by Jes Battis
“Can I come in?” I ask.
“After that entrance? How could I say no?”
“I need your help. And I need a drink.”
“There’s beer in the fridge, and I can warm you up some leftovers. How do you feel about Sky Dragon?”
“I love it.”
“Then come in.”
10
We talk until we’re delirious, until dawn bakes the windows. I tell him about the vampire who turned to water in my hands, about the Pharmakon—sorry, Modred—about my trip to the CORE reference library, which resulted in nada. We move in little pilgrimages, from the couch to the bed to the floor. We drink gin and devour salt-and-vinegar chips. He talks about Madrid before the dictatorship, about the Retiro pierced by sunlight and his wonder at seeing traffic lights for the first time, how he would watch them in silent awe. He tells me that when his abuela first saw the army of cars circling the Plaza de Cibeles, she couldn’t believe that each of them belonged to a single person. I tell him about my only friend when I was a girl, Eve, whose house burned down around me.
We lie propped on pillows, seminude and covered in chip detritus. We’ve switched from gin to ginger ale. I burn off my hangover using thermal materia, which I don’t recommend unless you know what you’re doing. Lucian makes a pearl of black flame in his hand. It’s cold to the touch. I translate the monologue of the concrete floor, which mostly involves complaints about our shoes. He promises to go barefoot more often, which I think is sensible.
“So you’ve completely forgotten how to write in smoke,” he says.
“I guess the knowledge is there somewhere. Derrick pulled it out of my mind, after all. But I can’t touch it anymore. It was only visible for a second.”
“Don’t be too hard on him.”
“Geez, that’s what Duessa said. Why is everyone rushing to defend the telepath who broke into my head?”
“Because he probably had no choice.”
“Look—” I shift position on the pillows. “I realize that I can be a monster sometimes. I’m not always the sunniest person to be around. But I would never invade the mind of my best friend.”
“Right. And you’ve never used materia on any of us.”
“Define using it on you.”
“To protect us from an attack.”
“That’s completely different.”
“Is it? Derrick and Selena were trying to help you by figuring out what your connection is to the Seneschal. And if they can learn something about his killer, isn’t that worth prowling through your memories?”
“I’m not sure I like where this is going.”
Lucian crawls over to where I’m sitting. He puts his head in my lap. It’s impossible to resent him from this angle. I touch his hair. It’s soft, like how I imagine a black swan’s underbelly would feel.
“You have to forgive people,” he says. “They often do stupid things when they think it serves a purpose. They trespass. They’re careless with the breakable parts of you. But they mean well.”
“People usually shine when given the opportunity,” I murmur. “That’s something that Derrick said once.”
“See? Gay Yoda is wise.”
I snort. “I’m absolutely telling him you said that.”
“By all means.”
“Lucian?”
“¿Sí, corazón?”
“Tell me about your brother.”
He’s silent for a beat. Then he puts his hand on my bare ankle. His thumb describes slow revolutions, as if etching something. “My brother is tricky.”
“Okay. I can appreciate tricky.”
He sighs. “We were always together. My hand was always in his. One day we went to Casa de Campo. This was before you could ride the teleférico across the river. We were hiding from each other. Lorenzo hid so well that I couldn’t find him. We were separated. I was so young. I remember that the trees seemed like giants. I remember how hot the sun was. I felt feverish. I saw something, like a shadow, or smoke. Black and violet. A bee stung my neck, and I fell asleep. When I woke up, I could hear my mother calling my name. She held me so tight. Lorenzo was crying. He kept saying how sorry he was. I told him that nothing happened. A bee stung me, and that was all.”
I touch the lily tattoo. “It was the Iblis.”
“I guess it was. I don’t know what it did, exactly. But I realized that only Lorenzo could see the mark. He was scared of it. After that day, I heard shadows. I saw phasmas and pieces of lost people. And when our parents took us to the Museo del Prado, some of the paintings spoke to me. I saw past their oils and tinctures. I saw a city where death was king. Trinovantum.”
“You must have been scared.”
“Not at all. It was like seeing a beautiful animal. I was too young to realize that it had teeth. I wanted to touch it.”
“How old were you when you first visited the city?”
“Seven, I think. At least, that’s the first time I remember. I fell through a portrait of an infanta. I was staring at her dress. It was so big, it looked like she was carrying an enormous shell. My neck started to itch. Then I was in the gardens of Trinovantum, surrounded by night birds and cats. The House of Lilies took me in. They became my second family.”
He gets up and goes to make coffee. I don’t know if it’s a feint, or if he’s just caffeine deprived, but I approve of the gesture. Derrick convinced him to buy an espresso machine last year. It’s candy red and perches like a bird-of-paradise on his granite countertop. He makes us both strong café con leche. Then he sits back down on our makeshift divan of pillows.
He stares into his cup. “I was always telling Lorenzo stories. How Lord Nightingale taught me to speak glowworm. How I fed crab apples to nightmares and ducked beneath the questing legs of spider demons. Take me with you, he’d say. But I knew it would be too dangerous. Then one day, when we were both teenagers, Lorenzo got into a fight with Papa. I’m running away, he said. I was scared for him. I didn’t want to lose him to some American city. So—” His voice trembles slightly. “So I showed him the way.”
He starts to cry softly. I’ve never heard him cry before. “I told him—don’t eat anything. I told him again and again. But he wouldn’t listen. I turned around for one second, and there he was, biting into a fig. It’s so good, he said. It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. And then—his whole face changed. I grabbed his hand, but it was already cold. He felt it. He knew. He could never leave.”
I hold him until he stops shaking. I kiss him. “Cariño,” I whisper, “it wasn’t your fault. You can’t stop curiosity.”
“I should never have shown him the way.”
“You were both young. You would have told him sooner or later. You can’t hide anything from family.”
“I should have tried harder.” He’s regained his composure. He’s no longer naked to grief. But I still hold him.
“Does this mean,” I ask, “that Lorenzo is alive?”
“I know I said he was dead. But he is. He died that day. I had to tell my parents—” He shakes his head. “I lied to my mother. I told her that Lorenzo ran away. I forged postcards from European cities. But it was useless. All of the light went out of their lives when he disappeared.”
“Is he still in Trinovantum?”
“He can’t pass over like I can. I mean, it’s possible, but he’s like a ghost. I hardly ever see him. I don’t think he ever forgave me for what I did. He doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“He was the one who ate the fruit. You did nothing wrong.”
“I should never have shown him the way,” he repeats.
I think about the message that I saw on his phone. I almost say something, but after all that he’s just told me, it seems cruel to press. Maybe ghosts can send text messages. It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard of.
“Does he, like—” I make a pointless gesture. “Does he have an address? Are there addresses in Trinovantum?”
“He wanders,” Lucian says. “Sometimes L
ord Nightingale would see him, and he’d let me know. But now she’s gone, and I doubt that Lorenzo cares enough to check in with Deonara Velasco. The city is in shambles. They’re trying to pull me back, to give me some new title with new responsibility, but there’s nothing in that place for me anymore. My life is here. With you.”
I kiss him. “I’m happy to hear that. But I’m not sure it’s that easy to forget the place where you grew up.”
“I grew up in Toronto.”
“The place where you really grew up.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“I think I have to go there.”
He stares at me. “Have you not heard anything that I’ve just said?”
“Of course. I’m glad that you’re telling me this finally. And I understand that Trinovantum is a scary place. But whoever killed Lord Nightingale—Theresa—is probably the same person who killed the Seneschal. In a situation like this, the CORE doesn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground. They aren’t going to go knocking on doors in the city of necromancers.”
“And you don’t work for them anymore.”
“I still work for them. I’m just on vacation.”
“Tess.”
I take his hand. “I need you to come with me to visit this person that Duessa calls the cook. I have a feeling that these killings have something to do with Pharmakon. Isn’t it always about drugs and money?”
“In your line of work, it’s more often about souls.”
“Souls are just another form of currency, and I don’t say this to many people, but mine belongs to you. I’m making a deposit. One soul. Please keep it safe, because it’s all I’ve got.”
He touches my face. “You’re trying to seduce me with metaphors, and it’s working like gangbusters.”
“Come with me,” I say. “If this thing is killing necromancers, then you’re involved whether you like it or not. Come be my muscle and my conscience. Then take me to Trinovantum. I need to talk to the new Lord Nightingale.”
“It’s a terrible idea.”
“I know. But some small part of you agrees with me.”
“I’m so bad at saying no to you.”
“I realize that. And I appreciate it.”
“Selena’s going to—”
“Kick my ass, yell at me, call me a child, and threaten to cancel my pension. The usual dance. That’s just how we talk.”
“And Derrick?”
“What about Derrick?”
He stares at me levelly.
“Fine. I’ll talk to him.”
“Today. Promise.”
“I promise to make up with Derrick.”
“Because he loves you beyond all reason. As do I.”
“You boys. How did I get so lucky?”
“You’ve got a horseshoe up your ass.”
“That’s a pretty way to put it.”
He shrugs. “I can’t help being pretty.”
We get up. We do the dishes. We go through our ablutions. He soaps my back. I drag a cloth behind his ears until they’re squeaky clean. I argue with my hair while he shaves, and I say nothing about the small Chia Pet that he leaves behind in the sink. I just wait for him to leave and then wash it away. I send a text to Derrick. I love you and we can talk later today. It’s not an apology, but I’m still unsure whether I owe him one or not. If anything, I owe Miles an apology for denting his boyfriend.
I should sleep more, but the frayed ends of my consciousness feel good, like worn-in jeans. There will always be more coffee. There will always be a surplus of devotion and protection, because that’s what families do. And there will always be broken rules and bloody knees, because that’s what life does when you’re busy painting definitions. I get dressed and come down the stairs. Lucian hands me a travel mug. He loves me like a lion. I take his offering and his hand. Together, we walk outside, blinking in the sunlight, like two clay figures recently given life. Full of vinegar and godsbreath.
“Lucian?”
“Yes?”
“Is your brother a ghost plant?”
He looks at me funny as we cross Broadway. “You mean, like, one of the skeletal flowers in the conclusus?”
“No. I mean, you told me once that necromancers were kind of like plants. If your brother is trapped in Trinovantum, does that make him more of a plant than you are?”
“We’re not actually plants. We don’t need fertilizer.”
“I get that. But your explanation was a little fuzzy.”
“I guarantee that the more you know about necromancers and their peculiarities, the less you’ll understand.”
“Granted. But—is Lorenzo more of a perennial?”
He sighs. “Okay. We’re more like plants than humans because plants have more base pairs of DNA, but they’re empty. Well, not empty, but… uncreated. If that makes any sense. Like flowers, we’re full of empty drawers, and our power comes from all those little voids.”
“You sound like a cheap koan.”
He kisses me on the cheek. “Too bad. That’s all you’re getting. Besides. We’re here.” He surveys the restaurant. “Huh. I can see what Duessa was talking about. This place is a front if I’ve ever seen one.”
The restaurant has no name, just a picture of a cow, which I assume means that they sell steaks. I can see through the dirty windows that every table is vacant. Like the inside of a necromancer. I’m not really sure how to accept the fact that my boyfriend has empty drawers inside of him, but whatever. I’m no proper judge of someone else’s base pairs.
We walk in. The lighting is dim and, for some reason, Shakira is playing on the radio. Lo hecho está hecho, she growls. What’s done is done. There’s a huge bar with nobody to tend it, and the menus are dusty. After a few minutes, a waiter emerges from the back. He’s a ghoul. His makeup is pretty good, but I can still see the decomposition. When you’re undead, you really can’t skimp on cosmetics. “Go MAC or go home” is the motto of most zombies.
The waiter stares at us without saying anything. I feel like we’re trapped in a semiotic standoff. Then Lucian clears his throat.
“We need to see the cook,” he says.
“She’s busy.”
“Lady Duessa sent us,” I supply.
The ghoul rolls his eyes. “I doubt it.”
“Oh, yeah? Come smell me.”
Lucian gives me a look, but says nothing. The ghoul approaches me. He inhales cautiously, then nods.
“You’re right. Her mark is on you.”
“Told you.”
“Fine.” He points to a door in the far wall. “Kitchen is that way.”
We go through the door and down a hallway that reeks of past meals and combination plates.
“Is that how you roll now?” Lucian asks. “Just asking random people to smell you? It seems like a funny way to establish credentials.”
“The guy with plant DNA thinks I’m weird?”
“Geez. Don’t be such a hater.”
We enter the kitchen. It’s really half kitchen and half crack den. Various illicit substances are bubbling and baking in pots. A giant squid wearing an apron stirs the pots with each of her arms. I realize now what the waiter meant. She’s holding a cleaver. She fixes one luminous eye on us and shrieks something that sounds like profanity in all vowels. Then she spits ink at our feet.
I take a step back. “Do you speak cephalopod?” I whisper.
Lucian shakes his head.
“Great. That’s just great.” I wave at the squid. “Hello. Lady Duessa sent us. We have a question to ask you.”
The squid waves her cleaver at us. We take another step back. I decide to try a new tactic. I point to the nearest pot.
“That smells awfully good,” I say. “What is it?”
Her luminous eyes narrow, as if considering the sincerity of my question. Then she says, in a very thick marine accent: “Methamphetamine.”
“Oh. How nice. May I take a closer look?”
She beckons me over with one tentacle—not
the one holding the cleaver, to my relief. I walk over to the pot. The liquid inside it smells absolutely terrible, but I pretend that it’s apple cider and smile expansively.
“Mmm. I’ll bet it’s quite delicious.”
“It would not be my first choice,” she mutters slowly. “But plenty of others seem to like it.”
“I detect a hint of paint thinner. Maybe that’s what gives it such a lovely bouquet. Did you think of adding that yourself?”
“I follow a recipe,” she says. But I detect a hint of pride in her voice. I’m obviously going in the right direction.
“I have a question for you about another type of dish. It’s a bit more complicated, but I can tell that you’re an expert.”
“Go on,” she says. She’s still holding the cleaver, but it’s at half-mast now, which is probably the most I can expect from a wary squid.
“I heard that you might know something about Pharmakon.”
Her eyes narrow. “Who told you this?”
“The Lady Duessa. She said that you were the squid to talk to about all things drug-related. She couldn’t stop singing your praises.”
The cook considers this for a moment. Then she says: “I do not think you could afford it.”
“Oh, it’s not for me.” I gesture to Lucian. “He’s rich, and he wants to contact your supplier. Unfortunately, he’s also mute. Poor thing. He carries this little pad of paper around with him everywhere. It’s kind of adorable.”
Lucian glares at me, but says nothing.
Given that he’s wearing cargo shorts, I’m hoping she won’t draw the conclusion that he’s also a necromancer. Can a squid smell that kind of thing? Can a squid smell at all? I’ll have to remember to look that up later.
“I have not met him,” she says. “He pages, and the waiter picks it up. Always a different address. Albert!”
The ghoul walks into the kitchen. “Stop screaming.”