Everything about the creature was elongated and knobby and covered in whorls, from its pointed snout-like face to its drooping ears to its spindly limbs. It blinked heavy-lidded dark eyes as its head swung pendulously from side to side, looking at us. It seemed puzzled rather than frightened or threatened, and it pulled itself the rest of the way through, settling on its haunches so that its large lumpy knees jutted out on either side. Joe pointed at one of the masks on the ground and the creature stared at it and then nodded. Its long awkward fingers fumbled trying to settle the mask in place over its head, but at last the mask-face animated, no less disturbing than they’d been this morning.
“What do you want?” It sounded awkward, like the fae creature didn’t know which syllables to emphasize.
“We have important news,” said Joe.
“We know about the grass,” it said. “It is a hostile act. We are grateful to you that we were able to discover it.”
“There’s more,” said Joe. “We don’t have proof yet, but we have enough suspicion to share it.”
He nodded to me and I told the fae creature about the connection between the demon’s victim and the hungry grass, about the dead realm, about the revelers who would be in a perfect state for possession, about the reasons why an alliance between a demon and an invading fae force would benefit both sides. The creature seemed to think it all over.
“This is serious. Very important message. You should come through to report it.” It looked right at me as it spoke.
That glimpse still had a hold on me. I was already on my feet, ready to jump on that flimsy excuse to go, but Joe replied first. “Not going to happen. You need to go back and carry the message.”
The creature’s shoulders slumped and the features of the mask drooped. “I will not remember it all,” it said. “Poor brain is not so good at messages.” I was shocked to see that it was disappointed. It made sense, I guess. The poor thing was a few scant feet away from having an adventure in our world, and here was Joe, world-class faerie cockblocker, ruining his fun.
“Oh, cut the bullshit,” said Joe. “You can remember scratching your butthole seven hundred years ago. Now get back in there and pass it on to someone who can do something about it, and just tell them you want to come back and gather more information. You’ll be a hero. They’ll let you out to play.”
The creature heaved a remarkably human-sounding and quite put-upon sigh, pulled off the mask, dropped it, and ambled back through the heather.
“Did you know that one?” I asked.
“No,” said Joe. “But I’m familiar with the kind. They’re not as good at playing dumb as they think they are.”
“Joe, who’s ‘they’? Who is that creature reporting to?”
“With luck, more powerful fae with access to stuff we need. Now come on. We need to get you as far away from here as we can, and keep you away.” He took my hand again, and re-created the glamour that had masked us earlier. I grudgingly lent my energy to it and let him lead me out. I didn’t have much choice but to drop the subject for now, but I was going to take the first opportunity to get Joe roaring drunk until he told me the story of how he’d ended up in Faerie--and how he got back.
It was full dark by the time we got back to Free Radicals, and Morph had passed through a brief twilight lull to reawaken as its wild, otherworld-carnival nighttime self. Some people, fresh from making rounds of all the happy hours at different camps, were already loud and drunk. Everything was string lights and strobes and fire, velvet darkness pierced with the brightness of revelry. A reconstructed golf cart done up like something out of Mad Max passed by us, belching fireballs into the sky and accompanied by applause and whoops of joy every time it did.
The others had passed the time waiting for us by getting dressed up. For Tamar, who seemed to treat clothing as an absentminded necessity, that meant nothing more than mechanic’s coveralls with the sleeves cut off, dotted with buttons and patches and worn partly open over a tie-dyed shirt. Cherry had poured herself into a flamenco-style polka-dot dress that did tantalizing things to her unapologetic curves, its ruffled hem rising in front to show off fishnet stockings and glittery hot pink knee boots that matched the bows in her hair.
Sara had turned herself into a living work of art. Sweeping skirts of multicolored panels parted to reveal short petticoats over thigh-high tights and knee-high canvas sneakers embellished in hand-drawn designs. A flowing cobweb-thin blouse fell off her shoulders beneath the crisp sleeveless remnants of a tuxedo shirt, her waist circled by a brocade cincher, her throat layered with copper necklaces, her sleeves billowing out of the top of argyle arm warmers with a jangle of bracelets at either wrist, her hair piled high and laced with slender scarves and jeweled combs and silk flowers. She was so astonishing that I goggled at her far too long. She looked like she belonged to Rosa Vermelha, I thought, far more than I ever would.
Beside them, I felt threadbare and plain, a big dirty moose among colorful birds. At least Joe was also still in the same carelessly casual clothes he’d been wearing since before dinner. I tried not to let my envy and self-consciousness show, and reminded myself that there were a lot more important things to think about than whether or not I had party clothes.
They were laughing at something and pouring absinthes. Cherry jumped up when she saw us, hurrying to Joe’s side and touching his arm. He covered her hand with his and squeezed it. Tamar let a flaming cube of sugar burn itself out on the slotted spoon balanced over the cup in front of her, stirred in the remnants, and offered it to me. I accepted it, glad I knew to take tiny sips of the pale green liquor. The scent and flavor of anise filled my senses.
“News?” said Tamar.
“We passed on the message,” I said. “Let’s hope it helps. No sign of Vivi?”
Sara shook her head. “Everything’s been quiet.”
It was too much to hope that it would stay that way, but for the moment, there really wasn’t a whole lot else we could do except embrace the night and live deeply.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Morph at night was like a wine tasting for creative chaos. The only people who seemed to stay in one place for long were the people running the various theme camps, outdoor dance clubs, and makeshift bars. Nearly everyone else made slow circuits, stopping in here and there to grab a drink or see what was going on, occasionally branching off back to the tent area for a rest or a snog.
We started our rounds drifting amoeba-like down toward the pavilion. When we passed it, the stage was occupied by a circle of drummers jamming together on a mix of African and Middle Eastern percussion instruments, with a sitar player, flutist, fiddler, and juice harpist interspersed and a throat singer and a couple of rhythmic chanters improvising vocals. The music was infectious, and dozens of people danced in the grass. There were a couple of belly dancers at the edges of the stage, shimmying and undulating, one of whom waved to Sara. The field was scattered with people dancing, hula-hooping, spinning flaming poi or staves or fans. A guy on a unicycle juggled glowing LED balls; three people sharing a snake costume outlined with luminous el-wire made it slither and rear up in time to the music.
Beyond them, the pavilion was full of people at the picnic tables playing board and card games while a big sign announced “The Dating Games”; it seemed to be someone’s idea to combine speed-dating and game-geeking for singles looking for help hooking up. The Goblin Market was mostly shut down for the night, though it looked like some devoted readers were camping out with lanterns in the book area, enjoying some quality introversion.
“The swing is free!” cried Cherry, and she and Sara bolted toward the far end of the field, trailing the rest of us behind them. I’d spotted it this morning, and I was excited that it was free, too. As “swings” went, it was unique. The seat of the swing was a massive metal ring perhaps ten feet in diameter and parallel to the ground, serving as a frame for a web of heavy rope over which s
ome rugs and mats had been tossed to make places to sit or lie down. More ropes suspended it from the apex of a huge steel tripod, and spotlights of slowly shifting colors were fixed to the bases of the tripod, focused upward to illuminate the whole thing in rainbows of changing light.
A sign warned anyone using it to take off their shoes and that they used it at their own risk. I kicked off my shoes and waited impatiently for Sara and Cherry to unlace theirs, thinking that the sign seemed excessive. The swing was less than three feet off the ground and so wide it seemed like it’d take an effort to get hurt on it.
It was big enough for all of us, and we scrambled onto it, our cares put off as the promise of a swing turned us all into children. “Help me push,” Joe said to me, and I followed his lead, standing up on the leather-covered edge of the ring and grasping the suspension ropes on either side of me while he did the same across the circle, facing me. Everyone else sprawled on the seat, tangling their fingers in the webbing to hold on.
Joe and I found a rhythm, each of us bending our knees in turn to push down and get the swing in motion. At first we swayed irregularly, the ring turning back and forth in slow rotations as we made drunken arcs and tried to avoid the tripod poles. But we picked up speed and momentum and soon got it going like one of those Viking ship pendulum rides at the amusement park. Only, without actual seats or safety harnesses, so there was that. I suddenly understood the caution sign as we pumped the swing so hard it went nearly vertical on each arc, and I realized that it was only the traction of bare feet on leather and my solid grip on the ropes that was keeping me from flying off into the darkness and crashing into the first thing in my path.
And it was ridiculous amounts of fun.
The wind we created whipped my hair and I laughed, my heart breaking free of worry and sailing with delight. Across from me, Joe’s eyes gleamed with devilish glee and he was grinning like a fool, his whole body exerting to push the swing harder, daring me to match him, and I did. Our passengers wound their feet and hands more tightly into the web of ropes and goaded us on, whooping with every arc. I looked down at Cherry, lying on her back with one knee bent and her back arched and her arms over her head, her eyes closed, her hair disheveled, looking like she belonged on the side of a WWII bomber. Tamar was spooned up against Sara as they laughed and shouted, “More! Higher!”
I wanted to stay like this all night, being playful and carefree, enjoying my new friends and concerned about nothing but making sure I held on to the ropes. The moon was beginning to rise overhead, somewhere in the distance the balloon arc was sparkling like the galactic bridge between the stars Altair and Vega, and I was barefoot and windblown and homeless and flying. The drums in the distance were the beating heart of Morph, giving life to us all.
After a time, we slowed. My legs were throbbing with effort and my hands were chafed from the ropes. “Switch!” said Sara, and we pulled on the ropes to slow down even more, until Sara could scramble up to take my place and Cherry could take Joe’s. I collapsed gratefully onto the mats and wiggled my toes into the rope web, lying on my back, one hand beside me and one overhead gripping the web to keep me in place. Joe settled beside me.
Being rocked on the giant swing was a whole different experience of joy. The movement was lulling, the breeze cool, the feeling of being stretched out on the mats luxurious. I stared up at the glittering sky, awed by the clarity of the heavens. I looked at Cherry and Sara, their laughing faces painted in colored light, their hair blowing wild. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the feeling of motion throughout my body, the sense of being carried away, just a bit of dandelion fluff on the wind.
When I opened my eyes, Joe was watching me. His face was turned toward mine, and he was smiling, enjoying my enjoyment. Our shoulders were nearly touching. I turned my head a little to look back at him, and I felt his fingers brush mine. I moved my hand so that his fingers could lace through mine. We held each other’s gaze. I felt like there was so much I wanted to say to him in that moment, except everyone else was there, and I was afraid to speak a word or move even the slightest bit. Afraid that any movement would break the moment; afraid that, dislodged from this standstill, we’d close the distance between us.
Without thinking about it, my gaze flicked up to Cherry. She was watching us. She glanced away, smiling at Sara, laughing, the two of them singing “Would You Like to Swing on a Star?” with half the lyrics made up and a less than exact melody, but she had seen me look up. Her eyes fell back on me again, just for a moment, and there was something in her face I couldn’t read. She glanced away again. I looked back at Joe and knew that he knew what I’d seen. I slid my fingers from his and made an excuse of stretching that arm over my head, putting it between our faces, looking out past Sara toward the field.
Something crackled past my nose and was gone. I scanned the field.
Lounging in the aerialist’s hoop, the demon watched me.
I froze.
He wore a face again, like he had the first night. It was almost worse than when he didn’t. Empty black eyes crinkled at the corners as he lifted a bared arm, raw redness seeping past the hem of his black glove. He held up the first finger of his other hand and drew with quick shallow motions along the smoke-colored skin of his arm and wrist, his face taunting me. He turned the arm to show me the cuts, and slashes bloomed into scarlet words.
MISS YOU
I sat up with a sharp gasp and almost tumbled off the swing. Everyone shouted and hands grabbed me as I fell against one of the support ropes and hung onto it, my lower half rolling off the edge. Sara and Cherry struggled to slow the swing, which spun wildly and disoriented me. Tamar slid and stumbled off the swing trying to help me, crashing into one of the tripod legs. I looked at the hoop, frantic and gasping, but the demon was gone.
Joe scooted beside me, wrapping an arm around me to pull me back onto the seat. “It’s him, isn’t it?” His voice was tense.
“He’s gone now.” I forced the words out. I felt like I was choking. “Where did he go?” I turned back and forth, but he’d vanished. I expected to turn my head and find him at my elbow. He could be anywhere.
Tamar came back to the swing and took my hand. She had to pry it off the rope. My palm was burning, raw. “We’re all here,” she said. “We’re going to stick together.”
“You’re shaking, Mari.” Sara sat on my other side and rubbed my back. Her voice sounded like it was coming from a long way away. “Hey. Hey, Mari. Can you look at me?”
It took me a moment to process her words. I shifted, letting myself lean back against Joe, as I struggled to focus on Sara’s face. Her brows were drawn close together, but her eyes were soothing and calm. Joe was solid and warm behind me. My eyes flicked back and forth.
She was touching my shoulder, running her hand gently down my arm. “That’s good, Mari, that’s really good. Can you take a nice slow breath for me?”
I was panting. It made my chest tremble to fight it and keep inhaling. Sara breathed in with me, nodding and smiling. When she exhaled in a long steady sigh, I tried to match it.
“Keep looking at my face, okay? A few more deep breaths, together, okay?” She squeezed my elbow, reassuring.
In a few minutes, the panic subsided, and I could see a few people hovering nearby waiting for the swing. Cherry had been herding them away. I was grateful.
I rubbed my face. “Let’s go do something else,” I said. “Just, be someplace with a lot of people or something.”
“Are you sure?” said Tamar. “They can wait.” She raised her voice just enough to warn the people hanging around us.
“I’m sure.”
“A little walk will help.” Sara stood up and held out a hand to me, helping me up. “It’ll bring you back to yourself.”
No one pressed me for details as we got our shoes back on and started walking, for which I was also grateful. I closed my eyes and inhaled, trying to block t
he image of a forearm sliced open, of a message that sent me back to my darkest times.
The others walked a little bit ahead, leaving Sara to walk beside me. “Thanks,” I said. “How did you know what to do?”
“I’ve known too many traumatized people.” She took my hand. “Do you have a panic disorder? Do you need to go get your meds?”
I barked out a cynical laugh. “I don’t know what I have. I haven’t had money for doctors or meds in years.”
“Shit.” She thought about it. “Well, I have some lavender oil at my tent, if you need it. Okay? Anything you need.”
I nodded and slowed down, letting the others get farther ahead. “What if I can’t do this?”
“Fight him?”
“Yes. That. Help Vivi. Stop him. Any of this. What if I freak out? What if I’m not strong enough to face him when it matters most?” I stared at the ground. I was so broken. Shame rose like bile in my throat, choking me again. I could barely feed myself, and I was going to shut down a death demon?
Sara stopped and turned to face me, taking my shoulders. “Hey. Mari. Look at me, please? I need you to hear me. You are so strong. Look at everything you’ve survived. Look how you got here, and found us, and you know what? I don’t think any of us would have a fucking clue what we’re doing if you hadn’t.” She held my gaze with fierce tenderness, even as her face blurred. “We’re all a little broken, believe me. That doesn’t make us trash.”
“You sound like Charlie.” And just like that, I was crying.
She pulled me into her arms and cradled my head, rocking us. “You know what? It was the Misfit Toys who saved Christmas.”
I laughed through my tears. “No, they didn’t. They got saved.”
“They saved it for the kids they went to live with at the end. Hey, we can go back to your tent, or Free Radicals, if you need some time away.”
“No.” I hugged her and stepped back. “I’ll be okay. I want--noise. Fun. People.”
MetamorphosUS: Book 1 of the Mythfit Witch Mysteries Page 23