Twixt

by Sarah Diemer

  “How did I do that?” I ask weakly, leaning against the now-solid bricks.

  With a little smile, Charlie removes her hands from her pockets, holding them out in front of her as she walks toward the wall—and right through it, disappearing.

  “You just have to think about it,” she tells me then, popping her head back out.

  “But…how is that possible?”

  Charlie reemerges fully and shrugs, and Edgar shifts his gaze to the sky, looking ill at ease.

  “Well, Lottie, like most things in Twixt, we don’t really know how it works,” he tells me finally, after clearing his throat. He breathes out. “We can just do it.”

  I blink at him, pushing hair out of my eyes.

  We walk on, but my questions torment me. There must be a reason for everything—even in Twixt. I slow, swallowing, because something gnaws at my heart just then, and I try to listen to it, try to hear, but it escapes me as another sound draws my attention, a near sound. A slithering sound.

  Something slithers down an alley just behind us, in the direction of the Wanting Market, and a heavy hush presses down against the conversations there, stifling them to whispers, and then silence.

  Charlie pales, turns, gripping Edgar’s arm. “It’s them,” she hisses, as they exchange a charged glance.

  "Oh, no…" Violet whimpers, clutching Charlie's sleeve.

  A wave of dread crests through my body. "Who—"

  Darkness pools at our feet, swirls in the air all around us. Despite my fear, I want to see, need to see, so I step forward, toward the mouth of the alleyway, even as Charlie comes after me, pressing me, face to face, against the wall, out of sight, though I still catch glimpses of the Wanting Market over her shoulder.

  “What—” I whisper, but she shakes her head, breathing hard, eyes gazing deeply into mine. I can feel her heartbeat all around me, the warmth of her palms against my bare arms.

  Safe, I think. Charlie makes me feel safe.

  But I'm not safe. I sense it, as surely as I feel Charlie's breath against my face.

  I watch, peering past Charlie's shoulder, as the shadow widens and lengthens until it eats up the square.

  And through the square walks a darkness.

  Two tall shadows prowl down the main drag of the Wanting Market. They’re cloaked and hooded, the black fabric streaming away from them like wings, the way they flow over the ground, moving like breath, like feathers, like night itself. Dragging behind them, beneath the weightlessness of their cloaks, is hair. Long black hair that extends behind them, spread out over the rubble and refuse of the street, towing within it bits of twigs, trash and debris, though the strands still shine, as only black hair can.

  When I see them, when my eyes rest upon their cloaked faces, all other thoughts fade away to nothingness. I am nothingness. I am feeling alone, and all I feel is fear.

  The two of them move in small, unnatural jerks, animal-like, for there's a feral kind of rhythm as their feet prowl, as they draw closer to us, their hoods drooping like too-wide, grinning mouths.

  “Sixers,” Charlie whispers against my ear, her breath fluttering my hair, though I already know what they are, knew the moment I first glimpsed them.

  I don't know how I knew.

  I gaze into Charlie's eyes, basking in her warmth, her safeness, as my heart pounds a different rhythm, merging with hers.

  “But there are only two,” I whisper back.

  Charlie's gaze widens, and then I feel her watching me as I watch them.

  “How did you—” she starts, but the pair of Sixers moves to the mouth of our alleyway now, and she gasps, holds her breath.

  I'm hidden. They can’t see me, not here in the shadows, not with Charlie's body pressed flat against mine. Still, the cloaked figure nearest to us pauses for a heartbeat, pauses as if suspended into stillness. The hood turns, and I suffer a terrifying moment of wonder. Maybe there’s nothing behind that hood, nothing but a void of darkness.

  I’m mesmerized, but my eyes tear away, because there’s a sudden movement beyond the two dark shapes beside us.

  A Sleeper detaches herself from the crowd that has gathered to watch the procession of the Sixers. She's a young woman, almost hairless, as smooth-headed as the old men who watch her. With a pained whimper, she collapses to her knees and crawls across the rubble, toward the Sixers. They turn to her, as one, waiting.

  When she reaches them, tugging at the edge of one black cloak, she pets the night-dark hair that’s snagged over the rocks and rubble with a thin, trembling hand.

  “Please…” I hear her whisper, her wide eyes blue and sad. “I’ve sold all of my hair, and I need Nox. I need it. Please…”

  The Sixer turns its hood—her hood. I remember now that Charlie called the Sixers women. She turns her hood and stares down at the girl who, within the Sixers’ line of sight, sags against the ground, trembling.

  “Poor child.” It’s a harsh whisper, low enough that it seems to skip over the ground. I shudder, and the girl beneath the Sixers’ gaze shudders, too. The Sixer leans forward, and I watch, speechless, astonished, as I see claw-like hands extend out of the sleeves of the cloak, toward the girl.

  The second Sixer turns now, as the first drags the girl to her feet. Whining, the girl angles away from the Sixer, and she’s crying, tears tracing down her pale cheeks in thin double lines.

  “She needs our help, sister,” says the first Sixer to the second, drawing out the word sister with a sibilant hiss.

  The second Sixer tilts her head, gazing down at the girl. She's larger than the other cloaked figure, and there’s something more imposing about her bulk, the way she remains silent, even as she and her sister continue along their way, dragging the girl by her arm.

  “No, please… I just wanted Nox!” The girl is babbling, kicking her legs, and the first Sixer tightens her claws around the girl’s arm. “No, please…”

  "Hush. Poor child. We'll help you, won't we, sister?"

  Without another word, as the girl's wails echo through the square, the Sixers pass by, and the blackness of their hair recedes, and then they are past the alley Charlie and I occupy and, a moment later, gone.

  I’m shaking so hard that I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to still myself. My palms are slick with sweat.

  When I breathe out, leaning fully against Charlie, I see Violet and Edgar crouched beside the wall across from us. Were they there all along? I was so frightened, so consumed by fear and curiosity all at once, that I hadn't noticed them, hadn't, honestly, given them a thought.

  Violet trembles worse than me, drawing in short breaths, nearly doubled over at her middle. Edgar, frowning, has his arm wrapped about her shoulders, but after a moment, she shrugs him off, leaning alone against the wall, head back, her face as pale as milk.

  “What are they going to do with her…to her?” Violet whispers, near hysterics, but no one ventures an answer to her question.

  After a tense moment, I clear my throat. “Where was the third?” I look to Charlie, who watches me, eyes narrowed. She hasn't moved away from me yet, though the Sixers have gone, and her warmth against me, around me, is a comfort I'm loathe to lose. I go on, holding her gaze: “And why are they called Sixers if there are only three…” I stop, breathe out. “There are three, aren’t they?”

  “How did you know that?” She rests her hand upon my shoulder, her face still, revealing nothing.

  “I don't know how I know. Is it true?"

  "It's true."

  Something seizes within me. I knew there were three, knew it like I know how to walk, how to breathe. But why? How? My skin crawls. "I just…know,” I tell her, voice small. "I don't know how…" I trail off, watching her as she turns back and glances to Edgar, one eyebrow raised.

  “Why did you hide me?” I ask, pushing off from the wall. She leans back, looks away, straightening her coat collar.

  “Because…” she falters, looking down at the dirty snow beneath our feet, but Violet steps forward, mou
th drawn in a quivering line.

  “Because they’re bad,” she breathes out. "I told you."

  She did tell me, and then Charlie told her not to make statements without proof. This time, though, Charlie says nothing. I gaze down at her head of soft blonde hair.

  Beyond the alley, in the Wanting Market, the people are, once again, moving about, speaking to one another, but in softer, hushed tones, and pausing to glance over their shoulders in the direction the Sixers disappeared. Maybe they're afraid they'll return.

  I'm afraid they'll return.

  No.

  I'm just afraid.

  *

  Abigail is on the porch of Mad House, waiting for us as the shadows lengthen, as the sky begins to bleed red. She sits on a rickety wooden chair, front two legs off the ground with her boots propped up against the railing. As we climb the steps, she thumps the chair down, her thin mouth twisted into a scowl.

  “Edgar, you get off this porch, and you get off it this instant.” With surprising quickness, she rises to her feet, hobbles over to Edgar and starts jabbing him in the chest with a bony knuckle. “Get off the porch, Edgar!”

  “Now, Abigail…” he begins, tipping his hat and smiling beneath his mustache.

  “Don’t now, Abigail me! Charlie, get him off the porch.” She turns on her heel, moving to stand before the front door, arms crossed, eyes squinting in an aggressive glare.

  “All right. I guess we've got to part ways," Charlie says, her voice placating, even as she grins at Edgar with an apologetic gleam in her eyes. "Well, thanks for walking us back.”

  Edgar lifts off his top hat, bowing first to Abigail, then to Charlie, Violet and me in turn, before giving us all a rogueish grin and leaping over the railing, to the ground below. "Farewell, lovelies!"

  I stare in astonishment as he races down the street at breakneck speed, finally hurling himself out of sight, around a corner.

  “Fetcher,” says Charlie to me, by way of explanation, her thumbs hooked into her coat belt loops. “We’ve gotta be fast.”

  I nod, lifting my gaze to the darkening sky.

  “Charlie, you know what I’ve told you about bringing Edgar by our place,” Abigail admonishes as she steps back from the door, allowing us to pass through it. She follows close behind, brandishing a skinny finger at Charlie’s back. “‘Charlie,’ I tells ya, over and over, ‘don’t be bringing that no-good, Nox-taking bastard back into this house,’ and what do you do? That no-good, Nox-taking bastard ends up back at Mad House time and time again!”

  “And yet he never gets through the front door,” says Charlie soothingly, sliding her coat off her shoulders and hanging it on an empty peg. “How’s Florence today?”

  “Don’t you go changing the subject with me, missy!” Abigail huffs, drawing the topmost shawl closer around her shoulders. Her mouth is set in a firm grimace. “And Florence is fine, been watched all day by Ella.”

  “Good,” sighs Charlie, glancing up the staircase. “I’m just going to go say hello to her…" She pauses, hand on the banister, foot on the first step. Her eyes seek mine and soften. I feel myself soften, too, the tension of the day loosening within me.

  "We named the new one today,” Charlie says, smiling gently. “Her name is Lottie.”

  Abigail glances at me, sniffing. “Respectable. Good. I like it.”

  “I’m glad.” Charlie’s mouth twitches up at the corners. “Vi, Lottie…you want to come see Florence with me? You don’t have to,” she adds quickly, looking to me, then ducking her head. “I know she gave you a fright yesterday. But I really want to show you…she’s not like that.”

  I consider for a long moment, remembering the silver gleam of the shears so near to my face. But I trust Charlie.

  She's watching me, waiting, and I nod once, only a small nod, and we ascend the stairs together, with Violet behind us, leaving Abigail to harrumph in the entryway before she scuttles back down the hallway, skirts swishing, grumbling beneath her breath.

  “Every time she sees Edgar, same reaction.” Charlie shakes her head. “He’s such a good sport about it. He’s the Fetcher for Black House, another Safe House,” she tells me, glancing sidelong, “and Black House and Mad House have a habit of…not liking each other very much.”

  “That’s an understatement,” Violet mutters, rolling her eyes as we reach the landing.

  “But why?” I ask.

  “Well,” says Charlie, hand on the door to Florence's room. “Like I said, we don’t take Nox here. And Black House lives for Nox.” She pauses, lowering her voice, smile slipping off her lips. “We used to live in Black House—Florence, Vi and me. Before Florence got so addicted. It wasn’t good for her. It hurt her. Changed her.” She turns away, opens the door.

  Florence sits in the middle of the floor, facing away from us, as if she's watching the window. She looks so small in the dregs of daylight seeping through the curtains, past the broken windowpanes. Her almost-bald head nods back and forth as she rocks and rocks, her thin arms clasped around her knees.

  A woman, sitting nervously on the edge of the bed, stands bolt upright when we enter, twisting her fingers together nervously.

  “Thanks, Ella,” says Charlie, nodding to her, and the woman bows her head, with a furtive glance at me, before crossing in front of us and exiting through the doorway.

  Charlie looks after her, sighs, and then steps forward.

  “Hi, Florence,” she whispers, squatting down beside the girl. “Florence, it’s Charlie…” Her voice is warm, inviting, and Florence stops rocking, turning her face slowly to take Charlie in.

  I gaze down at the two of them from a safe distance, positioned near the door, standing beside Violet.

  Florence has been crying, or maybe has been angry, because her face is flushed a blotchy crimson. She gulps down air like an animal drinking water, and then she flings her arms around Charlie’s shoulders.

  “She wouldn’t let me out, Charlie. I wanted to go outside so bad,” she whispers into Charlie’s ear, but it’s a stage whisper, loud enough for us to hear it. “Why wouldn’t she let me go outside?”

  “It’s all right, baby girl,” says Charlie quietly, wrapping her arms around Florence's frail shoulders, helping her up to her feet. “We’ll go outside tomorrow. It’s not good to go outside without me, because sometimes bad things happen…”

  Violet sniffs, exchanging a pained glance with me before she sits down on the edge of the bed, head sagging.

  “Now, Florence, honey,” says Charlie, helping her turn around so that she can see me. But she doesn’t look at me, looks everywhere but at me. Finally, her darting gaze stills upon the floor, and her hands begin to pick at one of the holes in her skirt, nervous fingers shaking as she teases at the ends of the threads, twirling them around and around and around her tiny fingers until they turn pink.

  “Florence," Charlie says, "this is Lottie. She’s a new Sleeper here. I’d love for you to meet her, say hello.”

  Florence glances up at me, but only for a heartbeat, moving her gaze down again, quickly, to the floor. There was no rage, no feral wanting, when she looked at me, but I sag a little with relief when her eyes are no longer pointed in my direction. Her glassy eyes, dull eyes, doll’s eyes.

  I realize, watching her, that she’s younger than the rest of us, a child, really. Florence is a slight little girl with almost no hair, so flimsy, so breakable that if she takes one misstep, I’m afraid she might shatter.

  Charlie holds her as if the cage of her arms can protect her from every wrong in this place, and I think that if it were entirely up to Charlie’s strength and resolve alone, she could. She gazes down at Florence's red face with a mixture of deep pain and relief.

  Florence is still here, after all. And she’s not trying to cut my hair off of my head.

  “She just has these…these episodes,” Charlie murmurs distractedly, picking Florence up as if she truly were a doll. She carries the girl to the little bed, sets her down upon it, and draws
the covers up to her chin, then gazes upon her with misty eyes.

  “One day," Charlie whispers, "she’s like this—docile. Listless. And the next, she’s desperate. The way she was when she first saw you."

  Charlie watches me with a downturn to her mouth. Then she looks away, sighing. "I want to take her outside, but I don’t know if that'll be the day that she runs after people with scissors, trying to snip off their hair.” She rubs her fingers over her face, setting her hands on her hips, staring down at Florence, who blinks slowly before closing her eyes. Her features smooth, and her breathing grows slow, even—in and out, in and out.

  “I do the best I can by her,” says Charlie. “But I don’t think it’s ever enough.”

  Violet rises from the mattress and puts a hand on Charlie’s arm, shaking her head emphatically. “You know that’s not true. We came here because of her. We promised her we’d take care of her—”

  “That was before she got like this, back when she was still Florence. She doesn’t feel like Florence anymore.” Charlie’s eyes are bright, and she blinks a few times, coughs a little, leaning away from the bed, against the wall. “Every day, bit by bit, what was Florence slips away. That’s how it always happens here." Her eyes find mine. "They just slip away, become less and less like themselves until there’s nothing left of them at all. And then they just…disappear.”

  I swallow.

  Charlie rubs at her face again, stares up toward the ceiling. “Anyway… Lottie, I’m sorry. I just… I just hate this.”

  I stare at her, wide-eyed, heart panging for her. I clear my throat, take a step forward. “I'm sorry,” I whisper to her, and she glances at me in surprise. “It must be very hard…to see your friend…” I sigh, watching Florence, lying so still upon the bed. Her eyes are open now, but her gaze is faraway, unseeing. I look to Charlie. “It seems like you care for her a great deal.”

  “A great deal,” Charlie repeats, staring at the sad little girl in the bed.

  Florence looks barely there, as if she might sink into the dirty mattress, into the floor.