Black Locust Letters

by Nicolette Jinks

  “That may be.” She squinted. “I can't understand you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where you're going, where you come from. What you want.”

  “All a part of the mystery, my dear one. Stay tuned to find out more.”

  Liza's face went hard. “That's not funny.”

  Betty looked down at the sink. “No. Neither was Richard's leaky faucet joke.”

  Liza took Betty's arm. “I like you. So I'm going to tell you something, and I hope you take it seriously. Betty, be careful. Be careful who you interact with, who your friends are, where you eat your dinner. Things are dangerous here.”

  Betty swallowed and raised her gaze. “I just want to live in peace, Liza.”

  Liza's eyelashes flickered as she read Betty's face. She tried and failed to give a comforting smile. “There is no peace. There never will be. Pick your friends. Pick them wisely.”

  Chapter 6

  A week later, on the Fifth of November, at the Fairy Ring Carnival in the Doomsday Forest, Betty saw Clarkin Hannah again.

  He dressed head to toe in black with jewel-toned patches clinging to his cape. Betty froze in her tracks as she entered the close-cropped meadow, recognizing him by his stride. A beaked half-face mask obscured his cheekbones and brow, and he didn't smile as he moved through the crowd. Seeing him like this transformed him from a man to a flicker of movement, something that stirs in the firelight and gives men chills.

  Betty was all too aware of those amber eyes trailing her as she mingled with friends—human friends—and spoke cordially with the Never Weres who sponsored the station with their ads and donations. The only reason she knew them was because Tango Lima Romeo did, and she had to make nice with them.

  Some Never Weres resented this discrimination, but before she'd become the morning host, she had nurtured human relationships only. Betty typically found it easy to avoid the Never Weres' glares, but this time she felt his eyes on her, scrutinizing.

  Nerves. Had to be nerves. Her first Autumn Moon Carnival, and she was attending it alone, on the dime of the station. Sparkling champagne and pixie dust flowed freely amongst the mortals and Betty saw that by midnight, this would be a scene which would make Dionysus and the centaurs revel with joy. Drinking, mating, and sirens singing to panpipes: Betty was not ready for this.

  The open meadow flooded with a silver glow from a giant moon suspended in the stars above like a chandelier dangling overhead in a ballroom brimming with people and Never Weres alike. On any given day, an observer could tell the two groups apart, but on this night, as they had on this anniversary for hundreds or thousands of years, they blended one into the other.

  Pity Betty was a woman, and greater pity that she worked to earn her keep, or this night might have been fun. Ladies, fair and wrinkled alike, flicked fans before their faces, and swirled lace skirts with tight corsets and plumed or horned headdresses which matched their masks. The men wore high breeches, slim waistcoats, and capes, cloaks, or jackets. Betty felt too simple, too understated in her black and red jacquard corset and tiered skirt, feathered half-mask and coiled curls instead of headdress.

  Betty worked her way across the meadow. A server, one she knew from the diner, held a tray laden with champagne, which she took to simply hold rather than drink. Sponsors and a former intern greeted her, and while she talked with them she noticed that Clarkin leaned against a tree, watching her, not even half listening to a voluptuous redhead.

  Then their host, a centaur of the scholarly mould named Tetrametrius, claimed his attention. For a few minutes, they talked, then threaded through the dancers toward Betty.

  Betty knew Tetrametrius. Back when Tango Lima Romeo was spearheading the All Equal Campaign, the centaur had been foremost among the Never Weres to accept crystal ball advertising, and its sister company the Alpha Bravo Charlie station. Satisfying client needs had been Betty's first major project. It was then that she had developed her manner and persona which transcended the barriers and lead to her gradual ascension as a voice talent.

  Tetrametrius' projects had taken a month to establish, and Betty had been in monthly or weekly meetings with him ever since for years now. During the first summer, Betty came in constant interaction with the centaur's rowdy clan and was not once distracted by them, nor molested since they did respect a healthy dose of Orange Five loaded into a pepper sprayer. By the end of a year, her resourcefulness had earned her his respect, so much that he had proposed. Betty had declined with as much grace as she could.

  “My dearest Betty, you are stunning in the moonlight,” Tetrametrius said, claiming her hand and pressing a kiss to it, his voice husky with appreciation for her beauty. “You must forgive me for taking so long to see to you.”

  “It is forgiven. I have not been wanting for company.”

  Betty couldn't tell if he was glad or envious, but he seemed to remember who he had brought with him.

  “This is my best friend, Decapitaria Clarkin Hannah, Aerial Battalion. Hannah, the magnificent Betty Cratchet, who transformed my humble hobby into a thriving training system.”

  A smile twitched on Clarkin's lips. “A great pleasure, magnificent Betty Cratchet.”

  Betty blushed, and if she felt her cheeks burn, it must be a brilliant scarlet indeed. Now she wished she'd worn a full mask. Looking up at Clarkin, she wondered what his mission was, if it was conquest or something more malicious. When his quick eyes languished down her frame, she felt an involuntary heat swirl deep within her. Tetrametrius cleared his throat.

  Remembering her manners, Betty stuck out her hand, the blush spreading down her throat. “How are you this evening, Decapitaria Hannah?”

  His eyes gleamed. “Spectacular now that I have the honor of your presence.”

  Before he could kiss her hand, screaming struck silence through the musicians and a brilliant flash cut through the night. Half the crowd froze and ducked, and most of them stood upright again with a laugh. Fireworks! Clarkin had been one of those who had not ducked, Betty noticed, but his grip on her hand had grown stiff and a bit too hard.

  Decapitaria. It referred to the Roman soldiers, the special ones who fought as though they were in the ring with an animal. They wore minimal armor and weapons, and beheaded their opponents as trophies. The Secret Forces must have borrowed the term, but how accurately it portrayed his duties in the field, Betty did not know. Her father had never even said they used Decapitarias in the Great War. Then again, he said little and saw her rarely, so when they did speak, it wasn't about his job.

  “Ah, the show has begun!” cried Tetrametrius, taking Betty's elbow. “Come, let's hurry to the tables.”

  In the very center of the meadow, metal tables formed rings around fire pits basking with heat, and on these tables servants set up wire racks with wooden handles, so a selection of meats, fruits, vegetables, and sweets could be roasted over the fire while pyrotechnics exploded in the skies above.

  Betty assembled her rack quickly, skewers of chicken, onions, and peppers, then a whole banana with the skin sliced open to be filled with chocolate chips and marshmallows. She did this with utmost focus, grateful for the interruption that distracted her from Clarkin's gaze.

  No man since Slim Legrand, her first love, had set her heart to pounding the way that he did. While Tetrametrius had escorted her to the fires, she knew that Clarkin was still gazing at her with that curious expression in his eyes.

  Off to the side and down a slope, the Tempest River had filled with canoes and kayaks splashing through the calm water, people coming downstream from playing in the funnel rapids to watch the show. Strung out across the water, paper lanterns glowed with fireflies which the fairies had caught and might release again.

  Bottles of pop were tossed between canoes and kayaks, coming from the rafts with their iceboxes and canvas folding chairs. From the midpoint of the cliffs high above the meadow, among the hospital heli landing and airstrip, the hazy darkness erupted into streaks of light, first one, t
hen a second, and a third, and each bolt reaching its pinnacle before it splayed out into a starbust of color: Red, blue, green, yellow, orange, purple, each color taking its turn sparkling out into brilliant white crackles.

  More streaks bolted upright, their tails brighter than the dying bulbs falling back down to earth, soon those streaks disappeared and Betty wondered if one failed to ignite, then three bursts shuddered into brilliant purple, crackling into orange then white. It did not take long for Betty to lose herself in the flashes and thunder of the warring colors, the ways they showed themselves in sweeping arcs of fountains glittering beneath great booms and huge explosions taking place above like a violent bouquet of flowers erupting into bloom.

  She watched in stunned silence until the fireworks intensified, then receded. At some point, she knew that Tetrametrius was called away, but she did not realize who had replaced him until she heard Clarkin's voice.

  “To think that the same elements may be used by two different people for such different effects. Explosives in the field are no less awing, but so much less beautiful.”

  Betty examined him, taking advantage of a pause in the fireworks to eat quickly. Between bites, she said, “Decapitaria?”

  “I would rather have told you so myself, in my own time. It is a role I would rather have left behind, but unfortunately, I am constantly reminded of my service.”

  She tried to imagine him in the trenches, with a gun, a knife, a grenade, anything at all, but she couldn't superimpose the two images onto each other. Even in the harsh firelight, she could only see the soft awareness in his eyes. She could only feel that arousing presence of his, feel the effects his voice and proximity had on her body—and she was torn between relishing it and fleeing from it.

  “Do I frighten you?” he asked, misinterpreting her silence.

  “No. I just can't see you as so much as a soldier, much less anything higher in the ranks.”

  A bitter smile twisted his lips. “It is that exactly which they exploited.”

  The earth shattered into a series of roars, making Betty jump before she saw the trails of fireworks soaring through the air: Nine of them, the finale was beginning. A hand warmed her shoulder, too firm to be flirtatious, and Betty realized Clarkin had reacted with his field experience, calm but ready to push his companion down in case of danger. The thought warmed her instantly, and she hated her body's betrayal.

  “I can take care of myself.”

  Clarkin blinked at her while those fireworks plunged the night into a cacophony of colors, but didn't take his hand off her shoulder.

  “But you don't have to.”

  “Who else is going to take the responsibility?”

  “Certainly you can depend upon your family?”

  Betty burned her tongue on a bit of hot banana and melted marshmallow. She seemed to be careless with her food around the demon. “Too many strings attached.”

  “You can't be solely on your own.”

  For a few seconds, the echoing thunder of a lime green shower let her escape the inquisition. As it faded to white, she said, “Father is all I have, and he's a strategist to the core. He's a sociopath. Best thing I ever did was move out.”

  Clarkin glanced around. “You might be careful who you say that to. Besides, they wouldn't allow him in the ranks if he wasn't stable.”

  “I don't care who hears. And, he is stable, just not a good man to be around. How would they determine his mental state? Tests?” She snorted. “You, me, and certainly him, we all know what the analyzers look for. You just have to answer the questions without raising any red flags.”

  As though to approve of her answer, the sky took up a series of explosions, rocking the air with concussion waves of noise, echoing off the cliffs and falling to the forest. Betty shivered. The fireworks continued, the tempo increasing as more mortars ignited and the night filled with a riot of booms, thuds, and crackles, the lights so bright that it burned her retinas and when she closed her eyes after the last whites had smothered out, she could see the inverse colors against her eyelids. She shuddered when a cold wind ran over her skin.

  They sat in silence for a while, savoring the meadow in moonlight. Leaves gleamed with a trace of dew as though diamond dust had been sprinkled on them, and lantern light reflected in the ripples of the Tempest River. It was her companion who sighed. “For a few hours a night, the moon is up and all is still, and I can forget that there is stone and concrete and money and orders, and the ancient calling in my blood says that the night is crawling with things long-forgotten but not absent.”

  For her whole life, Betty had often thought that very same thing, thinking that the moon and the shadows held secrets that she could never unlock. She didn't know exactly what he was talking about, but she felt a resonance in her very bones. Now Betty looked into his amber eyes, wondering which he resented more: The humans, or the things of the night. She wanted to huddle under his arm, but firmly resisted the temptation.

  She glanced at the increasingly drunken crowd. “I should be going.”

  “There are certainly no buses running at this hour, or at least none that go here. And I would not recommend finding a ride. Let me escort you home.”

  Sudden unease settled in her gut, but she wasn't sure why. The night was treacherous to be alone in, but was she any safer with Clarkin? She forced a smile.

  “I will be fine, but I appreciate your concern.”

  “Then allow me to help you find a car for hire. They'll be heavily booked.”

  Betty hesitated, but decided that he was right: She'd had to share a car to get here, and if she were to go home, she would want to be cautious both of who drove her and who else was in the taxi. Still, she was not certain. His very presence unnerved her.

  With as few good-byes as possible, they made their escape, and none too soon, for soon there came the stench of burning clothes as a streaker set fire to his costume and ran to cannonball into the river. Dare or lost bet, Betty wasn't sure, and didn't want to find out.

  The Carnival was only getting started. A few of the Secret Police stood watch on the hill as Betty and Clarkin passed, but she wasn't sure what they would do if anything actually happened. Clarkin nodded to each in turn.

  Clarkin walked through the parking lot quickly, holding Betty's hand protectively, and for an instant she forgot her misgivings and was glad to have a man to take the brunt of the eyes which would have turned predatory on a lone female. After the better part of an hour, her feet were beginning to ache, and she had to admit that if they'd just started to walk for her home, they'd be half-way there by now.

  “Why don't we turn for town? I'd rather walk in the right direction,” Betty said, and they did so, taking the shoulder of the road with as little fuss as they could.

  Betty tried to plan how to get rid of Clarkin at her doorstep, and convince herself that that was what she wanted to do.

  Chapter 7

  They hadn't gone more than five or ten minutes when there came the clopping of horse hooves and the creaking of wheels. Clarkin nudged them to the side, where they stood to watch as two Clydesdales swayed down the center of the road, pulling behind them a wooden hay wagon loaded with square bales set up along the sides as seating. Sweat marked the horse's necks and flanks, dried as though they had been working all night and were now going to their home.

  “Whoa, there. That you, Hannah?” The man sitting on the bench holding the reins paused to lift up a lantern glowing with lightning bugs.

  “Froglips?” Clarkin asked back, surprised. “You calling it a night already?”

  “Tammy's thrown a shoe, and I won't lame her up over a few hundred bucks and drunken pukers. What you doin' walking home?”

  As though remembering her, Clarkin stepped up to the light and presented the woman he'd been hiding behind his shoulders. “This is Betty Cratchet. Betty, this is Charles Smith. And the beasts are Tammy and Toby.”

  Betty stroked the hip of the nearest horse, not sure which one was which,
or if it mattered. “Hi.”

  “Lovely to meet you, Miss Cratchet. Where are you going?”

  “Town. She lives on the street with the old grain silo.”

  Charles Smith checked the impatient horses with a tug on the reins. “Nice area. Peaceful. Hop on, the both of you. I won't have more than one lady with aching feet come morning.”

  Betty didn't need any further encouragement; the last art festival she had been to, she'd been willing to pay to ride the hay wagon, but she had always missed the departure times. A private ride seemed a treat to top all others, and she climbed the two steps on the back in a hurry, taking a seat on a hay bale next to a gap-toothed Jack-O-Lantern made from a pumpkin with an irregular top.

  She was too elated with the ride to mind that Clarkin sat next to her and put an arm behind her, grasping the railing as though to keep her from toppling over when the wagon gave a lurch. She truly wasn't prepared for it, as the horses seemed to hit their harnesses eagerly, and she fell against his chest. The hands on her shoulders were firm, strong, and the press of her exposed tops of breasts to his shirt made her body hot to the very core. Clarkin murmured something into her hair, something she couldn't make out, and she looked up into amber eyes so vibrant in the moonlight that they seemed to shed a light all their own.

  For a long moment, they just stared at one another. Clarkin pulled her a little tighter to him, and her hand slid around his chest. She heard the steady pulse of his heart in her ear, felt the play of muscles under her fingers. His body, lean as it was, was all muscle and no bone, and the earthy sweetness of his aftershave mingled with wood smoke went straight to her head. His face was so close she could see tired creases at the corners of his eyes and softer, fainter lines about his lips. This close, she saw the weariness of a hard life and suddenly had no doubts as to his decapitaria background.

  Flames ran through Betty, and she wanted to cling even closer to him, for his other arm to hold her, to tip her lips up to his, to … She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to swallow the growing yearning for other caresses. This was not to be borne. This was dangerous. Not only as a man and a woman, but as a General's daughter and a Never Were. But still, it was there, a stirring inside her that she had not felt in such a very long time, and never before with such a passion. She knew what this was and how to sate it and she hated the treachery of her own body, but still she felt it.