend upon whether he intends to do more than round them up.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I sighed. “Wouldn’t put it past the little goat.”

  I couldn’t look at Caryl. I admired the forest, feeling as hazy as it looked. Shock, smugness, guilt, and hilarity mingled in my head. I’d just made out with my boss.

  “How would I get to the palace, the White Rose, from here?” I asked.

  “Inadvisable, for you,” said Caryl. “A long trek through territory covered in fragile spellwork.”

  “But if I needed to, later?”

  “Well, if you’re leaving from Los Angeles, I’d advise using the portals.” She smoothed her hair where my hands had been. The least of the places they’d been. “The journey from LA4 to Skyhollow’s estate should not be difficult, assuming you wear the protective suit we’ve made for you. Then you’d use the portal there that leads directly to the White Rose.”

  “Is a portal the same thing as a Gate?”

  “No. You will see. Showing you is easier than explaining.”

  “You’ve always been awfully light on explanations,” I said, daring a glance at her. She was avoiding looking at me, too. “It’s amazing I got through the whole ordeal with Vivian, as little as you told me.”

  “People learn best when the knowledge is about to be put to immediate practical use.”

  “You know what, Caryl? I think you’re actually pretty good at your job.”

  She glanced at me at that, but then quickly away. “I appreciate the sentiment,” she said, “but I do not know if I believe you.”

  “Nobody ever believes they’re any good,” I said. “Like my dad. He moved more real estate than anybody in the tristate area, but he was always so driven, like he was trying to prove something to—I don’t even know who.”

  “To you?”

  “Pfft. No. Unless I got in trouble, he forgot he had a daughter.”

  But her words still burned, as though I’d been sprayed with hot glue. To you? I took a deep breath, but it didn’t help; the minty air made my eyes sting. So I just started crying, as Arcadia demanded. Caryl took a step toward me, but I turned away.

  “Speaking of hysteria,” I said, dashing at my eyes with the heel of my hand, “how are we going to fly you back home without Elliott? Can Caveat do the same spell?”

  Caryl wrung her hands. “She wouldn’t. Too intimate.”

  “You should call Elliott back, Caryl.”

  She shook her head, tears filling her eyes. “If Fred remembers we were there, he’ll notify Dame Belinda immediately. She’ll retaliate.”

  “We’ve already established she can’t make facades of us, and if she could use blood to control us, wouldn’t she have just done that to Tjuan instead of going to the trouble of copying him?”

  “The vials are small,” said Caryl. She held her thumb and finger apart, demonstrating. “Likely she couldn’t compel him long enough to have him purchase a handgun and commit a crime. But it wouldn’t take long to make you, for example, step in front of a truck.”

  I shuddered. “Do you think she’d do that?”

  “Not without cause. Let us not give her one. Elliott will understand. He and I are of one mind.” She was about to wear through her gloves, with all the wringing.

  “If you’re so in sync, then why didn’t you just ask him?”

  “I panicked!” Caryl put both hands in her hair, took a few deep, slow breaths. Dropped her hands. “He’ll understand. He will.”

  “Well, we’re not getting you on a plane like this.”

  She paced, clearly trying to think. “I can get to the White Rose from here on foot; it isn’t far. I’ll go with Claybriar when he returns, follow him to the portal.”

  “How are you going to explain your presence in Daystrike?”

  “I won’t. I’ll use another ward spirit to cloak myself. It will leave the Residence a bit more vulnerable, but not for long. I’ll take the portal to Skyhollow, and then Caveat can replace the ward once I return to Los Angeles. I’ll be there before you are.”

  “Claybriar said people can’t sneak into the White Rose.”

  “They cannot. But the portal to Skyhollow is not inside the palace; it is on the ground nearby. Near the prison.”

  “The prison?”

  “A sort of dungeon. Underground.”

  “Well I guess you’d really better not get caught, huh?”

  “Claybriar will be with me, and we are both very familiar with the area.”

  “Speak of the horny devil . . .” I tipped my head toward the trees behind her, where Claybriar was returning with a nymph on either arm.

  We’d been calling them nymphs, but truth be told, I had no idea what they were. They weren’t sidhe, because every sidhe I’d ever seen had wings. These two were clearly native to Daystrike, all in shades of silver and white, their wais
t-length hair touched by a hint of the canopy’s eerie glow. Their eyes were black and soulless, their lips full; the unsteady moonlight played over their slender bodies like candlelight on silk. They looked enough alike that if I’d closed my eyes for a moment they could have switched places without my knowing.

  “Come on,” said Claybriar as his hooves crunched through the snow toward us. “Let’s get those two into the hands of that lucky old man while they’re still eager to meet him.”

  “Why am I even considering asking what that means?”

  “I wouldn’t,” he said. “Let’s just go.”

  “Caryl’s going to head back to the portal with you when you return,” I said.

  “I’ll be borrowing a ward spirit to cloak myself,” she clarified.

  “Can you make sure she gets home safely?” I asked him.

  He studied me a moment, then nodded solemnly. “I promise to see Caryl safely back to Los Angeles.” A fey promise. Good. “Don’t follow me through the Gate until I say it’s clear.”

  I watched the sway of nymph hips as the two allowed themselves to be led toward the Gate. “This night has been an unmitigated disaster,” I said.

  “All things considered,” said Caryl, “I think we’ve done a superlative job of mitigating it. Before you go, give me the Vessel.”

  Only then did I remember, touch my jeans pocket, feel the rolled-up fabric I’d rammed in there. Mess aside, we’d done it. We’d actually fucking done it.

  I started to withdraw the bag, then hesitated.

  “No,” I said. “This feels like a bad idea.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I don’t want you running off with this thing halfway across Arcadia. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but—yeah, honestly, right now I don’t trust you. My whole plan hinges around this thing.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Caryl. “If you are going to hold on to it, however, I suggest that you do not let it out of your sight.”

  • • •

  I had some explaining to do when I got back to the hotel in the wee hours of Monday without Caryl or Elliott and with a priceless artifact crammed into my pocket, but it wasn’t by far the worst loop I’d thrown Alvin for in the last few months, so he just shrugged and sighed and bought us our return flights. He was heading straight back to New Orleans, and Caveat wasn’t much of a conversationalist, so essentially I flew home alone.

  After eleven hours of fitful sleep I arrived only three hours after I’d left; it was still Monday. A fucking endless Monday. Caryl had gotten there before me, as promised; she was at Residence Four, in fact.

  Caryl, without Elliott, after what we’d done . . . I was braced for adolescent drama. But to my bewilderment, she seemed to be at no higher than a 4 or so on the stress scale. She didn’t demand explanations or clarifications; it was almost as though nothing had happened.

  “Brand is still in crow form at Skyhollow estate,” she informed me grimly. “But I have been in contact with Shock, who has been furtively working on a new facade for him. He insists it is only to repair his mistake, but I believe his loyalty to Barker may be weakening. I assume you still have the Vessel? Or did you transfer it to Alvin?”

  “I think I’m going to hang on to it until Shock is on board. The fewer times it changes hands, the better I’ll feel. How’s Tjuan been doing? Can we go and check in on him? Maybe bring him a pizza or something?”

  “It is too dangerous,” she said. “The police may have us under surveillance. But it is good that you are thinking of him, as he has clearly been thinking of you. Come, look at this.”

  She led me to a cardboard box on the living room couch.

  I lifted the lid off the box and pulled out what was now a neoprene shirt, separate from the trousers folded beneath it.

  “Tjuan did this?” I said with a disbelieving laugh.

  “Indirectly, through Abigail at Residence One,” said Caryl. “He had Gary pick up the suit and deliver it to her after work.”

  “Abigail? For real?”

  “She was once employed in wardrobe at Paramount, and apparently she still finds that sort of work soothing.”

  I put the shirt carefully back into the box. “Remind me to go and visit her sometime,” I said. “Bring her some cookies or something. Maybe Gary, too, once I’m allowed to go to the motel. Tjuan, I hope to repay with something a lot better than cookies.”

  Caryl gave me an appalled look, then shook her head as she walked away.

  “I meant freeing him, Caryl,” I said to her back. “Jesus.”

  Whatever. I was hungry.

  After I’d made myself a snack and a terrible cup of black coffee, I tried to find Caryl again, but by then she was occupied with one of Alondra’s biweekly meltdowns. Alondra had managed to lose her phone and was sure she was going to be fired for it, have her memory wiped. PTSD from New York, apparently.

  At first I tried to just wait it out. It was weird hearing Caryl try to calm someone down when she didn’t have Elliott. She was so affronted that Alondra thought she’d fire her over a phone that she made it all about herself, which wasn’t exactly soothing. Eventually Song intervened, started doing her Mom Thing at both of them, but by then I’d given up and grabbed the suit to take it up to my room. I wasn’t going to have a productive conversation with Caryl anytime soon, it seemed.

  When I finally recharged my own phone and started it up, I found a series of subtly plaintive texts from Zach, culminating in this monologue:

  Ok it’s been a week, guess this is over. Figured you’d have more balls than to just ghost on me, but ok. Consider this tho, I really am sry. I tried to understand, ask urself why I tried. Ask urself if it matters and if not then ok, won’t bother you again.

  That was more words than I’d ever heard him say all at once even in person. I sat staring at my phone, jet lag layered on top of a possible concussion and the jet lag I hadn’t gotten over yet from before. After a minute I texted him back:

  Dude sorry i was literally out of the country i am jetlagged as fuck can you give me a day or 2

  And then I reached into the pocket of my jeans and took out the ancient fey artifact that was wadded up in there. What the hell was I supposed to do with it? Nowhere felt safe.

  I carefully opened it up to peer inside and was instantly sorry. My eyes watered and my ears rang. I smelled copper. When I wiped my nose, I saw a smear of red on the back of my hand.

  “Holy fuck,” I said, and threw the thing across the room. Even as I did so, I felt a little dizzy at the idea that I was actually throwing an infinite interdimensional void, a phaseless nothingness filled with unused facades and God only knew what else. Brand’s real body, for one.

  Wait. How did this thing work?

  I went to pick it up again, rolled it carefully, slipped it back into my jeans pocket. I put a hand over it, considering.

  Could we use it to get Brand’s body out of the void somehow, or could we only remove things that had been put into the void via the bag to begin with? Because if we could get Brand back now, rather than later, he could take Belinda’s wraith army out of commission. Which, among other things, meant that whichever wraith was piloting Tjuan’s facade—my money was still on Qualm—couldn’t cause any more trouble.

  I grabbed my phone, opened Tumblr, sent Shock another ask.

  Hey just curious, what if u could somehow shove the crow into the in between void place, would that force the orig body out of there where we could get at it and if so could u redo the enchant?

  While I was still typing, my phone made the text-from-Zach splash sound.

  I finished the ask and sent it, then felt a clenching in my gut. I just knew that since I’d avoided drama with Caryl, karma was now going to explode through the medium of Zach and send me straight into dysphoric meltdown. But all his text said was:

  Ok

  I went back to Tumblr and obsessively refreshed my messages, tried to psychically will Shock to reply, but of course he’d chosen that mo
ment to be busy. So I took the phone to my bed and lay down, resting my aching bones, closing my eyes for a moment.

  When I opened them, the sun was coming up; the longest Monday in the history of the universe was finally over. Ironically, it was now Groundhog Day.

  I had to piss like a geriatric racehorse, but first I checked Tumblr.

  Like Zach’s, Shock’s message was one word long.

  Yes.

  18

  Not far from the LA4 Gate, Arcadia side, was a path to Duke Skyhollow’s estate. I’d glimpsed it before when Caryl first sneaked me into fairyland to negotiate with our manticore friend, back when he was terrorizing Skyhollow out of rage at his lost chance to meet his Echo.

  The path looked like a heat mirage over the golden sand, long and serpentine and leading to what appeared to be distant haze-cloaked towers against the apricot sky on the horizon.

  I hadn’t bothered trying on my suit for this Tuesday afternoon visit, because if it protected the path’s spellwork from me, it stood to reason it would also protect me from the spellwork. That meant with the suit on I wouldn’t be able to keep up with Caryl and Claybriar and without it I’d destroy the path, so I had to stay behind. I did put on some latex gloves, out of respect for Claybriar.

  I wasn’t willing to let anyone else take the Medial Vessel out of my sight, so the two of them had to go and bring Brand back to where I waited near the LA4 Gate. They needed me not only because I was keeping an iron grip on the Vessel, but because if Brand decided to start cursing people the minute he popped out of there I could whip off my gloves and fix everything with my iron touch.

  I also happened to be the only person Brand was 100 percent unwilling to eat.

  When Caryl and Claybriar returned from their trip to the estate, Claybriar was carrying the crow in a dainty wooden cage. The bird looked neither happy nor healthy. Claybriar looked strangely smug. Caryl was in her element, having been brought in on all the geeky details by Shock via text message, so her stress level was fairly low.

  “He lets me handle him sometimes,” said Claybriar, standing there in the bright sun in the full shirtless glory of his native form. “So I’m probably the best person to do the actual, uh . . .” He mimed cramming something into a bag.