So I get pummeled by Darkling Shadows. They induce fear, disgust, self-loathing, and a bouquet of other shrivel-up-and-die emotions. I want to escape; I want my daddy; I want to hide under the covers while hugging Bear-Bear and sucking my thumb.
But Miranda takes my hand, and K takes the other. We draw strength from one another … and we glare in envy at Shar, whose smile never wavers. She must be using her mental powers to insulate herself from the onslaught. That’s so unfair! Or maybe my resentment comes from some nearby Darkling’s Shadow that stirs up animosity among friends.
I squeeze the hands that grip mine, then let them go. Suck it up, Jools. Don’t dampen your dress.
The club’s usual ambience has been Darkified. The electric lights are turned off. Instead, the illumination comes from hundreds of candles. Spiders lurk in the cobwebbed corners; a rat eats crumbs off the floor; everything smells of decay and defeat.
But I can deal with the Shadows and damp-rot. What drives me to the edge is the ghosts.
Normal memorial gatherings commemorate the dead with photographs. That’s what I expected here: pictures of people who died at the market, plus a book for writing condolences, and the usual shitload of lilies.
But the Darklings have summoned the actual ghosts of the lamented. Transparent forms float limply through the furniture; and unlike Nicholas “Wraith” Vandermeer, the real ghosts seem pathetically bewildered by their state. They remind me of my gran in the horrible months between her stroke and her death, lost in confusion and misery.
So awful. I can’t stand remembering what happened to her. But even if I could block my memories of Gran, I can’t shut out the sight of ghosts around me.
They’re suffering. Some mutter, some flutter, some repeat the same movements incessantly. This can’t be how Darklings want to remember their dead. And surely, magic must be able to lay these ghosts to rest. Can’t the Darklings hold a mass exorcism? Just say, “Go rest in peace, it’s over.”
But every Darkling I can see just tunes out the ghosts, as if they’re nothing but smoke from furtive cigarettes. I even wonder if I’m merely imagining the dead. But no, my friends see them, too. Miranda freezes up as if she fears a ghost will touch her. K has gone pale, and Shar seems furious as she glares at the see-through phantoms. Shar almost never gets really truly angry, but her eyes have narrowed, and she’s glowing a faint violet.
“You, you, you, and you!” she says pointing at four nearby Darklings. “Hand over your invitations. We’re going to trade.”
Miranda whispers, “What are you doing?”
“Your invitations,” Shar repeats to the Darklings. “Trade with us. Now.”
Confused, the Darklings give us their invitation cards and we give them ours. The Darklings make the exchange quite docilely—Shar is likely controlling their minds. But as soon as we’ve swapped invitations, the Darklings’ eyes go wide … while in our own eyes, the ghosts disappear.
“Thank you,” Shar says to the Darklings. “Now go. Forget us.”
The Darklings wander away, almost as dazed and unhappy as the ghosts appeared to be a minute ago. But for me and my friends, the ghosts have nearly vanished. If I concentrate hard, I can still see wisps and can feel a faint phantom melancholy. But the feeling just blends with the fear and other emotions imposed on us by dozens of Darkling Shadows.
It’s bearable. We can breathe.
“Those fuckers,” says K. Ze’s clenching zir fists.
“I don’t understand,” Miranda says. She’s very upset. K and I take her hands, and she doesn’t shake us off.
“The invitation cards,” Shar says. “The ones for Darklings have spells that prevent you from seeing the ghosts. But the ones set aside for us had no such protection.”
“How did you know?” I ask.
“I read some minds,” Shar says, “then put two and two together.”
“Those fuckers,” K says again.
I say, “You mean Elaine and Nicholas Vandermeer?”
K’s expression stays fierce for a moment, then relaxes. “I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. It’s possible Elaine and/or Nicholas deliberately left invitations they knew were unprotected. But maybe they just didn’t know what was up.” K shrugs. “It might even be an accident. Somehow a few invitations didn’t get enchanted. Darkling wizards aren’t always meticulous.”
“But the ghosts are still here?” asks Miranda, looking around. “They felt so lost…”
I squeeze her hand. “Dude, ghosts aren’t dead souls. Trust me, I know things.” I tap the side of my head. “Ghosts are leftover energy: they’re echoes of people, not the real thing. They feel empty because they are empty.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” says Miranda. But she doesn’t ask any more questions—which is good, cuz I’m totally lying. Or rather, I’m picking the most comforting hypothesis from the many ideas about ghosts, the afterlife, and What It All Means.
No one actually knows this shit. Which is weird. People have literally died and come back from the dead—that crap happens to Sparks and Darklings all the time. But their tales of the afterlife don’t agree. Some folks see fancy light shows and get sucked down bright tunnels. Others have gone through trials and sentencing. Some experience endless black nothingness. A few experience nothing at all: just the fading moments of life, then boom, they’re back … even though days or weeks might have passed while they were out of the picture.
I choose to conclude that we’re free to believe whatever helps us through the night. I was raised a half-assed Catholic, but my percentage of Catholic assness has dropped to single digits. Now my religion is mostly “Don’t be a dick,” mixed with nostalgia and aspiration.
Miranda squeezes my hand, then lets go. “I think we were heading for the bar?”
“Fuck yes.” I take the lead, pushing quickly through the crowd.
* * *
ON OUR WAY TO the bar, we pass all manner of Darklings: vampires, were-beasts, and Other. Very Other.
Among those who still look human, many took the Dark Conversion the moment they turned eighteen. They look too young to drink. So basically, it’s like Oktoberfest with tuxedos instead of lederhosen. And with dragon men, snake women, and an oozy mass of mouths and hands … oh, wait, I met a guy like that at Oktoberfest, too.
Hey, there are my drinking buddies from the plane: Karthik, Maria, and Iza. I wave. They wave back, but in that totally fake way that everyone uses when they’re thinking, “Who the hell is that?” With my hair looking chic, and wearing more than minimal makeup, not to mention a kickass dress instead of a T-shirt and jeans, I bear no resemblance to the lush from yesterday’s flight. I’m tempted to go over and launch into effusive conversation just to make the three of them sweat; but my urge to shit-disturb isn’t as strong as my urge to fill my mouth with cold white wine or throat-scraping Scotch, so I move on without renewing old acquaintances.
Our progress forward is snail-like. None of us wants to get caught on the barbs of some nettle-bush demon. But slowly we close the gap between us and the booze. Then, just when the bar is in sight, we’re waylaid by the Vandermeers.
Nicholas is doing his free-floating full-torso vapor routine. In honor of the occasion, he wears a suit instead of his usual ghostly robes. But his hair is still long and scraggly—he’s basically Riff Raff from Rocky Horror, but without the legs.
Sister Elaine is more chic: full-length black Chanel, with glittering speckles all over the dress. Compared to last night, she’s pulling out all the stops to maturify her dewy teenage looks: horn-rim glasses and a serious chignon with gray strands dyed into the brown. Her skin is even paler than the white Corelle shade we saw in the lab—like kids who starve themselves before prom, Elaine looks like she skipped her daily O-negative so that she’d be the whitest chick at the party.
K, on the other hand, is red-faced. I think it’s part rage, part sex-flush: the usual conflicted feelings toward a blood-bond mistress. K looks at Shar, who nods. If I had Spark-o-Visio
n, I’d probably see K’s head protected by a shell of violet light.
“Well, hello,” Elaine says to K. “Look, Nicholas, it’s little Kimmi. How she’s changed!”
“Ze,” Miranda says immediately. “It’s K, not Kimmi, and ‘ze,’ not ‘she. ’”
“Well, isn’t that a surprise!” Elaine stares at Miranda, then the rest of us. She’s pumping up her Shadow, hoping we’ll flinch. If I weren’t a Spark, I’d be curling into a fetal ball. “So, K,” Elaine says, with smarmy emphasis, “why don’t you introduce your friends?”
“These are my roommates,” K says in a mumble. I can’t help but notice that K’s defiance has sagged through the floor. Shar’s face is starting to dampen with sweat, so I assume she’s straining hard to shield K’s brain from Elaine’s influence. But Elaine is winning.
I’d love just to punch this bitch in the tits, or stomp a stiletto through her undead foot. But before I can get into position, a Darkling emerges from the crowd. “Elaine. Stop. Behave.”
The new arrival is a woman. Maybe. At least it has womanly hair: waist length, silver, tied into multiple braids. The Darkling’s face could be male or female, and it’s wearing a brown batik kaftan that’s shapeless enough to hide distinguishing characteristics. The voice is gender-neutral: it’s much like K’s, with a pitch that splits the difference between alto and tenor. At first glance, you might think that this was an ordinary human, following the same nonbinary path as K. But this is very much a Darkling, as evidenced by the pupilless white eyes and the tiny turquoise beads that sprout directly from its skin.
The beads are part of the Darkling itself: not stones embedded in the flesh but growing from the inside out. They’re like chin stubble, but they swirl all over the Darkling’s face, tracing out pebbled lines. It’s an awesome look; and the Darkling’s hands have the same turquoise swirls, so the designs probably extend all over the creature’s body.
Pretty. But this is a Darkling, and it has a Shadow that radiates terrifying vibes—like a poison frog that’s so deadly it can afford to advertise its lethality with eye-catching colors. Even Elaine and Nicholas look disconcerted by this newcomer. Then Elaine says, “Mother. I didn’t know you were back in the country.”
Mother? Oh, snap! But I’m not half as floored as K, who was gaping goggle-eyed at Mama Vandermeer even before Elaine spoke.
So much for K giving up zir thing for Darklings. New leaf, my ass.
Nicholas clears his throat. “Uhh, Mother, this is Kimmi. I’ve told you about her.”
K leaps to shake Mama’s hand. “I call myself K now. And I prefer ‘zir’ to ‘her.’ I mean the pronouns. ‘Zir.’ ‘Her. ’”
“I understand,” Mama says with a smile. “I’ve considered changing pronouns myself, but the children would never adjust.” She shrugs and smiles again. “I’m Lee, by the way.”
She smiles a third time.
Yikes.
K smiles back. “Lee, these are my roommates.” Introductions ensue, and handshakes all around. Lee’s hand feels ordinary, body heat and all. Her Shadow makes the handshake intimidating—like touching something venomous—but physically, the sensation is perfectly normal. There’s also the pleasure of seeing Elaine and Nicholas squirm in embarrassment and horror.
How can I resist making them writhe a little more? “So, Lee,” I say, “I’m surprised this is the first time you’ve met K. I thought ze had met the whole Vandermeer family.”
“The Vandermeers and I parted ways ten years ago,” Lee says. “I see my children as often as I can, but I live in Berlin now. It suits me.”
“Why are you back, Mother?” Elaine asks. Despite the tricks Elaine uses to make herself look older, she now sounds like an exasperated teenager.
“I thought I’d catch up with old friends,” Elaine’s mother answers. “And it’s lovely to see you two, of course. Is your father here?”
“He had business,” Nicholas says.
“Of course he did,” Lee says. “So you see? It all works out.” She turns back to K. “And what brings you here? Do you have friends in our little community?”
Miranda, with her super-quick reflexes, says, “I’m the one to blame. A cousin of mine was hurt in the Goblin Market fire. He invited me to this event, and I asked my roommates to come for moral support.”
“I see,” Lee says. “Yes, a gathering like this can be intimidating.”
“I’m not intimidated,” K says.
Lee laughs. Nicholas goes so white, he’s semitransparent. Elaine looks like she’s swallowed hydrochloric acid; if she had any blood in her veins, she’d be red in the face. She glares at K with a sudden intensity. K stiffens. So does Shar. Blood-bond fuckery is clearly afoot.
“Elaine!” her mother says sharply. “Don’t be a beast.” She steps between Elaine and K. “Stop. This. Now.”
Elaine’s fierce glare fades into a sulk. K’s stiffness fades, too. Shar relaxes.
“We’d better go,” I say. “We have to meet someone at the bar.”
“My cousin,” Miranda says. “The one who invited us. Todd.”
Lee turns toward me and my friends, still keeping herself between K and Elaine. “It was lovely to meet you all. I’m sure we’ll talk again.”
Lee smiles at K. K smiles back.
Miranda grabs K’s arm and we leave posthaste.
* * *
“OH. MY. GOD!” MIRANDA says to K. “Were you hitting on your ex’s mother?”
K says, “More important, was she hitting on me?”
“Yes and yes,” Shar replies.
K looks at Shar with a hopeful look on zir face. “Do you know that? Like…” K taps the side of zir head. “Did you read it in her mind?”
Shar chuckles. “A, I thought you didn’t like me reading minds without permission. B, it’s difficult to read a Darkling’s mind, especially a powerful one … and trust me, Lee is extremely powerful. Also, C, I didn’t need to be a mind reader.”
Miranda is still looking flabbergasted. “But K, she’s like … I don’t know, sixty years old? Sixty, K. Seriously. Sixty.”
“Don’t be an ageist,” says K.
“But she’s also a Darkling,” Miranda insists. “I thought you were turning over a new leaf.”
“Hey,” K says, “I’m in geology. What do I know about leaves?”
“Unless they’re fossils,” I say.
K glares at me. “Don’t you start, too.”
Shar says, “I wouldn’t call Lee a fossil, but I suspect she’s much older than sixty. Perhaps a hundred and sixty. A thousand and sixty. Considering how resistant she was to my telepathy, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s an Elder.”
Miranda gapes at K. “You hit on an Elder? You’re lucky she didn’t eat your eyeballs.”
“The night is still young,” I say. “Let’s get to the fucking bar before Satan shows up and asks for a dance.”
I hustle the others through the crowd. Even near the bar, it’s not a crowd crowd—nothing like the loud sweaty crush during Oktoberfest. Tonight, the density of people reminds me of an average day at the mall: plenty of folks, but with adequate room for passing.
And for every Darkling, there are at least four normal humans, including waiters, security mooks, arm candy, and other clinging scraps of entourage. I can’t help but notice they’re all wearing talismans of the type Calon talked about: protective amulets and bracelets and headbands, all ostentatiously inscribed with sigils or decorated with pieces of dead animals.
You’d think it would be possible to defend against Darkling Shadows with something less obtrusive—enchanted undies or a Hand of Glory hidden in your purse. But apparently not. Stashing something in your purse must not be direct enough for protection … and as for undies, I can’t see anyone wearing them. The building is full of commandos, and panty lines are the enemy.
Finally, finally, we make it to the bar. AND IT’S FREE. COMPLETELY OPEN.
I ask for Glenfiddich and the dude pours me Glenfiddich. He doesn’t
even have a tip jar. Best of all, he doesn’t look at me like I’m trash. The guy gives me an honest-to-God smile, not the professional-courtesy kind. He’s cute, and I think he likes me. He’s an Asian guy as tall as me, and he seems quite pleasantly fit.
So bugger, fuck, and damn, this complicates things. If the barkeep were a sour-faced dude, I wouldn’t mind hitting him up for three drinks in quick succession—I wouldn’t care what he thought of me. But under the gaze of Cute Friendly Guy, I need to drink like a lady.
Have to nurse my glass. But that’s for the best—Grandfather is seated at the bar, and he’ll get judgy if I drink too much. He wears the same clothes as the last time we saw him: like a dark-skinned Abraham Lincoln, with a stovepipe hat, an old-fashioned black suit, and a black bow tie. His face is painted with colored dots, daubed on with his fingertip. They spiral all over his cheeks and forehead, but are concentrated around his eyes to make a greasepaint mask. He looks like an African medicine man, a cheerful one who beams with delight, as if he’s having so much fun he might burst out laughing.
On a seat beside Grandfather perches the Inventor. Invie is still a basset hound, so he makes quite a picture with his rump on a barstool and his paws on the bar itself. But he’s far from the only animal in sight; we’ve got wolves and tigers, eagles and snakes, and even a few giant insects. They’re Darklings, of course: were-beasts. Some wear clothes, and some don’t. Invie only wears a collar … but I shouldn’t say “only” since I happen to know the collar is full of Cape Tech gadgetry.
“Evenin’, ladies,” Grandfather says.
Loud throat-clearing from K.
“Evenin’, my fellow sapiens,” Grandfather amends. “How’s every little thing?”
“Can’t complain,” I say.
“Yet,” Miranda mutters.
“I hear you,” Grandfather says. “This event is redefining powder keg.” He smiles as if the prospect tickles his funny bone. “You noticed Mister No One at the door? The other All-Stars are hanging around, too, some circulating, some watching the exits. They asked me to pass on apologies for venturing onto your turf without a courtesy call. They just didn’t know how to get hold of you.”
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