Skinner Luce

  Lucy almost feels kind of bad for them. It’s not like they have the easiest job. But it’s rare that a sentry goes down, whereas this busload of flesh and nervous blinking eyes and tinkling sequins, they may as well be carcasses.

  The bus speeds northwards, alone on the empty highway.

  You will get out.

  THE MANSION STANDS AGAINST the starred sky, the pale stone lit by moonlight. They’re somewhere in Maine, Lucy overheard. Lights flicker behind the drapes. A limo is parked in the circular gravel driveway, waiting to deliver the Nafikh back to the Gate.

  A murmur rises inside the bus as they pull up. Hisses, intakes of breath, groans as their Sources respond to the nearby Nafikh. They creep out of the van one by one, proffering their arms for the doses being administered by Malik.

  “Add some extra,” Lucy pleads.

  His eyes flick away. “Just go through the motions. You’ll be fine.”

  She leans back against the van, feeling the powerful drugs take effect, like syrup sliding through her limbs. The relief is monumental. She wishes Gabriel were here. She detects the salty smell of ocean in the air, wonders how far they are from a beach.

  “I don’t want to,” the little girl complains fearfully. “I want to go back to my bunk.”

  “You’re going to be fine, Annabelle,” Malik reassures her. “Just stay out of sight after presenting, O.K.?”

  “What’s with the little princess,” someone whines. “How about putting her up front and getting it over with?”

  One of the more seasoned servs whips around, furious. “How stupid are you, Cora?”

  “Who the fuck are you to call me stupid, you hag!”

  Lucy edges away, not wishing to get involved. The whiner is a pretty young thing in her twenties, her hair in a sharp bob, lips bright red. She can’t have done too many Services; you never put a kid up front. They can’t control their reactions, and before you know it, they’ve upset the Nafikh and all hell breaks loose. The best bet when kids are called for, unless they’re seasoned and know the ropes, is to pass them by the Nafikh and then divert Their attention away quickly. Lucy watches from some distance away as young Cora gets schooled on these facts, looking petulant and pissed off.

  When it comes to Annabelle’s turn for dosing, Malik goes down on one knee to administer it. He strokes the girl’s arm before slipping the needle in. The dose is far more than what a girl her size can tolerate. She’ll get presented, pass out, and the sentries will smuggle her out of sight. It’s all in the timing.

  THE OPIATES RELAX AND muffle and diffuse. It is like gliding through a wonderland of painlessness. A serv’s life is pain: Our currency is grief, that’s how the saying goes. But in Service, once that needle’s bled out its treasure, the pain lifts away, a kite wafting and fluttering up and away, and the body’s left light and airy. Lucy’s feet lift and fall. She’s drifting on a wave, smiling. She doesn’t want to smile, but the Nafikh require that. They want their servants to be happy. She doesn’t feel happy. She feels nothing, which makes her happy, not in her body but far away in the kitestream of her mind.

  You will get out.

  They file in. The mansion is aglow with candles giving off the thick scent of roses. Lucy blinks, taking it all in: marble floors, swirled marble columns, a majestic stairway curving up and away to other levels. If her life slid just a little bit sideways, she’d be a princess entering a castle, not what she is. She floats forward, her fear a bed of coals deep inside her belly. There’s a fountain up ahead. A sculpture of three cherubs dancing with jugs, water pouring over multicolored jewels. The Nafikh like color and light. There is one naked in the sparkling water, Her yellow braids dripping, ivory skin shining wet. That’s Gretel, Lucy has Served Her before, She’s all right. She is enchanted by water. Her long hands swirl in the water, round and round. Her muscles ripple, Her every motion fluid like a predator cat.

  Some of the servs are sent into the fountain to help Her play. Gretel tugs at their clothes. They undress immediately so as not to distress the Nafikh, whose desires must be met without hesitation. Their dresses lie strewn on the wet floor, which sucks because they’ll have to put them on again later, and it’s so cold out. But they’ve got the better deal, Lucy knows. Gretel is in a dreamy, mystified mood, and She’s tiring out. She just wants to touch and stroke, She craves softness. Water, cushions, lips, snow. Attending a Nafikh in this state is a cakewalk. Lucy edges forward, hoping to get chosen, her smile wide and inviting. Gretel’s gaze shifts towards her, big bright green eyes, and Lucy senses at once the roiling void within, sucking at her, hungry. Sickness swirls in her stomach and she fights to keep her balance, to keep smiling. A sentry grips her arm, guiding her away.

  “No,” Lucy says, pointing at Gretel.

  The sentry—it’s Roy, the driver—gives her arm a warning squeeze, as in, Shut up.

  Up ahead are doors decorated with painted vines and angels. Lucy blinks, trying to take stock. She should have grabbed something to eat on the way out, she thinks regretfully, the emotion inordinately overwhelming. If only she’d eaten. If only. Roy comes into focus. He is consulting his tablet. He points at them one by one. “Lucy, Patrice, Cora. You’re coming with me. Keep your wits. Go with the flow.”

  “We have to bring in the girl,” Sina reminds him.

  Lucy turns her head, every movement slow, dreamlike. Sees Annabelle pressed close to the sentry, her huge eyes glassy and distant.

  “We’ll do it fast,” Roy says. “Who’s diverting?”

  Lucy hangs back with the rest of them. Her cowardice is hideous. She can’t help it. Far away in some other part of her mind, she pictures herself heroically stepping forward, but her actual body is leaden, motionless.

  Sina says, “You do it.”

  For a second Lucy’s stomach clenches up with dismay. But Sina is addressing Cora. Her face is a mask of shock and outrage. You reap what you sow.

  “Ready?” Roy nods. He shoves the doors wide open.

  “Fuck,” Sina mutters. The Nafikh is on His hands and knees, retching. This isn’t good. His huge, muscled body heaves and shudders, mouth wide open. He has no clue what’s happening. The sentry manning the room is getting a jug ready for washing up.

  “Khajja reyyk!” The Nafikh bellows, scrabbling in His vomit. “Khajja afeel!”

  Lucy has no clue what He’s saying. It sounds like cursing. She sidles to the left, making sure to steer wide of Cora in case the sentries decide she needs a hand.

  The Nafikh stops all motion, going from bestial lunacy to dazed stillness in a heartbeat. The sentry moves forward, gently inserts a needle into the Nafikh’s back. He actually does look like Rambo, with hooded eyes and damp black ringlets plastered to His forehead. He is meek before the sentry, allowing the ministrations with barely any movement.

  The sentry backs away. Sina steps forward with Annabelle.

  “Dalla,” Sina says. Lucy knows that word. All servs know it.

  Child.

  The Nafikh twitches, turns. He rises to His full height. He is monstrous, towering over the diminutive girl. Nafikh are always big, but first-timers are so scared They’ll be harmed, They tend to be slabbed with crazy muscle, like body-builders on steroids. Annabelle tilts her head back, looking up at Him as instructed, and Lucy assumes she’s smiling as hard as possible; she can’t see as the girl’s back is to her.

  Rambo bends, reaching out with His forefinger. Annabelle sways at His touch, almost falls over. She’s on her own now. The sentries always back off, it’s what They want.

  Annabelle’s long hair is tied in a blue bow, her sequined top glittery in the candlelight. The Nafikh prods her, turning her this way and that. Somehow, she manages to stay on her feet despite being handled. Her face is a dull mask, mouth dragged open in a sagging smile, like she’s really trying to make her face keep doing what it’s supposed to but the drugs are winning out.

  The Nafikh’s thick brows come together in an exaggerated frown, His whole face working the
expression. His unhappiness with the stumbling, unresponsive child is obvious.

  “Go,” Sina hisses at Cora.

  Cora utters a squeak. Her red-nailed hand claws at the sentry’s arm in mute resistance. Sina gives her a shove. Cora pitches forward, her heels clattering the marble. The Nafikh swings His head, fixates on her. The sentry who just dosed Him glides forward and gathers Annabelle in one smooth motion, strides away. Rambo doesn’t even blink, riveted by Cora’s glittering silver dress. He reaches out, grabs her by the neck, and yanks. She opens her mouth to scream, then remembers it’s the noise the Nafikh hate most, fixes her face in a rigid smile. The Nafikh rips her dress off. He lurches backwards, holding the dress aloft in both hands, turning it so it catches the light. Cora just stands there, rictus grin in place, her knees locked together because she’s peed herself. While the Nafikh’s back is turned, another serv rushes over with wipes. Cora’s so stricken she can’t do it herself. She’s gonna pay for that, Lucy thinks, noting the savagery with which the other serv wipes her down. Stupid cow.

  LUCY CAN’T MOVE. SHE can’t believe she has to go in again. The first-timer’s lasting longer than anyone expected. Who knows why, He just is, but she won’t go back in. She can’t. She shakes her head, No, please, no. Realizes her mouth is opening, closing, no sound coming out. The bass beat booming through the golden doors threatens to topple her. Her legs are breaking toothpicks, her insides mangled and hurting. She only just got dressed again. Malik shakes his head, gestures her forward. She can tell he feels rotten about it. I can’t, she mouths. She gives in to the tears that have threatened all evening. She’s ready to grovel, weep, do anything but walk through that door.

  Someone grabs her elbow and shoves her forward. It’s Sina.

  “No!” she cries. “He already had me twice! Send someone else!” She’s sobbing like a baby now. “They won’t want me this way, They’ll get mad,” she blubbers. “What if They blow?”

  “If They blow, it’ll be on you,” Sina snaps. “Come on, pull yourself together. It’s gonna end any minute.”

  “Please don’t make me,” Lucy begs.

  She hangs on Sina’s arm, dead weight.

  “You want ten more penalty?” Sina whips around, slaps her. “Get. It. Together!”

  That does the trick. Lucy ceases all protest. There’s no point. There’s never any point. She takes the offered tissue and wipes her eyes. Her whole body is shaking. Sina waits, breathing heavily, not meeting her eyes. She feels bad, Lucy acknowledges. Of course she does. They all do.

  “Ready?”

  Lucy clenches her teeth. She nods. Malik leans a little, shoves open the door.

  THE NAFIKH TURN SIMULTANEOUSLY, sinuous and animal in Their motions. Rambo lost His manners way back, if He ever absorbed any to begin with, and Gretel is losing Hers. Lucy’s heard it said that the Nafikh in Their true form are fire, and maybe it’s true, the way They flicker this way and that, the way They dance when They walk.

  Somewhere along the way Gretel became more enchanted with Her companion’s antics than the fountain. She’s wearing a top hat with a long red ribbon, and is otherwise naked. Blood smears Her stomach and legs. Cora is curled up at Her feet. She’s still alive, despite the screams they all heard a short while ago. Rambo has changed. He’s in a tuxedo, the white shirt stained and rumpled, hanging out of His unzipped pants.

  “Help me,” a tiny voice cries.

  Lucy whips around. It is Annabelle, peeking out from behind a column etched with a green vine pattern. The stone is so shiny, Lucy notes. The room is gorgeous, lofty, marbled, hung with portraits of long-ago, stern figures in capes and soft caps. She doesn’t know why Annabelle is back in here. The Nafikh must have asked for her, then gotten distracted again. She signals Annabelle to stay hidden behind the column. It is too late. Rambo steps forth, alight with curiosity. His eyes bore into the child.

  Annabelle’s mouth collapses open. She’s trembling violently. Lucy lifts her finger to her lips. Shhh, she mouths. Shhhh. But Annabelle can’t make a sound anyway, she’s so petrified. This is good. Smile, Lucy mimes. Smile.

  She can’t, she’s a crumpling mess, her face stretched in all the wrong ways, terrified. Rambo takes another rigid step, and another.

  Malik edges into view. He murmurs at Rambo, making a sweeping, inviting wave to the other side of the room, where Lucy is standing. Lucy plasters on her smile, anticipating the Nafikh’s response.

  Instead, He raises His arm, backhands Malik across the face. The sentry flies several feet through the air, lands in a heap on the floor.

  Annabelle screams.

  Rambo’s head swivels instantly, teeth bared in a grimace.

  “Hello,” Lucy croaks, to offer diversion.

  The Nafikh turns towards her.

  Lucy stands openmouthed, staring. She hasn’t said a word. She’s just imagined it. She can’t do it, she doesn’t have the guts. The Nafikh is still fixated on the screaming girl. Her shrill cries fill the domed room. Gretel spins around, Her face drawn with dread. Both Nafikh dart towards Annabelle with speedy, hungry grace. Lucy is dimly aware of the door opening, more sentries rushing in.

  Though what can they do? What can they possibly do?

  Gretel reaches Annabelle first. She seizes Annabelle by the neck, lifts her into the air, choking off the noise.

  There is the shuffling, grunting noise of the girl fighting for breath, her thin legs kicking in the air. Gretel goes into a state, turning this way and that with Her catch, legs bent in a crouch, defensive panic mode. Sina approaches, speaking swiftly, soothingly. It does no good. Annabelle squirms and shudders, driving the Nafikh into more of a frenzy. She hurls the girl aside. Annabelle hits the marble wall hard, falls to the floor.

  Stillness.

  The stick-thin legs, the jumble of elbows and knees, the thick hair tumbled all over the floor, glint of red sequins. One pointed red shoe on its side, some feet away.

  Roy holds up his hand. Lucy sees his mouth moving but can’t hear. There’s a roaring in her ears. Gretel wends towards the sentry, willing to take him up on whatever he’s saying. She spins a braid around Her forefinger, staring back at Her companion, Her round face slack and bored under the top hat. Rambo crouches down next to Annabelle. He prods her with His forefinger. He lifts the arm, then starts to twist it.

  “Pajjeh,” Gretel commands suddenly, blue eyes boring into Lucy.

  For a moment, Lucy does not know what the word means. Then she starts singing, the first song that pops into her head: Silent Night.

  The Nafikh listens, head tilted. The top hat slides a little, falls off.

  As Lucy sings, Rambo drags Annabelle’s corpse away from the wall. He starts pulling it apart. Lucy glimpses bone in the clumped red flesh, and an upturned, open hand. She shifts a little, blocking the sight, and sings. Eventually, Rambo approaches the dining table, peruses the selections, picks out some cake. He stuffs His mouth, avid, curious, examining His sticky fingers. He comes towards Lucy, crumbs falling from His smacking lips. Gretel walks away. She lifts Her hand in farewell. “Thank you very much,” She tells Lucy in stilted, slow English, per Her lessons at the Gate. Rambo lifts Lucy’s hair. He runs His fingertips over her forehead, her cheeks. He smells of wildness and blood and sweat and urine. His breathing is shallow and hard, His head bobbles on the thick neck, crusty with serv blood and tears.

  “Lakhidj,” He gags. Finish.

  The visit is over.

  Malik is back on his feet, approaching with the syringe aloft; a first-timer at the end of His rope has to be dosed, to prevent involuntary departure. Rambo stares down at Lucy. His hand comes up slowly, and He points at her. “En Nafakhsht,” He says. I made you.

  Then He collapses in a heap, revealing Malik standing behind.

  “You know what that means, right?” Malik asks, zipping the syringe back into its bag. “Don’t read anything into it. He’s been saying it all night.”

  “Sure,” Lucy agrees, “whatever.”

>   There was a time when a Nafikh saying those words stirred her up, like a kid coming upon a long lost parent. Thankfully, that time is long gone. It’s a rite of passage for every serv, to get from one side of all that longing for compassion to the other.

  Now, all she wants is to make it across the room without falling flat on her face.

  LUCY FADES INTO A semi-doze on the back seat of the van, her body lulled by the engine. Cora’s strapped in the front, probably won’t make it, but the rule is save the serv if they can, so she’ll be carted to a doctor. The ride takes forever and Lucy doesn’t want it to end, she wants to fly along the highway in this dulled state, on and on, and never have to step back into her life. She’s afloat in dreamworlds of rolling green hills and rain-smacked black roads and the ocean smashing her wooden boat and licking brine off her lips and the Matterhorn rising against a cobalt sky, herself gazing upward in a handmade hat trailing braided ties and pompoms. Every so often she’s yanked from her doze by the van slowing down or the sudden loud ticking of the turn signal. Then the truth of where she is heaves up and displaces the pretty scenes, and she smells engine oil and metal and stale leather and feels her hip bone digging into the wood plank beneath the thin upholstery. The sentry’s tuned the radio to some news station, as if real-people news matters. Lucy can’t make out any words, just the sound of voices. The space in the van feels huge and hollow, filled up with engine noise and those static murmurs. Only two of them left, and just hours ago full up and hot, the windows misted over from so many breathing bodies. Lucy stares at the leather seatback a few inches from her eyes, the lights from passing cars playing over the cracked surface. She pokes her fingertip into a tear and pulls, releasing a wad of yellowish foam stuffing.